|
French Kiss
Supposedly,
French lovers have women frantic, fainting
with smooth moves
like romantic paintings in the Louvre.
It’s part of Parisian seasoning
seems the norm
not libidinous
4things 4bidden2us
2b dreams performed
with a park bench assist
as a crowd hovers
over 2proud lovers
who spark, drenched in bliss
start2 French Kiss
almost unclothed they rub-lick
hot
not the least ashamed
that their increased flame
is exposed in a public spot.
In fact, they relish,
are embellished by,
prepared
4the intervention of
center of attention stares.
But what seems
a host of dreams
will soon have grown apart
like Josephine & Bonaparte
passion will take a wrong turn
---their tongues will not long, burn
2savor, sample the ample flavor
of the other’s
but will instead dread,
slip pass, the tip & mass
of that organ of origin
that never analyzed what it tantalized.
It would just thrust so, go 4the lust gusto.
No1 could ever convince me
2 succumb, buy n2 the myth
of the French tongue’s tie-in 2bliss.
If they had or did, henceforth,
I’d insist
on taking a French course
b4 being kissed.
I’d also insist that my Lady
have her lengths made
n2 French braids’
hair adornment
& that her body~~every inch~~be groomed
with the rare informed scent
of French perfume.
& that we concentrate on & contemplate
marriage in Paris.
Truth be told, I prefer Your roots of gold
leaf, a soul @ peace.
We know that our patch of earth space
will match the other’s birthplace
--flesh&blood
--mesh&mud
that seeps n2 the royal soil of every village
an elixir mixture spillage
a revival toddy
that opens its archival body
&pours n2 Yours
its Nubian nutrients
intending nothing 2grow fanciful,
just a botanical Garden
that it has a part in
cultivating, ultra-mating
& fine tuning us in a new way
2create a blooming ‘bouquet’
with no hint of French in the scent.
I prefer Your natural minerals off the tropics seas
[again, the gold leaf of a soul @ peace]
& the narrative heritage of our MotherLand mettle.
2the casual ephemeral properties
of another man’s metal.
You wear a necklace of peach marble
(so precious it leaves me breathless)
~~that has my speech garbled.
the tender sight of it renders my might useless
such that I’m induced, pressed
n2 becoming Your romantic sycophantic
obsessing over
~~~~~caressing as if in clover~~~~
Your nightly skin that politely blends noble opal
with bronze @ dawn
signaling my total immersion n2 the person
that Ur
ultimately an Afro-pleasing Black, aphrodisiac
a prominent Queen with dominant genes.
There’s nothing recessive in Your blessed
bloodline it’s of divine
peerage unblemished, the nearest
2GOD’s image.
Actually, there’s this immense twist, notion,
2which I respond with clenched fist,
that a French kiss’s potion
has the impact2 attract &the gift 2arouse
all lips & mouths
n2 bondage
when factually, true homage
is due & owing
2the hue & flowing
of Your saliva drink,
the lava link
that makes me anxious2 sip-a-libation
from an ancient civilization’s
sweat, heat,
with nothing missing
from the kissing technique.
& instead of the pretense & charade
of French braids
I prefer 2 have Your naps wrapped
or Your dreads spread
over me like a sedative
so inspiring that I wear smiles
admiring Your hairstyles.
None other is competitive
no rivalry close
2reflection
of Your Ivory Coast*
perfection.
*Cˆote d’Ivore
|
Linear Mode
