O My! O my, o my! What have we here? A gem, precious and glittering Accidentally dropped in the mud, Mistakenly found, picked up All wet, dripping, coldly warm In my hand, I stroke it, Wiping it slowly, clean it off Revealing its beauty, its inner glow Warming me even more Than the sun burning brown my skin While lying in riverside Parisian parks Nude watching the Seine stroll by Murmurring to itself Using a language clear, clear, clear One which Pauline Reage tied down And only these French girls seem to know Durrell as a friend, the master poet burning In effigy moaning like Renata's mask Possessing the piano, demon music Pounding my body with male violence Beyond orgasm, though never to the limits Of sainthood, where I find myself Holding Anais.
Reason for writing:
Who has not, once discovering the world of Nin, Reage, and Miller, found their lives transformed and refreshed, even if the renewed form be slightly skewed from the former?
Birth sign: Not entered
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