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
