So I told God, “No”
I said, “I want to dance with the Devil,”
and I look and I find him,
in the sex place, dripping,
and I ask, “May I have this dance?”
and he answers, “Yes, you may,”
and we twirl and sway and twist and dip and drift;
never have I felt so free, and
he loosens the tie to my red robe
with one look, and with
the next smile steps out of his
scarlet vest and maroon pants
and we do it right there,
between the piles of tobacco and sugar,
“heavenly shades of night falling.”
(Note: last line borrowed from the song “Twilight Time” by The Platters)
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Sunday, July 1, 2007
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