she was an oldest profession ploy

so much desired as

most ardent satisfaction

a prelude to my vanity

i gave in instantly a supporter of the arts

at time of a poetic cholera writing

my poems of approximate death of self

on the wings of my pale passion

her path of light touch entered as a

a shady cloud of dust hiding the glimpses

of the thorny moon, her mechanical love

becoming libertine’s play of

secrets suffering in my dreams

disillusioned pulse of a stoned heart

as her arms embraced me like a serpent