Sandor Szabo

In vigilambulism
The night was lost it seems
Held in the searing clutches
Of absinthe fevre-dreams

Temptress immedicable
Coaxed mad oaths from my lips
Ensconced in viscid claspings
Of blissful lissom hips

Mating my demonlover
As moons hurtled their tracks
Damning my mortal body
With Asmodean pacts

I drank its burning kisses
Reveled with raptured wails
Heedless of gashes carven
By its uncinate nails

The days grow insubstantial
The midnight hours are lost
But I dare not stop to count
The soul-blaspheming cost

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