Seduced

I don't apologize that I'm not        
         
I've no desire to surrender          
my clean, unmarked skin          
or eyes the color of water          
during the rainy season          
         
I'm not interested in releasing          
Godiva hair from its porcelain clasp         
like a bolt of Tatsumura silk          
spreading flaxen over our hips          
         
It doesn't concern me, time          
falling through the hourglass          
of shape, granules of minutes          
shortening remaining days          
         
I'm not desperate to submit-           
guide an inseam of inches          
with tailored fingers hoping          
for a perfectly fitted match          
         
Or lounge any given moment          
the dull aching tenderness          
of an internally inflicted bruise          
healing naturally with rest          
         
Nor can I be tempted, 'cept          
by the Poem, its hardened          
form masterfully critiqued          
structured verbs, swollen nouns          
         
plugging weak leaks tightly with          
personifuckation, metaphors          
of double meaning, dangling          
against moist lips of thought         
         
an element just beyond physical          
grasp of my brain's plump hemispheres    
spread wide, willing to accommodate    
the most engorged Poetry ever revised      
       
Enlarged imagery, fluidly alive between      
my chambers, demoralizing syllabic      
stress and iambic pentameter      
for Free, (un)imaginable Verse      
       
So, no; I'm not sorry to disappoint      
your expectations with flippancy      
over your obvious transparency      
but you've confused my politeness-       
       
my smile with a woman who'll succumb      
to your desires with just one wink-      
subservient to the cat-o-nine tails      
cliché of your mundane vocabulary      
       
Here's a clue - solitude is my Lover      
contains more passion in one finger      
than your entire being could muster;       
so open a book; study poetry      
       
Master the art of Love;       
put on a clean shirt, tuck it in      
Revere women with respect      
then, though I'll never promise       
       
perhaps. . . I'll pay attention            
 ~