Your scent is the root of my bray-like moan.
Pray with grave ignorance, with infernal
flair, with this: my wayward bulge hard as stone.
I am Succuba’s burlesque, her all-dull
luminous pain that makes you bend. Two-backed
and four-footed. Nightmares in love. Nightmares
in soul. Outcast of Eros. I’ve hijacked
more than enough ancient crooked affairs
to stay veiled. I keep my secrets and bray,
eee-aaah. My role is not to kiss you, just
remind you how you like kisses. Climax
is chock full of beastly yowl. When you pray
I can smell it on you: fragrant as lust,
raw as blessing, thick as fuck-demon wax.