WHY do you spurt and sprottle
like that, bunny?
Why should I want to
throttle
you,
bunny?
Yes, bunch yourself between
my knees and lie
still.
Lie on me
with a hot, plumb, live weight,
heavy as a stone, passive,
yet hot,
waiting.
What are you waiting for?
What are you waiting for?
What is the hot, plumb weight
of your desire on me?
You have a hot, unthinkable desire of me,
bunny.
What is that spark
glittering at me on the unutterable
darkness
of your
eye, bunny?
The
finest splinter of a spark
that you throw off, straight on the tinder of my
nerves!
It sets up a strange fire,
a soft, most unwarrantable
burning
a
bale-fire mounting, mounting up in me.
‘Tis not of me, bunny.
It was you engendered it,
with that fine, demoniacal
spark
you jetted
off your eye at me.
I
did not want it,
this furnace, this
draught-maddened fire
which mounts up my arms
making them swell with
turgid, ungovernable strength.
‘Twas not I that wished
it,
that my
fingers should turn into these flames
avid and terrible
that they are at this
moment.
It must have been your
inbreathing, gaping desire
that drew this red gush in me;
I must be reciprocating
your vacuous, hideous
passion.
It must be the want in you
that has drawn this terrible
draught of white fire
up my veins as up a
chimney.
It must be you who desire
this intermingling of the black and
monstrous
fingers
of Moloch
in the
blood-jets of your throat.
Come, you shall have your desire,
since already I am implicated
with you
in your
strange lust.