Your skin is like motion.
Your hair is like Birmingham.
Your eyes are like some things which I think are similar to eyes but which are not eyes.
I love you.
Your lips are like incest.
Your teeth are like teeth.
Your nose persists, febrile equations, cellular harmonies seen along the curvature of space as a cephalopod gasping, details unknown;
Your rapid deterioration into charming dust
Still punctures me with globular wet disturbance
I charm birds for you.
I combine mythic food groups
Comb the vitamins from bearded centaurs’ hooves
I sink some piquant liquid drawn from Heaven’s glassblown artifice and bellow:
God I love you
Hold me like a helicopter
Let me rage inside your tongue
Your dogs are wide
Your Christmases are peaking
Let me lamp
And crucify your mineshaft
Capering like basilisks
Does anyone believe in knees like we?
(From Brighton Vortex, (c) 2015).