The King of the Little Ones

the king of the little ones is bright and rich in
white feathers
dark dove felts and velvets
he is a king
his eyes are unnerving
they peer at me without

blinking, once.

his eyes are tinted like tree blood on fire
the pupils are not natural, I cannot focus:
either ebon or grey, I can't see
flowing, expanding like a breath
shrinking to pinpoints
light swallowed whole.

"you," I say, not thinking, but feeling
fear roping upwards from the base of my belly
moving by blood-pulses to
the throat, glowing rubicund and gory
in its resting place;
"you are nothing but a subroutine in my head,
something my mind threw up to let me cope with a lack.
of something. I don't know what."

his jewelled ochre gaze shifts, his shoulders slip, move like mercury
his smile, his scowl -- this snarl, uncurls from his throat
moves across his tongue and wraps around mine
a savage indirect kiss, and utterly silent.

"and you," he says to me, touching my hair
fingers long, alien, smooth, alabaster
unwonted but not
unwanted
embarrassed by myself, I turn to meet his touch.

"you, my dear
are a human idiot."

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