5 THE BLACK MASS
2
You stand away to let your long lash curl
About this aching body, fiery rings
Of torture, o my hot anamoured girl
Whose passion rides me like a steed and stings.
Like a wounded snake infuriated
With pain, you drive your reeking kisses home
Into my flesh, their poisonous frenzy mated
With this delirious anguish, bitter foam
Of storm on some innavigable sea.
Whip, whip me till I burn! Whip on! Whip on!
Is it not madness that you wake in me?
Is not this curse the devil's orison?
Ah, devil! devil! when you grip me and glare
Into mine eyes, and answer all the prayer!