Burdened with glorious purpose,

Hear it from the TV,

Damn Hiddleston,

It’s another day,

Air blue from smoke,

Writing to play Scheherazade,

Past the point where coffee touches,

But my veins are echoing from you,

And the hunger gets channeled,

Writing like no one is reading,

To fuck you hard and insensible,

With words,

So when you sweep into

My world,

It turns

From black and white,

To technicolour,

Call me to bed,

If my words have been,

Embedded in the

Perfumed garden,

Of your skin,

Let me speak in instructions,


Marks on your skin,

The mingling appetites,

Pooling and I plunge into you,

Released to be a rough poet,

And you the page,

I write my intention upon.





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