My Mind's Portmanteau

My Mind's Portmanteau



It wasn't the dusk that shrouded my prose, 

With a splash of cologne to attract.

Perhaps a light extinguished

In my mind's portmanteau,

Or the swill-waters of my gin. 

A cloak of dark bowed a mournful cello

And fiddled with a crooked mellow,

As the tallow dripped on my sins.

Bumping thighs of lusting omens,

Upon a dais, enshrined, a basking cunt.

Then troweling my spoken shunt,

Pitching woo from my firkin sack,

Perhaps a light extinguished

In my mind's portmanteau.

With your green eyes obsidian,

On my good me got, 

With lips of a moisture's kiss 

And I in writer's snit.

Reaching out for a shadowing shoe drop,

Poetically fucked, behind my smock, 

In my mind's portmanteau.

It wasn't the dusk that shrouded my prose,

Running amuck in my head's maze,

As handmaids, do me fellatio.

0