THE PERFUMER

Distilling pearly vials of red
Into a bucket, spitting daffs
Out of his mouth, he tastes
Meat and two veg in mashed petals

Then turns up the bunsen
To max, to hear fields sing;

His aim is an apococalypse of needs
In pippette, a captured feeling of
Procreation, reducing a world
Of thought, willpower, emotion
To patented smell.

RED PERFUME

The rose is a whirlpool
That opens layer by layer
To give out fragrance even

Though it's beauty will die
And the fate of loveliness
Is to be crucified