Diseased

Too tired to come in fall, you cannot squeeze
an ounce of mellowness from fruitful loins,
they won't, unlike the ash, bend as winds tease
and fell the oaks we lovers carved; your groin's
poised o'er my mouth; a slick, grey autumn cyst:
that sex is mulchy: did the storm clouds brew
in your bedraggled maw? Or have you pissed
on me - so true love stinks again of you?
Romance: a cratered clearing: pockmark the vile
terrain where idylls crawl to hibernate,
I'm disinclined to go the extra mile:
let fest'ring fucking simply suppurate;
Leave the morbid memories you'd have seized:
Our fall's too harsh and our lust is diseased.