Lord Henry need not tell me.

Mortal Dorian, with his high swelling blush;
treeside, ex-hive honey  
cascading,
mountain-drawn skyblood;
 
today's cerulean sky like
unrippled freshwater;
 
Rowan leaping from rock,
spilling armfuls of rubies:
I am friends with these wonders...
 
potent as the evening's summer oaks,
Earl grey,  
Amy fucking Winehouse:
 
to be wind-tousled and drunk in  
and wanted,
 
to hold hearts and trace their veins
with my lucky fingernails;
 
unfair and delicious,
yes; I dare you,
try not to sip it! -
 
if you can't see my beauty
you must not be looking.