The Eccentric and The Whore

The Literary Peanut

He was a strange man, this beloved of mine

He thought of love divine in brothel beds

And in a whore’s lap, red love threads

And of music of lost sanctuaries

And temples of long sought of gods

In his drunken lazy mornings.

His heart was rotten and downtrodden

By love he would moan about on full moons

And he’d play with children like women

And with women like children he’d toy with.

He was a man so mad I fell for him

I was so glad I could tell him

Because he would read me stories of far off lands

He’d trace my cheekbones and kiss my hands

He was all wrong in the mind

All full of the truest lies

He would make, draw and sketch me blind

And fill in the colour he’d smell

He was gone, neurotic I could tell

He loved me though, as Satan…

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