Orange Peel Sonnet

Carve a crater cradle in my moonbeam skin,
let me write you an orange peel sonnet.
You'll notice after the first taste,
it's not quite ripe.

The pale green tinge
kissing your palm
is screaming confessions.
But your eyes are not
tuned to the pitch
of any other protest
but your own.
They will go unreconciled.

Be still my sweet,
let me braid my pulse
into your Desdemona curls.
That chestnut sea could never be tamed
by calloused fingers
bearing ribbons and lace.
I was a fool to think
that my love
might have ever tamed it either.

Only thing you seem to find
consistantly beguiling
about me is my prose.
So I wrote you out
word for word
until every letter of the
alphabet had first blushed
then grimmaced
after too much use to
praise your name
above any other.

You're as intemperate
as your planetary ruler.
Venus vain.
You are
too flickle to belong
to just one admirer
only.

Can't thrive without
the adulation of multiple heartbeats
vying for your name
Primma Donna
Throw your roses to those you fancy most today
then wave them scarlet in the others' faces
till they turns chartroise with displeasure.

Goad the bull
until it stampedes
snorting and pawing.
You always did like it best broken
must be a touch of the theater in your blood.

I am no Ferdinand
No gentle crown of daises for your
head
I have only
varas and banderillas
for you now.
Finish what you've started
my head hangs low
my horns filed down to dull points,
go ahead
run me through with flare
and poorly timed melodrama.

Don't quicksilver tongue
the wound
it's not meant for spit shine
and polish
only meant for rot.

You won't find more sweet for you in
the iron gracing my viens tonight
Dear muse,
you casked your wine too tight
now raisined
it is only sharp
like vinegar
and sour
like my disposition.