Black verse

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Polders' queen, harvest moon, woman; cast your spell, on me cast it; cast it on the sterile nocturnal plateaux...

Winter creature in black, empress & dominatrix: harvest moon; look at the yellow camps, you mesmerise them, you sterile nocturnal plateaux.

Alsatian girl, as the skies know your name inverted, you move with the high tides of May; you mesmerise them, fertile nocturnal.



The girl's insane; the girl? The girl's insane...she was Dutch, and she was somehow hot, and somehow ethereal, like the motley winds that blow on our blackest thoughts...to some extent her cunt was like a moisture of madness, slippery at the same time, like a delicate bar of perfumed, oval soap; her anal realms were not visited, though her animal realms, yes: in other words: she was like a northern European queen full of breeze and derelict smells.



Such a parachutist she was traveling the Peninsula on feet, such a parachutist, I landed one way or another in to the sweaty walls of delight... a bit of alcohol pushed me toward my daring mood, almost intrepid; some cheeky smugness did the rest I suppose.



The men only want one thing, is lamentable, lamentable and predic table.



Woman of the Benelux, as you appeared, you disappeared; what could I do? Even more: who am I to do anything?

Harvest moon, cast your distant spell on my shadow, reflected on the sidewalk...

No?



Summer creature in khaki, parachutist & milk: harvest moon; look at the violet camps, you still mesmerise them, you fertile nocturnal mountain range.

Girl of the inundated provinces, as the Hells know your name, as zodiacal trigon, you move with the low planetary houses of August, you mesmerise them in star divination and love.



Sometimes I think I did all wrong; my quintiles were in mutable satellition, because I was born under a bad sign.
 
Nordic queen, harvest moon...


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