Epicure’s Love Grotto

Her apex is in the snowy clouds
Gilding the lily, her callipygian
nates are a peachy plage
made cleft by Air on the G String

Tryst fingers and papyrus: Benjamins
flutter like cherubic ilium, set free
by
phalange;

these pink digits shift the brothel tectonics of the bewitching grue’s
equator like thong:

out of her balmy cleft comes Bach’s
g-string and into this tombal sapor
goes an olisbos.

A beautiful, sapphic uranist and a
Lolita slammerkin have an orgy:
it’s just the hedonist business of
pleasure as usual.

Night

Lips of Croatia,
satiny with rubies
lining the vulva.

Night’s flower is a
crocus shaped
wine chalice
dribbling stars of fire:

ethereal blooms
of violet tint Eros in
the sky.

Faerie-green
Borealis, bewitching
and fey, grows a
crystal garden
of emeralds that
are as plumb and
lambent as buttery
Sari silks.

To be kissed
by a feathery mouth
as beautiful sounding
as Croatia is
Tea and Sympathy
in and of
its self.