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Kiss me, fool. I’m the last clockwork djinn. Kiss
me. You’ve always wanted an infernal
toy made of Tesla glass and Anubis
fire. Now distill breathing love from crystal
ardor. Like Las Vegas, I glow green
in the dark, I’m an amorous engine.
Where else but to Sin City would a djinn
go? Now bare flesh and sing incantation.
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. By high backstreets
and dark thoroughfares I come: a loosed wild
wind, the last of the spring-propelled djinni.
The old gods did not die – not with Yeats
and mad Crowley. Why would they? Come, love child,
erotic obscura calls you. Kiss me.