Clouds Without Water

VIII You are a devil gloating on the pain You suffer and I suffer; you laugh shrill Over the pangs of those pale fools, the twain Whom we deceive, whom we shall surely kil Whispering a word of this. Ah! joy it is That false to faith is all the honied pressing; A traitor triumphs in each stolen kiss, Caligula and Cressida caressing. You love yourself for stealing me away From the proud lovely wife; you love me more That in my arms a prostitute you lay, And to your troth-plight lover played the whore When mouth to mouth we clung, and breath for breath Exchanged the royal accolade of death, I love you for your cruelty to them; Y love you for your cruelty to me; I see their blood glittering a diadem Upon your dazzling brows; my blood I see Sucked deep into your body, curling round Like fire in every artery and vein Massed in your heart, colossal and profound. Iam mad for you to brand me with the stain Of your own vice. Our souls, a murdering crew Of itching Mullahs, wallow, dervish-drunk. Love surges at the pang! Our poisonous dew Of sweat and kisses blinds us. A mad monk Kissing fanatically the cross that had Devecured his vitals is not half as mad! ~ ‘ys