Aubrey Beardsley

Corrupted embryos with knowing eyes
carnival masked – their little pouts are wet,
anticipating how a thumb applies
exquisite pain to nipples. Not quite yet.

Bare-breasted woman raddled, on the town
again. Her hair’s a mess. Her chin’s like will
embodied, though the flounces of her gown
were cleaner yesterday. He drew until

he coughed himself to death, and burned with rage
that other people got to fuck all night.
Anger and lust rampant on every page
that he engraved. They’re there in black and white.

Deep black you want to chew, velvet and lush.
White virgin perverts just about to blush.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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4 Responses to Aubrey Beardsley

  1. crowleycrow says:

    That is exquisite. Writing the way you do (IMHO) is risking a lot because the result is either perfect or nothing. You hit perfect with amazing frequency, but this one’s one.

  2. caprine says:

    Oh, this is perfect.

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