She laid, scorched by the flames of desire - bald, smooth. Dripping with stains of sweat, and sex

Une Nuit a Paris

Paris, in the darkness, winter 1949 Collar tight against the night, I intend to make it mine I pass the low lit cafes, and breathe gauloises smoke And exhaling to the moon I begin to see the joke

iron awe

There's wire in the blood, and that is why the copper taste Barbs that sting are multiplying, we need to take our haste The words that pierce our ink cannot ever go to waste So kiss the page before me, we know that I am far from chaste