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LustThe golden bait, barbed with infinite pain, fatal, fanatical mate of a poisoned body and brain. A name that leers its lecherous longing and knavery, whispers in crazing ears the secret spell of her slavery. Horror indeed intense, seduction ever intenser, swinging the smoke of sense from the bowl of a smouldering censer. Behind me, behind and above she stands, that mirror of love. Her fingers are supple-jointed; her nails are polished and pointed, and tipped with spurs of gold: with them she rowels the brain. Her lust is critical, cold; and her cheeks are pale, as she daintily picks, profane with her lips, and the teeth jagged and black beneath, pulp and blood from a nail. Dragon of lure and dread, tiger of fury and lust, the quick in chains to the dead, the slime alive in the dust, brazen shame like a flame, an orgy of pregnant pollution with hate beyond aim or name-orgasm, death, dissolution! Know you now why her eyes so fearfully glaze, beholding terrors of infamies like filthy flowers unfolding? Laughter widowed ease, agony barred from sadness, death defeated of peace, is she not madness? She waits for me, lazily leering, as moon goes murdering moon; the moon of her triumph is nearing; she will have me wholly soon. Analysed, reason is raving. Feeling, examined, is pain. Life is anguish, insane; and death is not a way out of it.
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