The picking you up and bringing you home lines

The picking you up and bringing you home lines.

By Nathanael King

This is my interpretation of a poet trying to pick up a female at a bar.

This is what I imagine he might say.

I will devote the depths of my swimming fingers

to your holy canyon.

I will orbit your stoplight

like a thousand pulsating pedestrians.

I will punish your ivory Bell House

until your monthly blood decides your ropes need a break.

I will calculate the infinities of length times width

in your early morning solution.

I will theorize the probability of traveling faster

back and fourth in time

only stopping to rest on the moon of your ornament

two, maybe three times.

I will divide your cells with my atmospheric rod.

I will sojourn my perpendicular girth

into the swamp of your pocket

for as long as you keep treading water.

I will sway my pendulum

left, then right my Eve

and ask you to rename the ovulations in this kingdom.

I will co-operate the satisfactions in sequence

with a sliding barrel-organ

so long as your economy

reciprocates in rhythmical undulations.

I will tend your perennial

until it hoods in full blood.

I will pound your beach front property

with a frothing ebb and flow.

I will till your soil as an earthworm

in a garden vase.

I will quietly supplicate the fastidious organ

of your alter.

I will unearth every artifact

in the hallway of your museum.

I will delicately delve.

Foot note: works best when whispered.