Burnt Sugar
White knuckling days in black lingerie
beneath the candied apple tree where we
once strayed. A wily ancestor laid
the enchanted seed into ancient soul she
tended feverishly. What trade was made
for this peculiar fruit to glisten like glass
above two dissolute neighbors, limbs splayed,
below an edible chandelier which casts
rosy penumbra on lust now disappeared?
Limbs lingering above fecund, extant
with dulcet if distant flesh, jeweled veneer
elicit no hunger, no longer enchant.
Smell only burnt sugar if you return —
a sticky seared stump, something singular spurned.
Horror Sleaze Trash 