Song of Peacock Feathers/

wet lips to writhe a little
drink the buried/ chapped
I cannot possibly----therefore
I must
those horrid scenes of Faust

white screens of pleasure
an ending without

a mockery, slow
her plush bed, my clothes
disheveled--become a powerless
flame--suprasensual--beat faster

between the thighs--what claws out of flesh
will suffice as a salve upon our lips
will suffice as a song of woman
innocuous & rife