A practical morning — 
Foxgloves and foxes,
Soviet grey. Lavender
Painted buildings a la
Bauhaus — They house
A single Human child.

How could you fail a 
Turing test? You did 
Laugh so bright and
Smile so wide, yet a
Human touch evades
Your nightly dreams.

Climb down the sky
The earth is sweet –
Inside the crystal —
Noir and devilish —
The liquid stains my
Lips and makes me
Think of the winter 
Storms that once
Burned like summer.

Claw marks trace
The curves in my
Neck and collar —
A cool drop of gold
Hovers on my chest
Before rolling down,
Burning a path and
Lighting the way.

I bit your hand as a
Plot device. I’ll burn
The book – we’ll write
A new story, won’t
Never glance Back —
The rules have always
Been clear for these
Playboys Of The
Western World.