Your body is a shotgun,
firing amour rounds,
of spread shot range pellets,
of gunpowder romance.
Those lips,
canon explosions,
fired from the top of your body,
soft and sweet.
The passion filled embrace,
of which I trap myself,
is an octopus grip,
of inescapable affection.
Your want is a battlefield,
large and intense,
gunshot desire fires from pistol eyes,
and enters bloody into the body.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem