February 2020



Bed Frame
by Michael Pane©


The umbrella
thrusts open and closed–

Lips made of gold,
you spill your soul,

into the palms.
Plummeting worthy

of a million cells.
The ringing of bells

in your ears– is
too much to handle.

You want it now,
and right– no early

You go all night–
building through

all the thunder,
and frightening ties.

The look in your eyes,
of relief–

as your machine
lets out steam.

Into the skies,
of a bed frame.

Apples



I want to

gift wrap you–

suck on your spine

like a spider.

Pull the stem of

your apple vagina.

Leave my scent

on your underwear...

Do you care?
Come and come again.