The Crimson Widow.
Twix candlelight and greyish gloom,
She waits, oil in her raven hair.
Bides her time like a spider,
Still as her bejewelled eyes search
For a plump little fly
To tangle in her gossamer web.
These flies are portly gentlemen-
Adorned with watches, chains and gold
Stuffed into their waistcoats
Like sausages in their skin
Pink flesh bursts the sides obscenely
A middle-aged paunch protrudes and wobbles.
A mockery of youth lost
Each year another belt notch gained.
She paces ‘round the docks at night,
Her white face luminous
A compliment to the moon.
In her crimson shawl she has another name,
Jezebel, harlot, lady of the night
Kohl-rimmed eyes and bowed pale legs.
So much time spent on one’s back
Destroys one’s posture, sags one’s spine.
In her scarlet smile lies predation,
She inquires as to company and
Her soft pink tongue slides treacherously
Over her pointed yellow teeth .
She cannot hide her urge to feed
Her urge to swallow, her urge to gorge.
To be explored, to be navigated-
Treacherous is her landscape,
Hard little breasts filled with sour milk
A crust of yellow on the teat.
Under her saffron dress,
She is composed of angles.
No soft ovals, no full circles.
She is triangular, acute.
So pointed, so sharp.
As sensual as a rusted razor.
Unknown to her, inside lurks poison.
A bilious stench of decay and rot.
Slowly, insides slip into water,
And the crimson pours from every orifice.
She shrivels, this rose, this creature of the night.
A crimson widow, 'til her very last breath.
She waits, oil in her raven hair.
Bides her time like a spider,
Still as her bejewelled eyes search
For a plump little fly
To tangle in her gossamer web.
These flies are portly gentlemen-
Adorned with watches, chains and gold
Stuffed into their waistcoats
Like sausages in their skin
Pink flesh bursts the sides obscenely
A middle-aged paunch protrudes and wobbles.
A mockery of youth lost
Each year another belt notch gained.
She paces ‘round the docks at night,
Her white face luminous
A compliment to the moon.
In her crimson shawl she has another name,
Jezebel, harlot, lady of the night
Kohl-rimmed eyes and bowed pale legs.
So much time spent on one’s back
Destroys one’s posture, sags one’s spine.
In her scarlet smile lies predation,
She inquires as to company and
Her soft pink tongue slides treacherously
Over her pointed yellow teeth .
She cannot hide her urge to feed
Her urge to swallow, her urge to gorge.
To be explored, to be navigated-
Treacherous is her landscape,
Hard little breasts filled with sour milk
A crust of yellow on the teat.
Under her saffron dress,
She is composed of angles.
No soft ovals, no full circles.
She is triangular, acute.
So pointed, so sharp.
As sensual as a rusted razor.
Unknown to her, inside lurks poison.
A bilious stench of decay and rot.
Slowly, insides slip into water,
And the crimson pours from every orifice.
She shrivels, this rose, this creature of the night.
A crimson widow, 'til her very last breath.