Nom De Plume

Wormwood pool lament
our lady upon high;
'came in a jar and went
jet-black in cherry pie.

Cherry children ferment
her moldy ass goodbye;
Pluri-lolita rennt
purple haze in her eyes.

Graping her dissent,
sherry clouds in her thighs
refrigerate repent, sharing
ergot shots on rye.

For nigh's the brackish hour
Hunger taps us in, undine,
luscious gent in lady towers
legging entrails drag the sky

with a punctuated scent;
absinthe laced them in fungi.
Arsenic casein chased in mint
malt devoureth the slime.

The plume the beauty vents
wasn't meant for fruity flies'
faceless graceless nonconsent
with nothing left bereft to try.

so DRINK, Thelioma, hence, and
don't mention questions why!
Lips to lips communion sip her
flowered thrips in cramps and dye.