"The Romantic"

This is a bit of a departure in style for me. I just wanted to do something humourous, and try to start using rhyme again. Tell me what you think!

I’m a bibliophile, versatile, rage and bile,
sweet love, I’d make you a
pedophile, so wait a while ‘cause
I could make it good, good, good

mmmyeah,
didn’t know I could feel this,
tongue kiss, hold your
tongue miss—like this, its hit or miss
but, but, but
I’ve always wanted this, this

Cradle your head like, oh,
burning hands never let go, oh,
you didn’t know, oh,
but I like men like, sweet nectar, like,
or Napoleon men, small, angry men,
or boys in glasses, chubby hands
and chubby asses, Neville Longbottom
boys, oi, boys.

and i do believe, do believe,
i have enough love for you all.

It’s not like I’m a whore or—
no, no—it’s something more
like, like, like

drinking in art, drowning your hair,
an angle of light, pearly light like
a necklace of sweat, a sweater of hands
a stitching of fingers, sweet swaying love,
or the poetry of a glance, soft lingering mornings,
the bells of your voice, love for the world,
the bowl of your neck, the peach of your breasts,
buds of fists unfurling into flowers, basking me,
the architecture of words that arch and sing
against the sky, glorious, glorious, cavernous
love that makes my heart swell and sound
swing round, round. round face, blue eyes, pale
lace dresses, curling tresses, hot messes,
yes, yes, yes, yeses, my baby.

and i do believe,
do do believe,
i have enough love for you all.

All you boys, and all you girls,
manly men with bayonets and gin,
deep voiced men with Mr. Darcy grins, or
hippy girls with sixties sensibilities,
psychedelic sex, herpes simplex,
psychotherapy with her ex, its complex.

i have so much love, so, so much love,
so much love for you all.

my sunny babe sprawled in bed,
sweet baby still has bedhead,
you’re a pothead, giving head,
somehow, someday you’ll be
dead. brown-skinned darling rest your head,
and i’ll give this absinthe soaked lullaby
to you, my poet muse. ill-used, abused,
pouting and bruised. babe, i’ve got this,
i’ve got you.

I’ve got crushes on teachers, public speakers,
girls in white sneakers, the boys on the bleachers,
we can, dream, dream, dream and count the clouds.
How can I choose? With eclectic tastes, it seems a waste.
I’ll be your waitress, you mistress, your dominatrix.
like mortar and bricks, we stick, we mix. These tricks
are not for kids. Ha, ha, ha.

I’m not a whore, I swear.