I do not hope to talk you into bed
nor want your love. Affection touch of hand.
Oddly the troubadours would understand
love poetry is written for the head
not for the cock or cunt. I twist in pain
but choose frustration as the price of verse.
Love’s been a bitch to me but bored is worse.
When out of love I soon fall in again.
Food for my heart blood poured upon the page
my best good hope that I shall never die.
That some young girl will read me, sit, and cry
then flirt her lover into jealous rage
dance with my words crisp bubbles on her tongue.
Tease me, torment me, spark me into song.