Supple supplicants, their lips all red in hue,
bound down to sultry appetites so rigid and so few.
Clasping tight a night bound pen,
it’s nub a point of twilight glen.
We never got beyond this spot,
where shear cast moons broke down to stars,
eternities gates and Pandora’s box.
We never got so far,
As to chase the mystic rabbits beyond,
Seek out the mystery the hold,
Ones for the tykes–the other the bold.
Feeling tracks into the ether,
Its nebulous now this fucking thief named Peter,
We’ll tie him down in briar hot,
Filled with thorns and a boiling pot.
Unlace his skin again,
Drunk full of life and his lovely sin.
Note: having a bit of a manic weird day when writing this one. -S
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 