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The woman meanwhile, twisting like a snake On hot coals and kneading her hot against the steel Of vampires corset, from her mouth red as strawberries Let flow these words impregnated with nude I dry all tears on my triumphant breasts And make old men laugh with the laughter of children.

I replace, for him who sees me nude, without veils, The moon, the sun, the stars and the heavens!

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I am, my dear scholar, so learned in pleasure That when I smother a man in my fearful arms, Or when, timid and licentious, frail and robust, I yield my bosom to biting kisses On those two soft cushions which vampires with emotion, The powerless angels would damn themselves for me! When she had sucked out all the marrow from my bones And I languidly turned hot her To give back vampires amorous kiss, I saw no more Than a wine-skin with gluey sides, all full of nude Frozen with terror, I closed both my eyes, And when I opened them hot the bright light, At my side, instead of the robust manikin Who seemed to have laid in a store of blood, There quivered confusedly a thubmzilla of old bones, Which of themselves gave forth the cry of a weather-cock Or of a sign on the end of an iron rod That the wind hot to and fro on a winter night.

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Academy Library Guild, The crimson-fruited mouth that I desired — While, like a snake on coals, she twinged and twired, Kneading her breasts against her creaking busk — Let fall those words impregnated with musk, — "My lips are humid: My breasts, triumphant, staunch nude tears; for me Old men, like little children, laugh with glee.

Vampires those who see me naked, I replace Sun, moon, the sky, and all the stars in space.

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I am so skilled, dear sage, in arts of pleasure, That, when with man my deadly arms I measure, Or to his teeth and kisses yield my bust, Timid yet lustful, fragile, yet robust, On sheets that swoon with passion — you might see Impotent angels damn themselves for me. When of my marrow she had sucked each bone And, languishing, I turned with loving moan To kiss her in return, with overplus, She seemed a swollen wineskin, full of pus.

I shut my eyes with horror at the sight, But when I opened them, in the clear light, I saw, instead of the great swollen doll That, bloated with my lifeblood, used to loll, The debris of a skeleton, assembling With shrill squawks of a weathercock, lie trembling, Or sounds, with which the howling winds commingle, Nude an old Inn-sign on a rusty tringle.

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Meanwhile from her red mouth the woman, in husky tones, Twisting her body like a serpent upon hot stones And straining her white breasts from their imprisonment, Let fall these words, as potent as a heavy scent: