Strategy over poetry - I find myself elucidating the uselessnesses of rhyme when your pained or painfully bored murmur stirs me to clutch at my copy of Das Kapital and defend the relevance of the class struggle. Exploding with righteous indignation, my glance, like a misfired arrow rebounds from you shining, oblivious eyes. I spurn your consoling arms in my feverish conviction. The sacred vine (clump? urgh!) that produced joy’s grape was planted by the horny brown hands of toil. I slather rabidly and curse the entwined rose whose sickly come-hither fragrance cloys the torpid air and the festooned locks of Apollo’s languid muses, the vicissitudes of who’s whims and fancies, I squeeze to a doughnut-shaped ball of contempt
The rankled moon waxes and farts.
I remember those miscreants gorging themselves on pleasure, delving deep into the simmering pools of lust. I slam my trenchant hooves upon the fallen bouquet, crush and grind the salaciously beautiful petals into the honest sod. You look amused and curious, as if a pristine angel had just shat on her harp while exposing two pierced breasts. Yet..
I will not abscond no matter your obscurantism. What is salient is our difference which is tantamount to compatibility. My hair might be tantalising, my nature munificent, but I will still inspect that pink species of Rosa. & note the hard day's graft of the worm. You humour and cherish me. I know not why. For in love & affection, I am neither profligate nor ripe.
