A coach trip by her side
is like a magic carpet ride.
She’s rice bathed in apricot nectar
for a troubled soul.
in my dreams we are entwined
upon a Fijian shoal.
She’s Sylvia Plath amongst ferals
with one adjective in their repertoire,
delivered like a hammer in an abattoir
with less tonal nuances
than a phalanx of wolves.
Choreographers of supernovas
cease what they rehearse,
to ponder her verse.
She’s not one to gloat,
but she could drown out
a banshee choir
without bungling a note.
Her sultry tones take you to a planet
where Ferris wheels
are driven by obedient cyclones,
a place where shamanic tigers
teleport between the high priests lair
and village hearths.
She’s a touch of tropical splendor
in an arid land.
I’d forgo a tour of crystal caves,
to hold her hand.
A night surrounded by her aura
outshines the brightest aurora.