Jeremiah: Chapter 2. Free-Writing.

you stagger in like a whore, feet shuffled bare, heels held in your hand,
white slip slipping off your shoulder, past the alabaster fountain,
you trod on wisteria leaves on your way to the kitchen,
and your hair has grown wild like the lotus-plants and pomegranate trees
that have taken over the garden, only in the moonlight, your face glows
green with desire, sick-looking, like the face of a prostitute,
syphilitic and senile.

Once, I called you the red-haired whore of the vineyard; I insulted the mothers of the men
who dared to dance in between your thighs.

Tonight, I watch you in silence,
knowing the day will come when you will pine,
not for my body, but for the sound of my voice
gently berating your cunt that slithers like a snake between the legs of men,
for the words I hurl at you like knives - for the wounds,
fresher than the pineapples that farmers bring to morning markets,
redder than the pomegranate seeds that I crush between my fingers,
watching their juice bleed down my palms, like your blood once bled
down my thighs.

http://media.snunit.k12.il/kodeshm/mp3/t1102.mp3

http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1102.htm