The Rape

Merry, you may be
For I am the flesh in your tounge
Create to yourself, images of these
Glass-eyed figures
And expose to me, your skin —
Whorish as ever
They speak to me, your pores, your veins
In a rush of melancholy
In a stream of misantrophy
Remove the carpet, so I may be
United with the shades of these
Blind my eyes
Still I will see — presence, visuality
I grant you my pale hands
Still I will feel — shape, contoures
Please leave
In me you won’t find any pity
As the dog that howls for the light in my eyes —
The stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me
So, please leave
In here you wonÂ¥t find any pity
Tour kisses were as hell itself
Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge
Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present
«So, hereby I rape thee.»