Amid desire you finger me in the crime,
with that noble face, so conscious, of romance?
to divide all my multiple ill predilections,
multitude of Hypnotic Venus faces besides the earth;
your ample consent nurtured loves
Cynthia, two for every Sunday
nothing is free: every quotidian of ill temper
contingent on your posed fidelity.
day fame: too abrupt for you? a line
of milk divided death from sight?
ammunition in your firearms: mutant, longer petals.
count in exotic temperatures your fugitive love!
premium limbs without guidance
cognac and ouzo before they taste the grave.
your pout presents fierce paleness
and nihilistic excursions guaranteed to guard against love:
the picture is a taut portion, we only get this one
translated portrait of a guarded servant.
in all your ailing nights there is never enough desire:
Cynthia is the best fruit, Cynthia finishes first.
-- Cordelia Heaney