Imaginary Letters to and from an Imaginary Countess

My dearest Countess,

Prithee, speak your True Heart upon the matter you forbade me allude to in the Court of Neverending Sighs, also known as the Poet Bitchery in the shopping mall where last Thursday I cruised your most nubile ass in between checking out the boys playing at archery in the arcade.

You have worsted my heart and reduced me to boy-buggery once more.

I fear I am becoming my Father. It ages one.

I trust you have received the candied sparrows I sent. And my latest poems.

Possibly I was being fairly obvious with the pun on Tashkent.

When will I be admitted into the sanctum sanctorum of your transsexual velociraptor sarcasm again?

Today I heard my sorrow Echo in a narrow street and realized that my Passion has possibly turned me into a male nymph, for I repeat your words constantly in my head and even aloud in my Distraction.

I had a dream about depilatories and you the other night.

The delicacy of a razor in a lover's hand can be so erotic.

I love unmaking you as a man, making you as a woman, unmasking you as a man and a woman, marking you as a man masks a woman, or a woman unmakes a man.

I love that you are "Both, my Dear," as you love to answer with such Audacity when unsubtle, emboldened Creatures have the effrontery to ask what they have no lover's right to know.

I trust I am not too concealed in these remarks.

I mean to insinuate myself in a permanent Way into your good graces and husband you and wive you, to chaste you and whore you, to be the Satyr in the expansive forest of your Intellect, where I do so love to wander...

I am so grateful you came to us from over the Seas, with your Manners wondrous strange and your wit, that lances the pompous Balloons at Court and elsewhere.

Enjoy a sparrow and think of how a true man gives suckle and gives suck both.

We all kill our fathers one way or another.

But I want to be Daddy.

How rapt and raped is language when the rupture of love comes.

Oh god, the mouchette by your left nipple!

A fine filament burns me in my loins even as I write this.

Oh god, I'm coming.

We are always coming into love.

I have to go wipe this ardor up now.

I can't reach my Spankerchief from here.

Tumescently Yours,

S_____________