He Who Mutters, Poem by Alison Rosalie

“oh to love a flower
who bows down powerless,
to meet a maiden unscathed
by another honey’s trailing touch,
a modern mistress to walk
through the wing of my castle
and fasten herself to my tower
mouth curled in a cackle,
manic
for my lips,
panic snatching her when
skin is drenched by sweat
and her cottons are wet, cheeks dampened
with the craving of my callused fingertips.

or
oh to **** the virgin tart who finds the luck
of looking to my candy-covered gloating
and catching on my smile smothered in sugarcoating.
to watch her rock atop me in gently lapsing waves,
skittering softly from the landscape of sand
till the frothing tide foams in again,
where it rocks and waves in a fawning embrace
like an eagle so eager to learn to be my luscious,
to soar to the sun sixteen times over
and return to emerge herself
in despair’s darkest deepness,
the murky depths of despondency
only to go down, down, down
down there for me.
to smother her moans on me,
gag on our infinity
and catch the words
tangled in the raveling webs
trapping insects in her airway
rasping her words in a groggy fog
to choke on the vocabulary
as it swells and it grows
in rising patterns of rhyming complaints

because nobody wants to love a poet.”

but i've only whispered wishes of

oh to feel you, and only you
breaking my silence to scattered slivers
shards of screams and squeals and shivers,
where you will send my breath to a
frenzied gallop quivering in rising pulses
until it increasingly fades to a quiet,
stilling the air to a chilling silence
only to erupt in coughing grey clouds,
hacking blackened ash that bleeds
into the air like ink from a pen..

but nobody dreams
of loving a poet.