machinery machiavellian
a bar of soap on a nightstand
i have come to prepare myself for death
drenched in perfidious intent
you know
you’re really rather becoming
a demure ingénue, a chic pastiche
with charms labyrinthine
despite my furtive forbearance
i may have actually wanted you
but i knew
‘twas naught but a dead man’s demand
do not believe my halcyon visage
redolent of some buc0lic love
all i desire is a final fling
a dance; a pyrrhic dalliance
provocative warfare ensues
bodies lying taut, eliciting a feral scent
as the chamber moves
to raveling and unraveling flesh
at last, an explosion of color!
your glistening skin lies
like a harem of opulence
as my hands to the nightstand move
