Like bricks of mortar, stacks of tomes,
On fields of dust they lay in catacombs.
Collecting prints of fingers caressing,
The Ancient Rider of chariots, I address.
In cellar's webs and moist obituaries,
Storms awaken the thundering keep,
As the hunching monk grins cavities.
Striking flint, on wax phalluses.
On bust of flesh and cunt drippings,
My quill survives poetically,
Grazing on yellowing reams.
Seduction from the dark dreams.
The coven open's with Amen,
Chanting stanzas with comprehend.
On the dais of the Ancient Rider,
Bequeathing jousting of the cock.
Shadows in the darkening marrow,
Like caldron of brewing erotica.
Bubbling sensuality of the gathering
And sloshing in fornication sabbaticals.
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