…[Note horse-nailed to Jeanne’s door]

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.
 
Signed,
 
Anomie