Stuff of Dreams
I love you, my only Paris Rose
Your slender spine and feline arch
Could make clouds revolt the sky
And just to hold your abstract eye,
To lick that swanny neck and climb
The gartered rafters of your thighs.
I have perched atop mantelpiece
And been shot by sideward sneer
That you, too, felt pelt your naked body
Laid so open that fissures of light could have
Slit you with their damning gaze.
But you won fame and, at length, love
Whilst I lay at the sodden bottom of a paper bag
Brown with used-up boredom.
But even envy fits you well
A morning gown that flashes lust
Down the sinuous tendons that lure my finger
To trace your dimpled rivets tactile curves.
Your skin, always so coolly chill
From the coldest of all your battles
Still excites such steamy drive
That my full body seizures hard
Like a clockwork soldier on Moscow’s border.
La Tour Eiffel
So wondrous unravaged by barbarian tongue
With glory you cast your satin veil over
Little Lisa, with her prick-tease smile
Lisa, who allured many her glowing halls
But now reduced to fragmentary glimmer under the heavy black shadow of your seductive gaze
Which throws a despondent net
Whilst you aim your point to Saturn’s halo
With the names of Gods carved under your steel-frilled skirts
Forever etched with the tattoo of your past
Oh, La Tour Eiffel
Delight of the mouth
That fondles the tooth, then throat,
Then kisses breath onto the lips
La Tour Eiffel
My vile love of fetished times
How I would mount your soldered frame
And debase your arching netted thighs
That you might love me just the same.
But what hope shines for you or me or sex?
Objects all on a ravenous shelf
Each heart as blemished and rechecked
And helpless to mingle on a marriage platter.
But still, I steel my hollow breast
And coat that plate in polished dew
To hope that, united by such vacant shells,
You, perhaps, may love me too.