Manicphiliactic

Dark Horse boasts hands
eager for night hunt, absent
of thought;
of conscience, klepto-twins crawl under
homeless sheets, spider-walking up
discarded legs.

Pretty ladies rub more than stone
members, desperate in search of these…

Yet,
Dark Horse carries its empty rubbers,
mood and flavor
Sardanapalian desires,
weaving away at rotted earth fruit, leaving
spider-silk string

bound
around stiff ankles, legs,
thighs

marrying left to right
until necrophiliac appetite returns.