And more


Hair fox-red, mischief eyes, skin that’s so pale
rose petal bruises it to its own shade
purple and darker. Looking, I’m afraid
I try to write in chastity, but fail.

My virgin words moistened with panting sweat
Nights tease-tormented by a lecher’s gaze
However pure and Platonist my days.
My verses seek transcendence, but forget

They’re spoken with saliva wet on tongue
that garlic prickles, honey soothes. My eyes
see warm flesh and pure form. It’s no surprise
Orchids and lilies grow from soil and dung –

their scent hides all. True poets know we must
find classical restraint through yearning lust.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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