You Call This Love I've Had Better Hates

The puckered burlesque of a hunter's glove,
Totting up butter to the knife for maintenance,
To moisten absent the glow of the maritime sift,
Somnolent to the bedrooms lathe we traverse in coitus,
Implausible coils,
Naturally assuming positions in humid lamp light,
That presents the female with belly in the bloat,

Potential the reference,
Never concrete the use in a justify,
If you scrawl back the crust expect juice to flow,
Amid your teeth the carriers of syphilis shine,

We linger for months 'neath the auburn oak floorboards
For the hints,
Of weather or not,
The firmament date breaks
Or cloud dispersion,

Partitioning your legs in fever,
Like the gut of a bloated swine,
But your chops has breathing machinery in it,
Not a cherry red apple,
And you are not basted in apple sauce,
But the sweat of your pores,
And the blood spat from your wound,
Replays an ignorance in myself,
That childbirth could not be as natural,
As the setting of the sun,
Raindrops brimming over in a sleeping tramps cup,
The nature of a foreign dictator,
The flea in the dog scalp,
The mother in law from the anguish state,

But truly these gifts are carried in sacks,
Or ovaries,
From the birthday date,
Till the menopausal drought,
And wasted in cotton bullets,
With the fuses lit,

Goodbye to career ladies,
Goodbye to male charm,
For having more than one baby,
Will raise no alarms.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole

Also published in Poetry Now Anthology ' To Paint A Picture ' (Forward Press Publishing)