Plagiarism

Your eyes are lemons
reflecting the moon, dripping wax all over me
as they bulge in the lines of your
midnight-shaped face;
now half unreadable, half curved
with a cocked eyebrow,
and sweeping upwards from your lips
is a streak of freckled lace.

Your pelvis is grinning sideways at mine,
and my knee tells me it reads
00:00 sharp
(though it is 04:39, your loins
still cannot tell the time).
You briefly unclasp your eyelids again,
unfurling amber parchment inscribed with the scarlet
ink of your dreams, indecipherable to me.
The yellow rust on those crooked hinges,
the cracked crust of an excavated sleep site,
is bright and vital like rabid sunlight,
unrefined gold glowing like
two fistfuls of fire-flies.

The hungriness of summer chews
through the winter curtains, and stirs us
further from the last minutes of night.
Each iris squeezes out of the eyelash-bound chrysalides,
like a greenish, mottled moth with a body of coal.
They flicker toward the strands of morning -
consumed by them, the bodies are disolving
in the radiance, the sun is eating them whole.

Yellow is a funny colour, decaying but bright;
but really, your orbs can say anything at night,
when there is less light to read my thoughts by.
I gaze at their glaze, a Seer
searching globes for secrets - but the strength of
day breaks the illusion, and the memorised words
of your previous lovers are more realistic
than what I tell you, so I reuse
acceptable compliments; those tamed demons.
Anything said after the alarm sounds is
plauged with plagiarism,
but your eyes are still as sour as lemons.
The way I want to describe you,
to your face, while awake, is too
easily confused, so
I give you words already used.

20/08/09