by Nigel Holt

So cold my love, but the shiver down the spine
is mine. Her breath is stilled, her lips, so blue
that even pressure from my colubrine
will not charm her cheek into a ruddy hue.
So still she lies, eyes wide and staring through
each act of lust I love to lead her in;
and when I drink her leaking milky dew,
her icy nipples burn me with their sin.

Bruises punctuate her wastes of skin:
a poignant remnant of my waking love;
my silky silent harlot, harlequin;
my pocket of desire, my chilling glove.
She’d never make a moan—nor dare perspire—
yet satisfies all animal desire.

From The Perversion Sonnets


Nigel Holt has lived and worked in the United Arab Emirates for a number of years. He has been most recently published in Counterpunch, The Recusant, and Snakeskin magazines. He has work forthcoming in The Raintown Review, The Flea, and Poetry Salzburg. He is the editor of The Shit Creek Review.






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