I've been thinking about you
in most inappropriate ways.

Nothing personal, you understand
just idle thoughts
working overtime
in search of licentious relief.

Once defrocked, you are unlocked, but still
beyond reproach, the pièce de résistance
that mocks my passion for base baroque,
the queen of arts whose purist pawn
dismisses her heartless mistresses'
squeaky sibilance as the raving
of misappropriated tarts.

I was not wanted, being burnt
at the edges, and foiled
in my desire to whisper
sweet opiates in your shell;
can you hear the syrup swell
as it fills your occipital lobe?
Or do you taste the acrid black
of midnight oil exhausted?

I've been forced to revamp my objective
and assign you an ordinate role.

I no longer subject you to intimacy;
you are upstanding
and I'm on my back
a prospect not perfectly wasted on me.

02/12/2012

Posted on 02/12/2012
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