Eat the Music
Music sprawled in a ditch, crotchets haemorrhaging from its cannibalised corpse.
‘I’ve slavishly eaten your rules, with progression and loyalty.’ Blues slunk off into the bayous with its horde of flesh.
Jazz’s grinning, carcharodon teeth rent Music’s abdomen. It sang a cascade of throaty disharmonies. ‘I destroyed your rules!’
Hip-hop arrived, a dead swan slung over its arm like a guitar. It strummed the tendons over Music’s violin pelvis. ‘Music will never die.’
Music wailed.
Trophy Wife
The smell of her sings to me; from her lips to my nose.
This scarlet siren intoxicates my soul with an organza curve of goddess hips and thighs, below a swell of bosom-bloom.
Her heady cherry bud of almost liquid love rivals her chalice form which promises to enfold my senses deeply.
I need her silken sips and pray, Don’t scream, when I cut her throat and fix her to my breast lapel.