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.