Lady Liquor

LADY LIQUOR

Cry me a tear or two …
sugar sweet,
honey bunny;
catch spheres of sweat from your brow.
Compose me a cocktail of your distillations
a ravishingly lavish loving liqueur.

A prudent man - oppressed by time -
should, perhaps, encache the vintage
in crystal carafe, within a silver bucket
brimful of brittle splintered ice
as liquid warranty labelled memory:
a source, a spring-in-winter well
against the dry and dusty drought days
in the sere and withered years
which surely lie ahead.

This I cannot do.
I am a profligate man
of the here and now;
a tongue tip tasting traveller;
a reveller in the slick slides
of sweat-soaked sheets;
a licker of limpid lips and labia
and a bather in seasoned tears.

I save nothing and savour all.
So flow me my fill of fluid joy:
let it bead, bubble and bedew
in each delicious floral fold
and every moist and glistening curve

and I will drain your body toddy
as it truly should be drained
hot and strong
and now, my sweet love,
now.