Lovi Lovi: Page One

Tensed muscle,

tightened high in pitch like spring

steel striping down to ivory,

spreads out a broad expanse inviting me

to swoop in with solid nurturing.

My fingers play a song of oxytocin

and I pluck you from the music waiver wire,

stringing beads of blessed pheromones

together with exotic jungle wine.

Love me, lovi lovi.

Your soul, more eloquently:

a grape held firm between forefinger and thumb,

gleaming with the sun’s translucence

through glistening green and glowing cool,

a sight of muted opulence,

savored in the second before teeth sink

into delicate flesh and explode a sweet

burst of bitter flavor out to eager taste buds.

Your soul, oh one with light and crisp running in rivers

through the stillness of a sleepy mountain basin,

is the anticipation of barrels corked and left to age,

growing slowly into what they've always been.

I am eyeing the shelf with a mystic’s vision,

sensing the ticking winding down,

wondering what notes we can expect from you.

I am idly running hot,

tracing bands of blackened iron and

split staves of oak with writer’s hands,

coercing your next alterations to the plot.

Fomenting fermentation, as it were-

I merely wish to test the flesh of fruit.

Glistening but deaf // Kingshead British Pub