Merci, Rimbaud pour ces quelques consonnes

[In progress …]


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


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.


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.


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.


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.


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?


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