Tonight I’ll grasp the blade ‘twixt my teeth.
and we’ll take to the floor
to dance the tango
under the plucked strings of the stars
dribbling daggers of tears.
Silk, red as fire
smells of violet blood.
Curved on your forehead,
let down a Spanish curl like a hook.
Your fan hides the curves of your eyebrows
full of malice.
Tonight….we’ll blow spirits of poppies
in the mouth of death.
Like the agony of death is the searing pleasure
that flames in the veins.
Play for me, music…not of the jaundiced mornings
dense with the subdued glare,
but of the intense redness of the nights of ember.
Tango is a Russian roulette with death,
it is tempered steel being forged
into a snare.
Tango is the bending of oak
scorched in endless fires.
Tango has the smell of sealing wax being burnt,
the skidding upon puddles of blood.
Tango has the pungency of rum
and the seduction of the cobra.
Tango is a bullfight with sex,
like a barb slowly penetrating
without killing.
In the tango there is a jerk
when the blade is at the point
of transfixing the heart.
In tango there is a spinning top
transfusing the orgasmic whiteness of pleasure
into the ecstasy of death.