i.

Picture Seville, prudent with orange-groves. The sun plays like a gnossienne beneath the trees; a tormented harlequin writhing on the fine soil. The disgruntled lemon puckers. The lemon-lipped hidalgos seethe. And Juan is stealing from his lover's bed.

Juan crawls on the dappled soil, a darkening sublimity. And the dappled syllable writhing on those fine moor lips, darkens to a liturgy.

"Woman, deliciae meae, is a delight

to touch. Woman, deliciae

meae, is a delight to touch. Woman,

deliciae meae, is a delight to touch."

ii.

Dusk fellates the air. Seville's adipose terminals droop under the puckered moon. An invert ciascuro writhes beneath the fruiting hyphens. The crawling parasite rides on the back of the harlequin. And the lemon-lipped hidalgos sweep the scene.

Hyphenated storms play Juan's moor lips. The hidalgos move in brutal rhythm. The hunters sally through the groves. The groves depilate in bursting punctuations. Seville falls, orb by pappy orb. Juan is all hyphen as he runs, leaving the sour hidalgos to their pulp.

iii.

"Three syllables ago, I

was seething in my love, but now

they catch up, ride the next,

and mount my lips

in hidalgo sweeps; three syllables

ago, thrashing more,

insistent six and seven, eight. Three

syllables ago I was seething

in my love, but now

even my thoughts

run and run, three syllables ago

run and run— I cannot

catch the language;

the pulse of thought

is constant."

iv.

"Horses do not paw, they hoof.

Summer burns the English neck.

Woman fluctuates by moons–filthy!

Strawberries bring her out in hives.

Oranges are messy."

v.

I would whip them all to think

a woman loves in allegories (that even Love

is allegory!), though by her

bitter smile she whispers loves

in brutal parallelograms. The husband

bends her to his will, the woman

bends her will to me, we three

corrupted symmetry. I will love her,

beast of the triple-backed self, as I love

my own delineated form, a perfect

onanism.

vi.

His sensitivities — like a crueller pigeon coo;

a summer girl sniggering into her salad;

the broad man roughly shoving the thin man aside–

are the whinnies of resilient spring.

And by a brutal pagination, he

becomes the satan of the ballroom

vii.

"Do not call my name, it is

the myth

that drives me, the

idling

brook."