Nocturnes: At London, 1888

1888:

your attempt at poetry

reminds me

of a certain date,

November, a very late

hour;

and the sour

smell of fear's spurt

all over the floor

of this shabby abode

of a boastful whore

whom a pervert deserves to hurt.

His head wants to detonate.

Moans and screams

preserved forever in his dreams:

his victim's suffering became an ode

that will make your head detonate.

This is the only way he can

prove to his demons he is a man:

manhood, that tower

forboding and forbidden to him climb

except when he wields this power.

He takes his time.

The way she squirms

in her death throes

makes him want to devour

her flesh (head to toes)

like the worms

in a shallow grave.

She sold herself to him as a slave;

his couple of coins well spent---

her acceptance constituted consent.

Safe,

sane

and consensual?

The strafe

of pain

is her sacrifice

of herself (is that the end of her cries)

to his dominantion

and control

that he can assert

in this last resort

her disheveled home, 13 Miller Court.

Her pulse's last squirt

was only a poor imitation,

a substitution

of that illusive, elusive ejaculation

so tormenting to his imagination,

a torment without conclusion.

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