The Lesbian Hell in The Gate of the Sanctuary from The Temple of the Holy Ghost (Collected Works, Vol I) by Aleister Crowley.

“Their sighs attract the unsubstantial shapes
Of other women, and their kisses burn
Cold on the lips whose purple blood escapes,
A thin chill stream; they feel not nor discern,
Nor love’s low laugh return.” [via]

Consider also:

  1. “But raise no head; I know thee, breast and thigh, Lips, hair and eyes and mouth: I will not die But thou come with me o’er the gate of death. So, blood and body furious with breath That pants through foaming kisses, let us stay Gripped hard together to keep life away, Mouths drowned in murder, never satiate, Kissing away the hard decrees of Fate, Kissing insatiable in mad desire Kisses whose agony may never tire, Kissing the gates of hell, the sword of God, Each unto each a serpent or a rod, A well of wine and fire, each unto each, Whose lips are fain convulsively to reach A higher heaven, a deeper hell.”
  2. “All night no change, no whisper. Scarce a breath But lips closed hard upon the cup of death To drain its sweetest poison. Scarce a sigh Beats the dead hours out; scarce a melody Of measured pulses quickened with the blood Of that desire which pours its deadly flood Through soul and shaken body; scarce a thought But sense through spirit most divinely wrought To perfect feeling; only through the lips Electric ardour kindles, flashes, slips Through all the circle to her lips again And thence, unwavering, flies to mine, to drain All pleasure in one draught.”
  3. “I must not stoop and take my ease, Or touch the body lithe and thin. Bright body of the myriad smiles, Sweet serpent of the lower life, The smooth silk touch of thee defiles, The lures and languors of a wife. Slip to the floor, I must not turn: There is a lion in the way! The star of morning rise and burn: I seek the dim supernal day!”
  4. “What time for language, when our kisses flow Eloquent, warm, as words are cold and weak? — Or now — Ah! sweetheart, even were it so We could not speak!”
  5. “Yea, king and queen of Sheol, terrible Above all fiends and furies, hating more The high Jehovah, loving Baal Peor, Our father and our lover and our god! Yea, though he lift his adamantine rod And pierce us through, how shall his anger tame Fire that glows fiercer for the brand of shame Thrust in it; so, we who are all of fire, One dull red flare of devilish desire, The God of Israel shall not quench with tears, Nor blood of martyrs drawn from myriad spheres, Nor watery blood of Christ; that blood shall boil With all the fury of our hellish toil; His veins shall dry with heat; his bones shall bleach Cold and detested, picked of dogs, on each Dry separate dunghill of burnt Golgotha.”