Don't Get me Wrong

Despite all these eons of together, you still want me to write you poems? Okay:

“the stars:scattershot across the purple night / like birdshit on velvet”

Don’t like it? Terribly sorry. This lack of sweet poetry, can you forgive?

But beyond your vertical crescent smile

there lurks O swastika – Mona Lisa skinners box

When you sleep your closed eyes look like tiny Chinese twats.

Though your eyes no longer burn with magic

and this hour with infinite possibilities won’t swell any more,

yet your quotidian eyes still warm the frosty air,

and I don’t mind my time with you.

And your arms don’t anchor my lusts as they did before,

and your form isn’t the amusement park it used to be

when I was the new ride,

but your embrace remains a comforter in the cold winter nights

and the scenery's quite nice still. 

-- Duane Vorhees