It's dark outside now,  darling - tread carefully as you go.
That pallid crescent in the sky will soon be gone and so
make haste. Don't linger in the shadows.....

Jan 2019 © Emmie van Duren

At what stage does a poem become a short story? How many words can I squander or squash to fit a category?  
I think I know how to tell the difference between prose and doggerel but the rhythms change as pictures in my mind morph into another kind and thumb their nose at boundaries and realign themselves to squeeze just one more nuance in the theme - a poet's heavenly hell.

© 2017

Oh, wondrous ******* made of prawn
you make my sense reel
My knees grow weak, my tongue hangs out
your seafood touch to feel.

How longingly my taste buds crave
your prawny, crispy cling
See how they seek most anxiously
the taste that makes them sing.

Not quite of lobster, not quite crab
elusive is your flavour
The crunch that locks onto my tongue
then melts, is one to savor.

All locked in light deliciousness,
your taste just makes me *****
and tho' I can't describe it well
it's definitely prawny.

Let's play a game with good, hot oil
I'll pour some on your back
You must be male, I see you grow -
expanding with a  'crack'!

Come to me now - I crave your touch
You need to be in me
my longing is a raging fire
I love you utterly.

I knew something as kid
that now I have forgotten
Time tricks you into thinking
you are going forward
I was chasing being brilliant,
So they told me stupidity
was the prize of intelligence - I get that now
But I’m yet craving sagacity,
Then will I truly get it when I get the chance?
Because perhaps what I lost
is an ignorance that I’ll never recover
And I’ll never be as smart as when i was dumber