Couleur Cardinal

Oh amore mio!

(And more and more I do love you),

In darkness unnerving I hang here and struggle,

But I carry on trying to

Cling on to the end of a strawberry lace,

Lost in sugary space,

How I long to tickle that

Stick of dynamite between your teeth…

 

Oh amore mio!

(And more and more and more I do love you),

But while I try with all my might,

To taste that dynamite,

It feels like donkey’s ears since I lit the fruity fuse

That trickles from the Couleur Cardinal

You so vexingly pass off as lips,

Oh!

If only time would shake a leg!

The Nag’s Head

In my moments of desolation,

Expectancy is the hand that cast

A thousand heartbeats,

The cigarette,

Which so often drips from her lips,

As wisteria does weep tears of purple

From country cottages,

Oh how she turned the nag’s head from

Granite to poultice,

Which once did whinny with grief,

But now sings songs of summer and rain.

 

And while obsequiousness proves fateful for

Those who follow the wrong heart,

I would be foolish to mar my breath with

Complaint,

When it breeds such joyousness and relief,

For one man’s prison is another man’s paradise,

Oh! How blessed I would be

To spend my final living days with thee,

Behind the castellated walls of your love.

The Lungwort

Against my will, my love,

You shall compare me to the lungwort who,

With nervous breath,

Welcomes the reluctant anthems of spring,

And sings a song of her own that she hopes will

Stand the test of time,

But upon opening eminence eyes,

Sorrow walks in like rain uninvited,

To send shivers down her sorry spine,

With aqueous hands,

Wrapped around her neck with all the sternness and intent of a

Marble lion,

Whose silent roar renders her ears

Hopeless, useless, pathetic,

Much like the veiled sky which mocks the English

Sun,

Blindfold and desperate,

And she’ll pray for the deathly grasp of the closing year,

So that she can be reborn,

And feel the warmth of your love once more.

Cat o’ nine tails

Come come Cat o’ nine tails,

Oh tease me

With your wicked whispers

Fired straight from a bolt gun into

My grateful ears,

Young whippersnapper

Whip me into shape,

My girl (that’s you!)

With nine lives to live,

And one life of mine to superintend…

 

Oh please,

Please, please please!

Just dig your claws into me and

Paint a red-hot tapestry,

To match the markings on your back,

(Eh don’t copy!)

But imitation is the best way to keep you near,

In times when you’re not here,

For I’ll try everything just to keep you close to

Me.

Ee bah gum

Ee bah gum,

You’re a reyt bobby dazzler,

Daft as a brush,

Go easy on me tiger,

Little rascal to tackle,

Fruitcake appetiser,

So beautifully and brutally honest!

 

My honouree tyke,

You sure do tek a good likeness,

Lucky stripe, that’s right

No soul on earth quite like you for niceness,

Your brightness is blinding,

In hiding, I’m finding,

That absence makes the heart grow fonder

(No relation to Henry)!

Reverie recurring

My love,

How my fading mind dreams of

You each night,

And the face that sunk a thousand

Stars,

The rock of promise

Where your eyelashes sit like the

Frayed hems of obsidian seas,

Appropriately sequinned,

Divinely delicate

They do dance in unison

As the feverish bows of Tchaikovsky’s

Violins,

These eyelashes,

Vacillating between bliss and sorrow…

Sorrow and bliss…

Shake the teardrops from your

Zircon duplet,

As they weep the warmest of tears

Beneath the blinking night…

 

And as one pair of eyes reluctantly close,

With the lasting image of the

Moon safely locked behind my eyelids,

Another will open,

To greet the morning sun once again,

And to love me, I hope,

Forevermore.

Indian summer

How cruel is Mother Nature,

So happy to stop

The beating heart of the winter clock,

When instead she decides to

Abrade the ebullient whispers of summer,

(Importunity is distressing),

With such abruptness and dispassion does she

Slash the lacquered cheeks of

Yellow Jasper,

Who eagerly hurries to reach her bed!

 

Oh!

And how cruel too is the English breeze,

So heavy-handed with everyone he meets,

So ruthless with his daily approach,

To wipe the tender smile from

The peony’s lips,

With only a trail of milky flesh left behind,

Blushing beneath wearisome skies,

Never to laugh

Again.

 

I’ll dream of an Indian summer instead.

The Knife

A sharp-tongued knife on buttered toast,

Her lips so flush sing jam-soaked notes,

No there’s nowt richer, nowt more grandiose,

Than the sharp-tongued knife that does sweeten my

Toast.

Reverie

On such lonesome nights as these,

When the joyous pendant of tourmaline yellow

No longer drips from the sky’s neck,

My mind does seek abstraction,

A momentary distraction,

As my heart wanders through a

Crowd of fireflies,

Those nightly buttercups

Which do turn their eager heads

In search of kisses

So cruelly postponed,

Yet so carefully recreated in my

Febrile brain,

As my thoughts,

Dancing behind closed eyelids,

Like the coiled tendrils of a

Citrullus plant,

Turn to your mouth,

And though miles may separate me from you,

And you from me,

My face does still glow gold as the

Sun on your

Lips.