A Diadem of Wilted Roses

Speckled face of the  
waxy eyed maiden --
which hills has she
flown over? Which fires
has she lighted upon
among ritual-marked
garden walkways?
 
As the moth emerges from
the chrysalis, as the bud
of the flower casts off its  
cotyledon leaves, so her
speech echoes still  
as I walk along grafitti
decorated alleys  
and neon signs,
tingles playing over  
my thighs and buttocks
remembering her  
panther-like gaze
 
Thick fog. Whimpers of a small lost animal. The sound of water cascading down a hill.
 
"Such a nice family"--
as the blood moon drives
the sharp canines of one
sister into a snarl,  
to gorge her throat on  
her brother's cock, the  
parents spanking and  
throwing out taunts;
their mingled sweat  
creates an environment like  
the inside of an amber
lamp covered with flies
 
Shadows pace and strut in the candlelight of the stone room, it's walls decorated with gold filigree calligraphy
 
She gyrates her booted legs
over his grizzled thighs
extending out of his trunks,
scissoring his swollen limb
with her flared buttocks
in their cloudy flowering
 
Ferns and lilies creating obstacles in her walk along the pool's edge to the chaise lounge where I sleep
 
The pooling sweat under
her tanktop as she carries
the babe; scenting the brush
of fibers under her musky pits,
like yogurty mist to my lips
 
A daisy on her shirt like a vortexing optical illusion
 
Her stolid downturned eyelashes
with pert lip, lavishes
sun-drenched kisses and butterfly
tart kisses like a little miss
 
Bouncing her butt  
on the seesaw, the pigtailed,
bucktoothed girl is shocked  
to be surrounded by ebony  
shadows, their plump  
plum like penises shaking  
like so many bamboo sticks
as she blows out her
bubblegum with a pop,
her eyes saucers
 
Moist breath.  
Itchiness from dried sweat.
 
Robbing her thighs of their  
marble like plushness as she  
jaunts along the trail; my sap
staining her blue gleaming shades
as she frigs the morass amidst  
her hips' enclosed fur
 
Whiplash of her pubic fur and haunches in struts and lunges
 
The frumpy old madam
frigs the youths' jutting
flesh spears; like wolverines
fighting in snow, their blood
and sweat mixing with
the mud as it creates a
painting for the hawk's eyes,
her hand moistened by their
tribute to her maternal
coddling, her plush butt
on her upturned feet