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