My impression of women
is disheartened
by the most wonderful admiration.
A beauty
that once found grace
is a constant fear.
In their figure and their face
does hurt or spooky complete this.
I blue
Hollywood away to
lay awake in brood mares
stirring passive fires in
warm honey.
"I loved you."
Is naught "love" ewe.
Place this heart in a blender
and press,... love, or hate,
or any other garilous word
on the surface of the arcade.
Madness, or slight copped,
minced or purety.  
How then on any day
can watching a badly writen
play make surety?  
Does rhyming
have another way
to find I lauded enrapture
with the death
the tallest of tale tale hearts
doesest thou now know
if proven that one love is
worth all women.  
Reveled in horror
the blender shakes
as does my arcane prose
to the figure
of a woman
in underwear
on Friday,
the 13th.