There are times

There are times when
I’d like to take a poet to bed,
to have my thoughts undressed,
my synapses kissed with colloquial connections
and my thighs caressed with the soft, slender fingertips of verbiage.

There’d be honeyed metaphors all around me,
wild euphemisms strewn at my feet,
vernacular syllables in gorgeous flavours,
freshly plucked French similes
and climbing hyperboles
with their exquisite tendrils of phrase and fable.

If I bring you paper and pen,
shall we write the night together?