a vine of fruit

drip, open your mouth to reveal the sick taste of guilt

                                                                      as it frequents 

                    and coats 

your tongue and teeth. branches? coil your false nectarine sweetness around the boughs of affection while the leaves burn behind you... in a fashion of thieves and snakes you've partaken! a tattletale to your sidekicks about your personal sexual pursuits with a pompous fuck. slander my 'slander' as you see fit and try to justify your feline prostitution and felonies.

trunks. they hold branches and leaves- and another. in cold blood you flick your forked tongue as your own cat, your successor to your crooked throne                   and 

                              kingdom, arrives- dressed as the butcher.