DARK FOLLICLES

You forage for gorgeous dead flowers,
prettily decaying off their stems. Infested
moss grows on mouse bones. Bird beaks
cling to skeletal remains. You caress
a decadent wick; charm a snake
until it exudes this mesmerizing perfume:
--violet pastilles and burnt lace
--mounds of dilapidated doll meat
--acrid tinge of mons venus heat

It skitters like spider feet when you rip open
the black tasseling that sewed your servant girl’s lips into a snarl
until you were ready for her to speak. Now she’s your silk-lined clutch
with her decorative beading. Her knotty maw. Her rotten zinnias bleeding.
You fill her raw mouth-hole with a dark purple votive. You make her drip
violet wax when she whimpers. You make her flicker through your hall
of antique mirrors, then use her flame to plant a scorching kiss
into the furrowed scalp of your dirty mannikin head.
Dark tendrils steam and writhe from the root beds…