Dulcet

Butterscotch kiss of a voice
rippling through metal wire
on a modern magic impulse-
Wake me, shake me,
and while you're at it,
break me.

A cold silver ring
coiled close around satin skin
can hardly match
the dark frenzy thrusts
of the apple-venomed mind,
cautionary memories
of serpentine persuasion
crushed beneath a swath
of ruby-red electric tension.

Enjoy corruption?
I thought you would.
Inherent twist
of fallen angel charm,
threading sweet knife-point sensation
through jaded expectation-
flood wash of tight, throbbing vermillion
within the pale crystal frame.

A shiver wave along the gray matter link
with riptide fire forces of hell
invading vestal blood,
foreshadow of the damning press
of flesh to flesh-
anticipation, disintegration,
immolation without reservation.

Have another taste-
the meal rarely ever voices complaint.




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