Something Poemish, raw still...and Incomplete )

The night, night voluptuous crawls
Over and under his citadel .
Such a lycantrophic being is he;
A bricolage made, of moon and moans,
Seasoned with an orgasmic fright.
To the textual gods, he pays his homage;
And lonliness and the sorrowful delight.
Cried in jouissance, didn't die;
And wades through his trampled walk
Along common loves and uncommon lovers
And labyrinths converge-- at silence and Mozart
The prayers were said-- fables told
Of dead mothers and estranged brothers
Of Trivialities and wars lost
Such a rendezvous, such disscociation
Mirrors, images, and that was all.