Intent on being intense, she’s a ferally attractive
Leopardess from nights of yore;
Tail a-swaying, captive geese a-laying,
Crystal bowls refractive of my lust for lore.
We have goldfish to fry, mullet to misidentify
As Liffey salmon, strings to strum and cords to sever
(Those things can wait for now … and possibly for ever.)
If she’s a magnet I’m an iron filing;
Nail bitings piling on my new collection,
That singular erection on the musty floor
Which has not felt a vacuum
(She put three syllables in that)
Since the second coming, or the one before.
We stay awake together, on and off,
The pallet cleft to splinters by our passion
A cage of slyly angled thorns.
Mine the instigation, hers the orchestration,
Instrumentation, after a fashion
By the tenant of the room below
Whom she compares to a vampire bat sated
On the blood of photogenic deer
(Though I smell only sex in here).
Her laugh could be simply the ghost of a scar
(A scar being the ghost of a wound
To entrance, second-hand, a doubting finger)
While I smile, refreshed for a while, at the bar;
And we linger, nibbling peanuts and metaphors.
She says that I follow her heart
But she follows the moon;
She says that I compartmentalize
Whenever I tidy the room.
Come apart, mental eyes:
She’s seen you try to let things pass
Too fast, too deep, too wide, too soon
For a snowball’s chance to rise or raise
Something other than a glass
In homage to the full cartoon.