Author Information
Nocturnes: At London, 1888
1888:
your attempt at poetry
reminds me
of a certain date,
November, a very late
hour;
and the sour
smell of fear's spurt
all over the floor
of this shabby abode
of a boastful whore
whom a pervert deserves to hurt.
His head wants to detonate.
Moans and screams
preserved forever in his dreams:
his victim's suffering became an ode
that will make your head detonate.
This is the only way he can
prove to his demons he is a man:
manhood, that tower
forboding and forbidden to him climb
except when he wields this power.
He takes his time.
The way she squirms
in her death throes
makes him want to devour
her flesh (head to toes)
like the worms
in a shallow grave.
She sold herself to him as a slave;
his couple of coins well spent---
her acceptance constituted consent.
Safe,
sane
and consensual?
The strafe
of pain
is her sacrifice
of herself (is that the end of her cries)
to his dominantion
and control
that he can assert
in this last resort
her disheveled home, 13 Miller Court.
Her pulse's last squirt
was only a poor imitation,
a substitution
of that illusive, elusive ejaculation
so tormenting to his imagination,
a torment without conclusion.
