Ophelia
To be Rimbaud,
Nor you,
To be Verlaine.
I find their craft too malignant,
Perhaps too mundane.
I’d rather have you my Fanny,
And I your over-bearing Keats,
Glorifying pale magenta,
That graces harsh lips.
Tapping on the barrier,
Of a steep, brumal dulldrum,
That keeps me from your
Avidity brimming apyhxiation.
Albeit you may deem me
Plenty irksome, and puerile,
A Lothario in amorous masquerade...
My squalid body cannot excuse,
I’m basking in bliss, because of you.
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This page was last modified on 4 August 2011 at 14:57
