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the (st)art of madness 
a Sphinxlike spectre
descends into your room 
to throttle your pink hair 
and ravaged face
with ice-cream spoons 

so you move to the attic with
medieval romance 
perched upon your cheek

count postage stamps
rustling coquettishly
and your eyes begin to moonride
there and back again
your heart beats 
a dark gothic cathedrál
the light tapers stately
and around again