For the Young Blades

Heavy-lidded, aren't we, 

My Friday morning damsels?

The young blades canter past

The dark window of a once-apothecary,

Eerie shadows of a hazy red bulb 

Cast upon the Asphodels of skin.

My arms are a pornography,

Oh so ever pure, and slender smooth,

My face rests on a strumpet's neck,

That begs for fingers, implements:

There is nothing so delectable

As virgin flesh. 

Yes darling one, put on a subtle pout,

Yes little bitch, half-close those bedroom eyes.

Whicker those palms like a horses chuckle:

The way my skin shivers -

Taut and plump with my hydration.

Languor running,

Manicured,

A single finger up and down

The muscle that embraces

My vulnerable throat.

The young blades canter past

The dark window, of a once-apothecary,

Eerie shadows of a hazy red bulb 

Cast upon the Asphodels of skin.

(Image by Anderson's All-Purpose)