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The things I do for that miserable little girl,
with a crown of sorrows offer the sore wealth of the world.
A black portrait painted of a naked, violent scene;
hung to high got my poor eyes to see

but that's the perfume;
that's the kiss.
those the petals
which match my lips

this the haze
which glows your hips
the ebb of honey
which sweetly drips.

the pool of iron
below my first
the gums that, splitting,
tongue painful bliss

see in myself
her myopic squint
theme of present hell,
streams of blood & spit

I shook and stoke from her, cursed to keep it
from a body too young to have secrets
Come barber and priest; hand me to the eventual
On the chair painted yellow, shout: "this is sensual!"

The things I do for that miserable little girl
possessor of all the hells I succumb in this world
Supple in hearth, slight in both frame and years;
could see past my deeds, see into my fears

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