Tell me of the canine women
dancing on your prison wall,
silhouettes cast by fire
of your private chamber,
the room built for promiscuous
virgins with rain soaked
between their legs, diamond
speckled drops like the uncertain
dust of every road and easy
to part at the stride of a hip.
Part like Moses did.
Part like private.
Curse my eyes with flashing
indigo scenes of flesh
from a moaning Venus
or a weeping Juliette
loosing their attire one by one.
Moaning longer than wind
with small intervals of silence
fermented between the boiling air.
Like all mortals,
I have small bits of fascination
wedged between my chains.
DQ 12/27/06
