Onward I Go Poem by Harry Irene

I'm rich in Vienna, riches are glances
I wish for the nectar, the deluge, to curl me.
Sickness which scampers like a wolf of the steppes
All scanty and singed by maddening lusts.
The windows are clad with red gardened fruit
Leads me down the garden path, look but don't taste.
So onward I scamper, I roam and I seep
Through keyholes of doors, barred and welded.
This sorrow of mine, is bannered and bridled
Bellows of sand shave them taut and tattered.
South I go, to my porcelain bride,
Who smells of soap, varnish and vanilla.
With love burning hot like a tempest of train oil
I soften your succour with Nero's fiddle.
The wolf lies skinned, all scabby and mangled
Waves roll in hot, bloodied and thick.
Like brine and oil spills, curdled and crested
With scabs and mould, pink and saline.
I meet your glazed eyes, and savagely subside
And submit, and it's down to the trenches
Again and again.
The wolf feeds of your flesh, it breathes your sweats
A hot stench of tapered soap and vanilla.
It scours your form with its language,
A dove on your shoulder, it rustles, it settles
Stays soft on its perch, all reddened and worn.
Love on your wrist, marked with shutters and shackles
And how once you believed it; taste but don't swallow.
Once I sold secrets to acolytes of love,
Train oils trickle softly, it takes its time.
Soft citrus cheeks and cinnamon skin,
Like Paris, I choose pleasure,
Above ruin, above all.
I'm rich in some, I am a pauper to many,
but I've a compass endlessly spinning, and by night the stars
A moon ever unearthly bright, lending life from the sun.