Don’t hold me back, or dare to slow; why should I walk when all I want is to be free of chains, and throw each part of me at walls to see if something sticks, and patterns show, depicting just how fast to go, or bleed in streaks – the colours speak to what I must already know; I cannot tell what love I seek, but I shan’t enter soft nor weak.

I am the bead amongst the reeds; consider this my only warning. Poised by night, and held till morning. Stay awhile. Come hide and seek, leak not a croak, make not a creak. As you attempt your nightly deeds, beware the bead amongst the reeds.

I am the fresh, the flush, the mesh and weave of leaves where you can rest inside, entwined, in pillars of dew, where the air comes to settle and the sun slides on through. Succumb to the rustle. Kick on back and concede, and pay no attention to the bead in the reeds…

Dress yourself in royal quills and strut upon the palace walls, but you won’t fool me with your trills, cos through it all we hear your squalls.

That’s not to say you don’t look grand, your colours mesmerise and stun, but just be careful where you stand, for in the rain the colours run.

Throw me down, we have the time, and taste for flushed and salty skin that simmers as we crawl and climb upon, beneath, between, within, and rolls the black and blue of eyes that match the bruises on her thighs, reminding me to treat her gentle, hold her down and drive her mental, clasp and press and wrap and writhe and nestle as the gasp subsides, till all that separates our skin are threads that dance on pulsing sin.

Who knows what form – who cares? Who dares to comprehend (or try pretend) the fair, the storm, the wild, the norm, the fear, the fire, the cold desire that shivers for the glare that tears and fells the jungle of your temper, bare and open to the weather, plain to see (and hide, in turn). The days, they freeze. The nights, they burn.