Gyred To Your Orb

do not say how I pierced
and abstracted your
liquid-cherry center.
                           I seduced you, stupid.

do not ebb to that place
where our gists converged for
additional syncs of lasting import.
                           Ever hear of the heat of the moment?

do not give more than its worth
to the supposed entelechy
of my affection.
                           I always look my prey right in the eye.

do not plethora me whys to tuck
you more inward or aggrandize
your space for my essence.
                          Don't waste your time on a snake!

I must have time to calibrate your
fragrance, to perch with my
countenance gyred to your orb.
                          Ahh, the stench of you, googoo eyes!

I must have time to rote
this aesthetic vulgate you breeze,
to translate this stir in my crux.
                          You talk too much, you're giving me gas!

do not finesse my quick acquiesce
for I would burgeon, bloom
prematurely and wither the vine
whence all this joy.
                          Yeah, sure, I'll call you...

--Jo VonBargen 2011