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Personal Note:
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Poem
You pop my heart     so heavily    to the rhythm of
                  “like a prayer”from Madonna.
You flare the stars at night
                    gleaming towards darkside.
You flame the solar sphere;     before you,
I became ichor.
You wade your way into heaven;
                         you're a goddess.

Night             with your scarlet lips, 
is untamed.
A fluid from your cup         is juicy
                          for it sends me
to cloud nine
        dreaming of us in a canvass of artwork
made by rosy poetry
                in a setting of dramatic show:
                                I, Suleiman
                                You, Ada
playing in Atlantics.

                          I come with a song,
                       make from it a dulcet medley
                       reciting how I found mathematics
at the doorstep to your heart;
my discovery of indices
sorting pleasures beneath your apartment
                              In a dark red light,
flaky as a clinker.

Woman, you must have       thought     the instruments
                                   to twang at night
into something that crawls to the paw of the gale
knifing my ears.               
                         call it an act of love
                         because at your feet
                         music ends and kick off.

                      My discovery of you is a quicklime
                      melding sacred love with holy kisses
                      over burnt and baked lies
without a draft of smoke
forming cloudburst of rue.

                 Allow me from your city stare
                 at roses crashing beneath your waist
affection that goest before your thighs
hallowed by thy bosom
into the gates of confession.

                Allow me to snog thee gently
                feeding on thy hipped blonde
                to your gratification
lounging my spearhead along your riverside
to stir, montarily, moaning
like the touch of flowers.

Tonight woman,
I bring you a song.
Like the sun, crawling to buzz the horizon
              I reveal to you the lips of a man
              wearing the colour of red for the
eyes.
Do not go up
swinging between the stars
for I without you is tradegies of baked pictures.


Excel Chinagorom Michael
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