what colour air we breathe
through mounds of green
once brown as leather buckled-up as stone.
no skin. no bone. tone-deaf as treason
bright as honeycomb.
as dreary as a summer to a crab;
three fingers pulled
chestnut or portobello,
rain aside; water to the mark,
pours oil a colour purple
through the veins of Venus as she slips
head-strong as bygone years beyond;
as strong as mothers still-born calves,
red-mustard seeds that halves as roots,
no nearer life; twinned to shady night-street and a mole;
one bright look
ordinary and sad
the sculptured torso, black as hells own plum,
succumbs to language weighted down in stone;
no offspring proud as yet to borrow death.
your glass-eyes loud as sunburn on a breast
that feeds and pleasures mouths of feathers blessed,
circling as cyclone
blunt as mussel, hanging from a rock!
cock-sure are you,
hapless me, less beautiful than you.
but a lovers bite
all mine alone to share and share alone.
come dine with me once more,
male-whore as dark as you still reign supreme.
don\'t blaspheme me!
I have no god for good of honesty.
repent, portrait your shadow on my lung;
all is left
your birthmark on my wrist;