Blandishments Poem by Fiona Hile

Growling and erudite in the crucible
of every situation is doing you channeling
circadian remnants of ‘must I reject
everything You are?' like ‘I used to
transcribe every syllable' of your liquid
bohemia, as if words were the lead singer
of the Drones viewed from every possible.
If it means something to you I can't say I
understand what you're filtering Torrents
of black sand underwiring my silken
jaw taste of Colombia and tripwire panties
with barely a low rider to rub between
the impasse you said, hopefully, but I don't
know, I always thought there'd be more
Bloodshed. Arguing with you is somehow
Delightful, like having your head held
beneath the tenacious skin of a four foot
wading pool when even the chemically
identical of the outer regions of the
chlorinated think you're beautiful and
now that Chrissy Amphlett's gone
what more is there to say?
I thought love was Science Fiction /
until I saw you today