poem from muse candy

*
my pruned tree love,
with without the fruit
i am allowed,
and not allowed to eat,

my cherry bush
that burns but does not burn
with words that leap,
but never leave the mouth,

between the plum unborn,
the plum consumed,
the candied flame that dies,
to be inflamed,

between the ashen bloom,
infernal honey blooms,
red candy opium
heirloom charms,

i wait for fire fruit
to burst from poppy lips,
between the bite that is,
and that is not.

poem from muse candy

*
its seems your lingering trace
now makes the fickle muse,
who left me in a barren place,
for weeks of years and years of weeks,
approach for what she excavates.
she bleeds my verse so she can have,
a sex slave salve to tweak her cheeks.

dark and darkness are her mirrors,
she reflects the sun at night.
mirrors mother daughter mother,
caught within beguiling lights,
mirrors mirrors of delight.

we cleave so tight beneath her sight,
like bullets in a smoking gun.
she loads me to your knees on fire,
inflames the light’s desire for night,
until we’re wrung through mirrors hung
with vexing sexy razor wire,
until your verse from her from me,
is flung out like a pistol’s tongue.

your verse her verse now fully free,
secures the children’s future house,
destroys the loveless golden gyre.
and from your muse’s mouth i bring
a coupled bed to breed our blood,
and to conspire poet’s schemes,
and baptize with cream fire.

my red mouth is your mother muse,
i use with tender sex abuse,
that forces silver dire verse
to kiss your kin convert the worst,
and steal you from the wedding hearse.

poem from muse candy

bird candy

root of my seed,
she’s the fruit of my need,
and the peal of my cry.

i quell the death knells,
in the chimes and the bells,
and i steal the crime sky.

the flower of youth,
and the nectar of truth,
will be cultured relief.

the sleep she will reap,
with a seed heavy breeze,
is a wet dreams’ unease.

she comes rule of thumb,
sighing thigh after thigh,
from a knot i untie.

and by drums she eats plums
when the sugar bird flies
to the tree fruit in pies.

poem from muse candy

*
i garland your slender swanlike neck
with hungry licks and kisses
pressed from candy lips,
where legs intersect,

and crown your pouting head
with phallus candy erect,

and offer breast shaped thoughts
to feed your need,
and sate your evil impulse
with infinite love and sex.

poem from muse candy

*
i'll make the floor,
beneath the golden table,
where you cherish
the perishables,
the bread of rising babel,

the stable where i'll whore
my poem's beat,
until i perish
from the heat
of our unstable wars.

i'll let seep deep
into my bone
the tiny drone of meat
you might release
from high heeled feet.

even dogs drink
what their mistress sneaks,
and poets too,
take scraps that pass,
in worlds crass,

for pearls folded into grass,
beneath the outcast sea
of well heeled feet,
that kick at love,
and shove at licks,

and stoop so far
to let their pet neglected kiss
the dripping fat
from calves and bliss,
that must be kept.

poem from muse candy

*
i'm a scolding smith and wesson,
loaded with slick ammunition,
cozy with three fifty seven
rosy burns from poesy heaven.

i'm a magnum burst of verses,
in your covert purse of purses,
smoking from its cursed uses,
and worse lunatic abuses.

in your hand a fiery lesson,
in your hip a burning weapon,
to conceal until your questioned;
terse protection from love hearses.

holstered gun for just in case
the legal way you cannot face;
all the insincere confessions
of the manicured professions.

i'm a pistol whipped obsession,
who's possessed by your possession,
with a magazine of metal,
bloody steel inspired petals.

and its hot from rehearsed shots,
but to your lip its curse is not
directed at your vital spots,
unless you want a sexy prop.

its business is your trigger finger,
and its lead a drop dead ringer,
to protect you from what hurts you,
and to enter whom you choose to.

poem from muse candy

*
i am the underground
of how her body dwells,
the founding sound
of heartbeat bells,
that hide in wars,
behind false walls,
and hidden doors,
or coyly kept
in ample laps,
where cards determine
who will rise or fall.

i am the underground
of what her body tells
upon the tabletop
of what appearance is,
and what its not.
i'm what is found
when lip is
to thigh's lip,
upon the quickened breath
of stolen bread,
beneath wet gowns.

i am the underground
of where her body sells
its guiled styles.
i rise and thrive
in fascist times,
and gagged and bound,
as sexcrime mate,
i won't escape
massaging hands
that pierce my plans
with raw hide sounds.