The abysmal waltz

Vagrant Lorraine, sweet lady; there’s an aroma of turbines in the äir. Fuel of mystery: 
I adore you, cagey of mine.

In your clitoris there is an enigma that won’t be revealed; an enigma that began in the alphanumerical stars; when the gods were just Love, when the Universe was procreated by the sexual waves.

You’re lover of yourself, and your pubis is in love with your vagina, my queen-condom; forever my queen.

If I were allowed: albatross in love, albatross of meat; hardened, hardened.

Don’t forbid me, Mona; fascination of blue (candles) at the deluge: no, praises no: just the splendour of love; because I love you; multiple, vicious, interminable.

As fallen angels masturbate and cum watching you change your black lingerie; desperation of mine, plus douce que la miel; all myself could burn if your lace’s smell swayS close: 
princess of an infinite dream.

You create me and destroy me at every brush stroke, excessive, like this poem; and I know I’ll follow you like a dog follows the petticoat of the dawn: maybe his own shade.

Daughter; your slit substitutes the moon and sun for me, because.
Because no-one else dreamed your body and your sex in the milk of the night so many times as I did.

Or maybe we’re a photograph hanging between my fever and your maze.


Take a look now at the tangerine-high skies of the witch: my love for you is there, too.