blood red roses

Though the word is not the feeling

Does it mean that I don’t yearn

To hold you like a volcanic cascade

Of sticky petal buds

From the ever flowering treasure chest

Of Emily Bronte’s cold breast

Does it mean that I don’t scream out in

Silent dreams that ravage me

With your unfelt touch?

That I don’t ache so much

That I can’t sit still like a leaf in the sun

That I can but writhe in kaleidoscopic tumbles

Catastrophically swallowing

The enchanted sword of wonder and want

As I wade like a crane in your wake?

Does it mean that I don’t want

To inhale the perfume of pleasure

In the sharp hot prick

Of your blood red rose bush?

In the midnight skinny dip of perpetual bliss?

In the corn blue moonfield of four leaf clovers?

And extinct remembrances?

Words half express how so e'er I feel

Old Words, new words, on words 

Are the languid provocateurs

That have been given to lead me

To importune permission

To wield indiscriminate raids

On the unguarded territory

Of your passion and carriage

Like a reaper in your hayfield

Like a buzzcock in your anguish.