Black widow crawling up black vines,
expedition to your collarbones.
Crown of thorns pressed
against barbed wire
but neither of us bleeds.
Widows web resting
inbetween the lilies
adorning your hips.

If you glance southward,
a stabbed jester is crying,
bleeding out onto the meadow
surrounded by red wildflowers,
while the sun is shining bright
and the birds vanish into the clouds.
He's been like that for a while, I
doubt he'll ever stop. Or die.
"But don't worry!" he says,
"It's okay, it didn't hurt".

Black widow crawling up white flesh,
along the moths and butterflies,
across the imps and critters
landing just below the
tribal sigils planted
atop the hill.

Black widow is
squirming and writhing,
the two of you dancing in
splendid synchronicity. Flamenco,
with that reddened, swollen shell of yours
which I so deeply revere for its elegance.

In this tender moment,
the stars are immortal and
the moon faintly shrouds
the city in bone-white rays
of tragic incandescence.

Black widow retreats to its web and
the moths and butterflies have
gone to sleep now.
Rest easy, sweet
Hedone