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A game of Juggling knives
over tight rope repercussions
threatens only the blades.
Red glory smooth and supple
marring such scant curvature
keeps many a fork at bay
and yet the spoons swirling,
top heavy in their ego,
join the dance of powdered
cheeks and rosy lips.

.......Folding wallflowers that they
.......are, social buttlerflies chatter away, their wings
.......aflutter with gossip of the
.......cutlery to spread on
.......petals; peanut butter on toast.

And so the knives-butter in general
are called back out to stage,
bending psycho-kenesis in
patterns rivaling the rounded
silverware, the object of affection.

Such displays do not recall
(although so desperately imply)
your death, upon the golden platter
of your lips
.......swallowing spoonfulls
.......of toxic joy, juggling life and
.......walking on air a simple
.......falling, face first into my
.......arms; spread my legs and
.......your gut with exotic
.......flowers bleeding grimly.

Knife is Scarred
.... and dear Spoon is Tarnished.

Eat a dinner of dirt
and earthworms, not to wander
why the forks were
............................missing.


Just a little tidbit cause I'm bored and angry like no other that my scanner has died on me and I have a massive load of commisions to get in!!!!!!
Sleep soundly tonight cause it's best to be at peace when they cut your throats!