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It’s that time of year, the long winter squalls
set in. From my front porch I cannot see

Russia, but the Arctic Light, like you, crawls
towards me. I love that you’re so motley,

forlorn, devil’s brat in cast-off choirboy
skin. Let me take you behind the temple

and draw down the sky, your little schoolboy
shorts, all the joy my right hand can bring. Dull

degenerates, most adults are, reading
the worst in every word I write. Let them

purposely misunderstand this, malice
fills their hearts. But for you, little sex thing,

little toy, I’ll make you cum in mayhem,
like heaven’s aurora borealis.


nothing stands between us here/ and I won’t be denied
—Sarah McLachlan, possession