psalm of pythia

Let the timeless ochre of your
voice send me to sleep every night,
in whispered pants,
in vicious passions,
under boomerang moons,
even just the vaguest memory of it
will conjure up victorious lusts,
and salacious, hypnotic pleadings
between my spread cashmere legs,
and the illustrious echo of your swaying voice,
will bring me to tears,
and to my knees,
and to enlightenment,
for ten eternities.
Make your lists of demons,
I am all of them,
send burning chariots for me,
I will ride them,
greet me with body parts,
I own them,
assail me with chemicals,
I worship them,
give me all your voices,
I will eat them
in
silver
spoonfuls.

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