I do, I totally do love
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
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.