Suburban succubus

The Bluebeards of today no longer lock
their beloved in a crumbling castle
behind a high iron gate with creeping ivy

no locked room, cupboard, shiny key 
to tempt, or bodies hidden 
except in dark recesses in his mind

instead an end-of-terrace, maybe a suburban semi
red brick patched up, stones not quite matching
also, the roof needs replacing

at night beloved stares at the drapes, hanging
like wet sheets on a foggy, windless autumn day
listening to the quiet, rhythmic snores

the succubus on beloved’s chest, the heaviness 
of well-meaning oh-I-know-your-mind’s
wild streams of consciousness hemmed in

they’re canals now, the little voice buried deep
pull it out of the dark crypt of beloved’s stomach cavity
where it was burning up in the acid

Meanwhile in suburbia…

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