Incubus Succubo Incuba

The door is locked shut from the outside

and as the morning dawns so loud

lightly a blow of summer scent grimly creeps in

making shadows larger

what arts of magic cannot produce

wallowed back and forth

against the flaccid wardrobe

where juices have been spat and cultivated on

subverting all of passion’s fragility

in silent jeopardy

milking the hero of the future to be

gliding in the sudden avenged pain

which the omnivorous climax

urges to lick and sweeten

for the dream of the anarchic is being helplessly carried on

announcing the ultimate understatement of doom

in monochromatic Germanic Classical horror.