The end of the affair is always death.She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,out of the tribe of myself my breathfinds you gone. I horrifythose who stand by. I am fed.At night, alone, I marry the bed.Finger to finger, now she’s mine.She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.I beat her like a bell. I reclinein the bower where you used to mount her.You borrowed me on the flowered spread.At night, alone, I marry the bed.Take for instance this night, my love,that every single couple puts togetherwith a joint overturning, beneath, above,the abundant two on sponge and feather,kneeling and pushing, head to head.At night alone, I marry the bed.
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