I felt like writing a love poem today, so I did so. However, since my understanding of the ‘love’ bit in ‘love poems’ tends to be rather questionable, I named my lyrical attempt of the day after the Voodoo Loa of death and sex. (Which reminds me I definitely need to read up more on Voodoo practices.)
Baron Samedi
I’ve missed you, you know –
The butterflies nested in your hair,
Flitting their wings each time you
Took a deeper breath, your polished
Claws, that you prized above all else,
But whose sharpness you always muffled
In thick gloves whenever you came by.
I’ve missed your tongue, slimy and
Titillating, like the flesh of a snail,
Your teeth, whiter than morning light,
And tasting of hell, and I’ve been dying
To clamber on your skin again,
Your skin the colour of grapes
In autumn, smelling of monastic
Bestiaries and smooth as glass. I’ve
Missed you, heart of my heart,
Sadness of my sadness. Never leave again.
Encyclopaedia Vanitatum 