Our moorland flowers sleep deep in the peat,
tamped into loam, sad strays without homes,
secrets silent as your taciturn, inscrutable soul.
We listen for whispers in the gorse-sharp wind:
the voices that plead are feeble - we pay no heed.
Imagine me Hitler's whore, a leather-clad death camp doll.
Twine your tormentor's hands in the Aryan hair
you adore, bleached white as bones.
Coldly hard, insert yourself like a knife,
cervix-deep, your body churning inside me
as if ploughing this wild furrow where we lie,
a tangle of sighs, deaf to the cries of the ones who died.
Pulp me into stinking soil, pulverized cotton-grass.
Your eyes reflect sinister storm-stained skies,
heather-shaded hills in misted light.
I cannot explain why you excite.
The thudding axe whacks you coolly delivered
throb through me. I grasp sinewy fingers
that have wrung out last gasps, strangled, slit throats,
taped a sonata of screams for our secret pleasure.
Do you feel me shiver, or hear a thin sliver
of a cry? The steel-silver light is a killer -
I close my eyes to the too-bright.
And after, picnicking. Sandwiches on a shallow grave,
stream-chilled Rhine wine. Trophy photographs.
We loom larger than this lofty landscape
while far below us the oblivious city flickers.
Yes, the sky is darkening like a stain,
and what occurs, what falls, will not be rain
but reactive fallout from our dark deeds.
Myra Hindley and Ian Brady committed the infamous 'Moors Murders' in the UK in the 1960s