Gyred To Your Orb
do not say how I pierced
and abstracted your
liquid-cherry center
do not ebb to that place
where our gists converged for
additional syncs of lasting import
do not give more than its worth
to the supposed entelechy
of my affection
do not plethora me whys to tuck
you more inward or aggrandize
your space for my essence
I must have time to calibrate your
fragrance, to perch with my
countenance gyred to your orb
I must have time to rote
this aesthetic vulgate you breeze,
to translate this stir in my crux
do not finesse my quick acquiesce
for I would burgeon, bloom
prematurely and wither the vine
whence all this joy
–Jo 2008
For those who find this poem pretentious
and unreadable, here’s a translation:
I seduced you, stupid.
Ever hear of the heat of the moment?
I always look my prey right in the eye.
Don’t waste your charm on a snake!
Ahhh…the stench of you, googoo eyes!
You talk too much, saphead, you’re
give me gas!
Yeah, sure…I’ll call you.
No, I don’t have a phone.
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