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Vagrant Lorraine, sweet lady; there’s an aroma of turbines in the äir. Fuel of mystery: I adore you, cagey of mine.
In your clitoris there is an enigma that won’t be revealed; an enigma that began in the alphanumerical stars; when the gods were just Love, when the Universe was procreated by the sexual waves.
You’re lover of yourself, and your pubis is in love with your vagina, my queen-condom; forever my queen…
If I were allowed: albatross in love, albatross of meat; hardened, hardened.
Don’t forbid me, Mona; fascination of blue (candles) at the deluge: no, praises no: just the splendour of love; because I love you; multiple, vicious, interminable.
As fallen angels masturbate and cum watching you change your black lingerie; desperation of mine, plus douce que la miel; all myself could burn if your lace’s smell it sway close: princess of an infinite dream…
You create me and destroy me at every brush stroke, excessive, like this poem; and I know I’ll follow you like a dog follows the petticoat of the dawn: maybe his own shade…
Daughter; your slit substitutes the moon and sun for me, because.
Because nobody else dreamt your body and your sex in the milk of the night so many times as I did.
…Maybe we’re a photograph hanging between my fever for fuck you, and your blue oxygen-vigil
…Before]
Take a look now to the tangerine-high skies of the witch: my love for you is there, too.
There’s an aroma of Val in the aïr...
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