An acolyte to a chimerical image
I adore a slatternly goddess
Whose temples are dark rain glutted alleys
And the shadowed depths of human eyes
For want of her I devour my own soul
In inked night hours and deep brooding clouds
The dolorous reeling beauty of drink
And fever'd dreams of melancholy lust
Not in dear poetry condolence find
Nor Lethe's sad draught of forgetfullness
Holy incense, sickly-sweet, quenches nought.
I desire my cruel mistress more than hope
A balm long empty. In my spurn'd spiritless heart
Yet burn the hellfire coals of her votive flame.
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