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deepundergroundpoetry.com
ballade noire
she speaks of love as cruel craving;
leave her not un’tortured
her throat, an ivory tower: how close,
the terror of a clutch. how close to un’breathing
public commode: in the ceiling, one flickering bulb.
used condoms, scattered about –
undoor’d cubicle; splintered glory hole
inside her skull: Sibelius violins;
ghosts in monastic robes dance, unrhythm’d;
burning twigs hacked from a pallid birch.
the air is languid; the hermitage awaits –
‘free me.’ she demands it
sweat-dew’d tits. rigid, areolate spikes:
her tremors, induced by lycan bites.
her hands twist in his black tangles –
his mouth pilfers
her legs are urged apart; she accommodates.
labored hand encroaches. steel fingers writhe;
the scrape of an iron ring.
her cunt is taken: unmercy’d
she grunts, devolves to a lynx in heat.
her nails gouge thin red lines
in rugged shoulders
he surges; and grows, as a man will.
who is no longer a man:
but Priapus, cast in mortal flesh
double scor; arid impaling –
like rubbing genitals against a brick wall
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