If you fall…may not

                           I do, I totally do love
                           Myself.
                           It is not an irreverent gala of Narcissus poeticus
                           On a field, ruffled perfumes rising
                           From poisonous bulbs,
                           And if squeezed out of gaping corollas,
                           Annihilating asleep beings.
                        *If you fall asleep on a lea of daffodils you may not awaken again*
                           Is a tumescent petard of biblical contumacy.
                           My love is not the cusp
                           Of the libidinous and the unscrupulous ones,
                           Nor the wedge between the sluggard and the coxcomb
                           Whose fanfaronade targets the kegs of
                           Generous thrills
                           Exuded from not for others.
                           My odyssey is self-contained, self-centred,
                           Preying only on my rosy pomade
                           Of committed, intrinsically directed affection.
                           I do not listen the murmurs of their cicadae,
                           There is no unctuous request in my stare and pat.
                           I am fitted sufficient.
                           My imperfections nurture my legitimate mirror,
                           The echelon of muttonheads is the cruse I break
                           At every breath laid upon their herds.
                           My love is palatable bonbons, never tasteless
                           Runny porridge of insecurities
                           Which maim decisions and erect procrastinations
                           Of lifetime aims.
                           Nor any self-inflicted soreness.
                           I only feed on crisp dollops of confidence, I don’t pry
                           Into their theatrical miens.
                           Nothing slapdash, nothing rued,
                           As I only confide my expectancies, my tense breaches,
                           In the logbook of my vanity.
                           My love only reflects itself in
                           The pellucid stream of my egos.
                           I am adequate for my excitements and inhibitors.
                           I do, I totally do adore
                           My unblemished all.

 

The photo’s source

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