“The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire
[or, at least, to get even more
sizzled by fiery cheekiness].”
~ T.S. Eliot [+ a muse gone wild]
Our love lies
under snow curtains
warmed by hope,
singing of spring boons
while frost bites on ears.
If your flesh loses all warmth, my girl, I’d want you still.
you joke about
falling hard for a frigid girl,
and think, Necrophilia
To escape your chilling heat, I’d barbecue your bosom.
the wee notes…
– partly inspired by Fireblossom’s hysterical post, “How Not to Write a Love Poem”, which sardonically says that when poetizing love, a poet should “Use ‘burning’ and all its variations, liberally: Burning lips, fiery fingertips, barbecued bosom…” I’ve been burning to use the phrase “barbecued bosom”, or something like it, ever since. Yes, I cackled (and cringed) after I wrote this.
– this piece contains a tanka, a cinquain, and two self-proclaimed free verses.
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.