Confined to barracks – no longer in the street,
Strapped to a red wooden kitchen chair,
Splinters poking and pricking her hands,
Pale legs splayed and freckles dancing,
Her German ankles tied to a rung,
Bound tightly and eight legs rest on the cold floor,
The officer’s, the chair’s, and Lili Marlene’s.
Lili tosses her head,
She will not break,
She is Lili Marlene.
Lili of the lamplight, that shines upon her face,
Far from the dark corners of the room,
Cobalt shadows between her open legs,
Soft legs a shining golden light.
The officer touches tiny on her thighs,
Fingers crawl goose-stepping up towards Lili’s cunt,
And Lili Marlene stretches for more,
Stretches for the officer’s hand,
The lantern softly gleams upon on each caress,
The blunt hand and cunt coming together,
Parted lips to kiss good-night each of the officer’s fingers,
The red chair tipping precariously,
As Lili’s cunt holds the officer’s hand.
“Is this love, or is it a flower pressed to my heart?”
Opening from her heart, the stamen piercing her throat as she cries out,
The officer’s teeth are sharp as they devour her from the legs down,
Then up again on Lili’s body towards her neck,
Leaving a bloody road of wounds.
Bruises marching from her shins to her clavicles,
Each bruise is a kiss, a blooming over her breast,
And my love for you renews my might,
For Lili Marlene.