not flowers with their imagined hearts
not tending to exploding boobs on a brutish hand
not fabricating in my favorite telenovela
all made-up like an ironic trophy wife
does nothing but make me
miss all the sex…
I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
before you claim your discovery
covering your stems, trampling your pieces
filling them with the sum of this sickle tree.
I want you in the morning
while you’re all dirty
so I can feel by some miracle
I can feel like I can touch you
before we’re both filled with this fruitless mirage
this purposeful pursuit for the world’s perfection
where everything seen is judged whole.
COCOYEA 
that’s insightfully deep.
Thanks and welcome.
LikeLike
Fantastic. A favourite of yours.
Thanks Jo!
LikeLike
Hmm, noone else opinion of this brilliant poem really matters I suspect. What did she think of it? Or perhaps that’s a rude question.
Indeed, there was blushing and a hiccup involved. Then jokingly, a question, “My stems?” 🙂
LikeLike
Really great. That last stanza is amazing.
Thanks Nathan.
LikeLike
i hear the song in this…!i like it a lot!
LikeLike
Thanks
LikeLike
I really thought the first stanza was quite dynamic and setup the rest of the poem.
LikeLike