Strap the spiked belt round your trembling thigh,
you’re in the grip of flesh—
Each spike digs for its nip.
Each spike christens its
in a din of pain against the cock’s
call, the body’s
But to be released by the iron thorn.
To feel His lamp, His
so that His black breath comes and
clouds the eye, and you are lifted
upon His Word—
Bad dog, the body is.
You must make it eat the light.
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