Letter to Babalon

the scarlet harlot demandeth; hath she ever been my enemy?
the woman clad in Sun---she was my fear of eternal sleep in the morning…
the scarlet harlot crieth for attention; is she in actuality chaste virgin?
the woman clad in Sun---I was worried she'd grow hooves than horns.
Bad Alex's infantile erotic fantasy---winged Babalon and with bloody foam in her mouth,
the woman clad in Sun----which is which's accessory?
O, unjoyous might have been the Satyrs' Lot,
Silenus through the virtue of his bulging belly, all manly grace flyeth,
Words alone hold admonishing powers over the tongue---hidden beneath the impotency caused by experience.
Babalon speaketh once more----the woman clad in Sun laughs in secret murder.
Satyrs made drunk and joyous----neither through the fruit of grape or its changed juice,
But trial me again in absentia of adulthood, the woman who stole the solar Solus!
Satyrs diminutive like atoms cavort forth towards her embrace---embracing all she clamieth the realm of Io through the Babel.
Babalon clad in scarlet armour stands as witness---solemn wars against that Foe of Man, how many times should we lose amidst the tigerless jungles?
Babalon my maid-servant fetch my steed, bear me arms and shield of aeon-dead gods. My silence is proof enough of my faith.
Tomorrow yet again, following my lead, Woman, we shall charge against the false Sun in the sky,
Where the Night-Stain clad in Sun---that luminous dead star lureth  fae-doomed Man to their heated, foaming death once more…
O Babalon my inborn Sister, tell me again that faerie tale of the peregrine prince whose health was restored by the salt of the earth,
Once he sets his feet for the first time upon the estranged isle from his life---that isle existing in another weird shore…
O Babalon, wherefore do I hear the cry of pelicans, while we Brother and Sister are so far away from the Water of Ocean?
Such is the Satyr's Lot, Babalon, for in aeviternal mortality of demigods unheard, life's diminishment grows.