You say these words-
like there's ink on your mouth.
I can see the burnt yellow paint drip from your lips-
dead duck chicks-
feathers flurry round-
like a soul fallen down,
cobalt blue draining tears-
tragic spectrum fans it's array~
pearl coloured bulbs crack in the permasoil-
of glasson frost fingers-
christmas lights soften the hardened taut cheeks
of our lustful lovers~
And my red,
like petals off a lenten-
my lips over bitten out of nervousness
in anticipation of the unknown ink that you pour over me,
that paint a hill vibrant-
A soul more true than ever thought possible.
burning dead blossoms'
Violets, peonies, lavender-
pink fairy slippers
crisping them away-
as your colours submerge into my acrid haze.
Salivated potpourri fills-
like a brumey magestic smog
of warm breath
breathed from cold lips-