I wish
I could smear violet
or indigo
across your lips
without someone
rigged as a poet
brandishing rags
that reek of pear drops
scrubbing my daubery
from your face
whilst screaming
certain shades of purple
are taboo.
Plump for synonyms
or succedanea
like mulberry, murrey
and other ersatz
woads of register
they howl
blind to the fact
that every livid tint
fingered on your face
is scraped
from melting stars
leaving soft
iron embolisms
occluding the lumen
of my dreams.
