UNDERGROUND

Refrangible rebellion

coloured in spurious

atavism bleeds down the clock face,

apostate.

                  Aposiopesis

inscribes a frozen conflict

the redoubt secured

                                      unwittingly

by proselytes and poetasters.

ACROSTIC: LOSS

Love’s

Old

Sweet

Song.

"WE NEVER TALK ANYMORE ..."

Again,

she demands

damp hair stuck

in tangles to her

            back and breasts;

mingled sex and sweat

scent

the bedroom steam.

Deep

            warm

laughter

slips into

sighs

enfolding

dancing tongues and

            fingertips.

Raw and aching

flesh rises to the spirit.

Oh, alright –

anything for you.