after Baudelaire
Like those angels with rough
– rough or roughened eyes
I’ll come back to the little alcove
where you try to fall asleep.
I’ll slip in between the sheets
without a sound
from the dark, no the darksome night,
and I’ll give you, burnt woman
the coldest of kisses
and the hugs of a snake
in a smelly grave.
When the dawn comes without a sound
you’ll find no one in my place
and till the evening it’ll be cold
– ah so cold there.
Others they try to be kind
– kind and tender to you
but I want to hold
your quaking body like a vice.
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