The Untouchable
Cupid loosed a poison-tipp’d arrow; loving me causes The Bloom.
Foggy streets cloak my shame; the mantel clock a metronome marking my regrets; paraffin fills the study with its lambent vapour.
Can love cure the incurable? Will my kiss make her as the guttering lamp flame that fails; will she flicker and die? Will it be a death sentence, or an act of valour?
She pulls me to her breast. ‘Love cures all.’
Valour, then.
Gilded Petals
Nowadays I must use more mechanical methods of wooing…
Zinnias aren’t ideal; the blowsy blooms wilt quickly, revealing the centre of the bouquet.
Tulips are better; much hardier — great as a silo for launching the loaded syringes hidden within. But tulips don’t smell.
So, for this special posey, I’ve chosen her mother’s perfume, her grandfather’s Red Shag, and the scent of her missing son.
Ah, here she comes now, with the loser my predecessor entranced.