Mark Heathcote

(22/03/66 / Manchester)


Emanations’ embrace us…
Internally, but not without-
A few sapiosexual hats hoodwinked.
Yes, these vibrations tantalize us…
On the cusp of a libidinous, dream.
Yes translucent lilies unknot within us.
They ache as their flower towers wax raceme.
As their petal openings tremble aflame.
Whilst wild, butterflies aflutter …
Enthralled within these awful desires disclaim.
Their feelings are just pure theatre!
As rank perfume—spells beholden us… all…
Like that first pressing of the vine
Laced with dewy liqueurs divinity divine!
…Sopped-up by the sweetest emanations’…
Tempered and tapered in horizontal assignations…
Ah! In graven lips—the tongues leafy itch is fulfilled.
The gravestones grassy knoll lisps less we kiss.
Oh how cannot our lips our skins tremble at—this,
The flowers celestial, astral, eternal, bubbling, bliss…
Oh such emanations terrify … us?
Beguile us? Too be honest.
Only in secret does it come to this… nothingness…
The nothingness…
We imagined that couldn’t be meaningless.

Submitted: Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 11, 2013
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