Woman who I love
Your mind is a book of poems,
Your poetry is a romantic window
To my heart.

You whose perfume is rose;
Lavender skin
Of pure naked love.

Your lips I long
To make love to
With my kiss of eclipses,
Of sonnets,
Of Chopin-noctornal
Jazz.

Your curves of sun and moon
I want to caress
With my generous body
As passionate lover.

I feel you.

Your mellifluent tongue
Weaves poetic gaelic songs
In the timbre of ****** voice.

Whose eyes like a forest
Of campanillas
My heart and gaze
Looks deep into;
Waiting for your response.

Your smiles and you're cuteness
Makes me want more.
I smile back.

Woman who I love,
I'm in awe.

©Jack Aylward,
26/1/14

I Wrote her a love letter but she dropped it.
No money for the metro so we hopped it.
No money for the petro so I hocked a loogie
Then pawnshop hocked it:
Spitting that sick **** for profit.
We sat prostrate in front of our profit, then,
With her wet wig at the end of my mop-stick.
Check her prospects, then, blurry her optics.
We fly out in a flurry of topics.
I'm the nit-wit in her twit-pics:
The photo-bomber.
But she stopped its clock-ticks when she cropped it.
I should have told her,
I'm so fly she would die in my ****-pit.
And the Black Box is,
The love letter in her back pocket but she dropped it.