Bed Frame
by Michael Pane©
The umbrella
thrusts open and closed–
Lips made of gold,
you spill your soul,
into the palms.
Plummeting worthy
of a million cells.
The ringing of bells
in your ears– is
too much to handle.
You want it now,
and right– no early
You go all night–
building through
all the thunder,
and frightening ties.
The look in your eyes,
of relief–
as your machine
lets out steam.
Into the skies,
of a bed frame.
Apples
I want to
gift wrap you–
suck on your spine
like a spider.
Pull the stem of
your apple vagina.
Leave my scent
on your underwear...
Do you care?
Come and come again.
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