Love’s labours won

Subject and subject, subject and object: 

Functions from one to another, across the repository of Love

That priests call God, that in gnosis drunk we call Christ Kadmonic

Admonishing my wicked body, and coming down hard upon my charmed intellect

The tailor died a long time ago, pulled that Seneca move today, yet here he is,

Reincarnated with some kind of purity, within the Love of his Wife

What his right hand possesses, what his left hand shields

What his feet do, when he does the twist, 

What his feet do, when he intercepts her moves,

Along the eternal tango of their Zeus-Hera complex

He loves, he labours, he loses sleep

He loves, he labours, he wins her: again, and again, and again, across the passionately tensored waveform of their so very Argentine narrative.

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