"Their souls entwined," the poem read,
and to the azure skies they sped.
A poem's no good unless it's spent
on passion, pain and lovers rent
from others' arms before its time,
all penned in verse, both free and rhyme.
I don't remember poems like this
in English class, all filled with bliss.
Our poems were writ on roads and mice
all forked and timorous (and filled with lice).
These sexy poems are more my ken
all wet and slippery, skin to skin.
Where brown is never brown, but bouillion
and blue is nothing if not cerulean.
And life is heightened by degree.
All senses more... sensitivity?
So you touch me and I'll touch you,
And 'ere you know it we're all through.
And smoking cigarettes and spent.
If only poems could pay the rent.
~ Elodie Pritchartt
