A room of peculiar imagery,
Sexually flushed to central perfection
With an image of all time.
I am a curator with mind ablaze,
But this image is so sublime,
Crowned spotlessly in the sky
An image that sparks a lifeless glee,
That clashes it gaze with the dark
To light my sight through its tale,
Her melons dangles in motionless inhuman form
It must have been a supple finger on damp blank palette,
Telling the misery behind her grin.
It's human for idle mind to throb over her incessant sensual call.
What an image so extra ordinary,
Like roses of sharp spine,
Royal in smell as jasmines.
An image more bright,
With less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gaze
A maelstrom in perfection.
Her mouth so bear,
With lewdity seeking my thoughts,
An imagery of pouring dainties smell yet most quaint.
A vermilion odor at her hair pour
Passaged through travelling wind.
What an image,
An image long over-due for admiration,
A century of adulation to her beauteous whole.
Her sultry eyes,
Her naked primrose lips,
Her cereal face of laughter,
Her lanky legs,
Her larger than life breasts,
Her curvaceous bosom,
Her petal royal smell as delphinium,
In the gallery, braced against the wall,
All to ashes now embraced.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem