Aug 192011
I can't for my Mistress be an illustrious Lion;

The soul of my Soul has bruised off all its luster.

The mocking Universe stabs with invisible glances,

And Beauty no longer flowers in my sad heart.

For a pair of slippers she has sold her soul;

And when the Bon Dieu giggles at such infamy

I am a Tartuffe, a hypocrite, a liar,

A sell-out, whoring away my author's dreams....

Despite this, you are content to bizarrely chat

Past midnight as we promenade down a ruined street;

In your head, your eyes turn down--a dying pigeon's--

Trained on the crimson rivulets torn by talons

Of paying Men who spit jiggers of semen

On your distant face--simple, poor and impure.

You are Famine in the dead of Winter

Constrained by poverty to lift your dress in the chilly air.

--My beautiful one, my everything, my richness,

My pearl, my light, my laughter, my suchness,

Here in my groin you are my vanquisher,

But in your two hands you re-heat my Heart's core.



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