She is silver-nitrate and coal. An Egon Schiele painting stretched on dream and sullen sparking glances tipped in gold.
It is starlight, burnt through a velvet field that chains me here. It is honey and hot wine that haunts my sleep, by the onomatopoeia of obsession.
With a lunar caustic kiss she hexed me. Woven in her six-sided circle those rubies in the hollow of her neck and fingers that shimmer like ice.
The Sphinx of Eros.
That heathen curl. Smoke to hide the ivory! Spoke to lock the memory! Caught in click clack shutters by the silver foaming pond. Froth from the chambers of ebony rough hewn hearts.
O starlight! That raptures me hungry for bloodsoaked lips red as fury!
And I sang; O lord & commoner, I sang! To the weepings of a sombre, sudden, stinging violin, in empty vinyl crackle from music soaked in paint, with a voice like burning velvet.