Flowers
I think about flowers, a lot.
They’re so alien to our world.
But really, we’re just living in their world.
Observers and thieves.
Filthy Flora
Mother nature, the madam of a pollen filled whore house.
The shapes you form, the nectar that oozes.
Thrust under our noses, tied with a ribbon, pornographic perfection.
Garden child
My garden has grown,
now a fat and happy child.
The Purpurea’s flowers,
are the glowing callow cheeks.
It has been raining.
Water logged Nasturtium leaves,
like cups of lime cordial.
