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.