Merci, Rimbaud pour ces quelques consonnes

[In progress …]

B

O bulbous periwinkle,
sunk in sodden goldenrod sand.
Your valve sets me a-tingle.
Let me hold it in my hand.

C

Over the rim of your cavity I’d crawl,
plunge into the pond within your grotto.
Treading in water, I’d await your call
immersed in ambiguous indigo.

D

Your quivering carnation flesh resents
the burnt sienna sack in which it’s clothed.
Free yourself from those ashen pigments.
Your body is not chattel to be loathed.

F

To the pewter tines of you as cap
I prefer your curves in small case longhand,
gathered and cinched at the crux of your lap
— then unknotted at your command.

G

Let me confess with this salacious squib,
your lissome swerves lure me to jot
(the tip of my tongue a pliable nib)
notes on your lavender lollipop spot.

H

Pronounced or not, always upright
— what holds you together, H,
male left and female right,
is that horizontal brass hitch.

P / Q

Not to importune, Sir or Madam,
but, in the spectrum, what’s your hue?
Whatever we are is random.
But do you prefer P or Q?

Y

O woven woman, your sheer nylons
make me woozy, your phylogenetic
lips, your cadmium thatch, its ions
and pheromones, real and synthetic!