Primitive urges paint a Messianic rainbow,
blood-noted bliss -
seems to honey fairly drip
in robust pagan lust songs
straining my explorative flailing limbs
about this incandescent sun-drenched countryside.
The amber wine slovenly surges
betwixt my meticulous wrinkles.
Purified in turn
tender-kissed and apple-ripe
inflamed against the shimmer
of your passively stimulated heart,
until another precocious attack of ancient hunger
awakens my impatience
to stamp out the beat,
proud melodies spackling the tombstone of Isadora…
For only she can resuscitate
that fatal-light snap of scarf
caught taut and final
about the dizzying spokes -
unleashed by artistry gone wild.