Sheltered abyss in the spongy brain
You abhor yourself
Like a specimen in a bell jar
She walks with groping sorrow
Byron hides his foot
Poetry from the shirking sun
What is art?
A lament, a primal yarn
Lincoln is dead
Her dark red fingernails scratch
Sumptuous self-pity in golden rules
Poe relaxes like a drug addict
Grovel in the mire of existential women
Your splits unravel like a storm
Black silk panties and whips
I like dark women
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem