Kathryn-777

September's but a whisper, a curl of autumn on your cheek or a wanton leaf left lazing in the tawny gold of dusk; and the amber scent of pears, succulent and slumbering, slips idly off your skin and sends my restless senses yearning...

The darkness was his closest friend. He’d sleep and breathe and feed on it. Eschewed the light and ways of men. His soul was cold and lonely lit, Left waning till the weary end.He’d sleep and breathe and feed on it - Made it a lover bold and fair. His soul was cold and lonely lit. She sold her heart and laid it bare To him for feasting, bit by bit.

I think I lost us in a glass of scotch - softly drowning, going down like every mad man I ever envied. Why did I believe your lips tasted so good, sweet and heathen like the heather I laid you in that last night I came home? I had a thing for damaged women, and you could drink your mother's last words in everything we wasted.

I'm an appendectomy clean precise slice and flap of flesh like a turned out pocket kissing the surgeon's lips I'm a tonsillectomy vocal chords stripped pierced high above your wires a new frequency of birds crashing I'm an amputation sterile sanitized nip and tuck of dangling leg and arm left for friends to sever on the street and clean with white picket teeth No anesthesia to cloud your face freckles popping like stars or morphine clogging my arteries just bleed out where you left me and the wide world waiting for you to happen.

She was once a verse by Baudelaire something about flowers that were loyal to none and I kissed her when no one was watching. She was a stanza by Byron who stood on the white cliffs of somewhere and praised her eyebrows. She is nothing like summer or a lost continent; her landscape is too bold for that. Her shoulders are not a country or a battle to be won. I thought she was a poem - Cynara, or maybe an ode or sonnet - words teased and woven that beat and bled upon my humble pen, not the flesh and blood of thighs and hips ripening beneath my gaze, waiting to be written.

My garden of delights, infested with such pretty, twisted things, mandrake root and toadstools and glistering ravens' wings. I planted belladona, such a melancholy crop, and grew poison ivy in blistered vines - a haven in the bogs.Skullcap grew amongst the weeds, its slithering, slivered, ragged leaves a home to noxious worms and mealy nettle-bugs. I gathered withered poppies, a delicious apertif, and brewed brackish tea from bagworm seeds and garnished it with slugs.Brambles thrived between the stones - the hedges overblown with ash and bone to welcome all my guests, who hunched and huddled in the damp covered up with dark and dank, they ...

I know the ocean's gentle, rolling waves - the treasures in its dark and murky depths; and deep within its grottoes and its caves - tis there the fey will lure me to my deathI met a girl so fair of face and skin, her wanton kisses wrapping me within - that all my senses lurched and crept away, to lock me in this wet and slippery grave.