That tiny
red brick townhouse
somewhere
away from London.
Bathed
in fogged sunlight.
Watery air.
rays
in penumbras.
At the window
she is
a conflagration
of
soft yellow lasers.
The ivy creeps up the windows
from a
bottomless
rug
seeping
out of the basement grates
in
green
scrambling
capillaries,
they want to be burned
in the sun.
What joy
a snake
like me
feels
in a daydream
set in
his innocent London,
to be supplanted
by fear
lazing
with her legs up
***
open,
***** smiling
vertically
and
her
red-pink ****
an apple
on scratchy bedsheets.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
That tiny
red brick townhouse
somewhere
away from London.
Bathed
in fogged sunlight.
Watery air.
rays
in penumbras.
At the window
she is
a conflagration
of
soft yellow lasers.
The ivy creeps up the windows
from a
bottomless
rug
seeping
out of the basement grates
in
green
scrambling
capillaries,
they want to be burned
in the sun.
What joy
a snake
like me
feels
in a daydream
set in
his innocent London,
to be supplanted
by fear
lazing
with her legs up
***
open,
***** smiling
vertically
and
her
red-pink ****
an apple
on scratchy bedsheets.
Request permission to use this poem