What not to write

Your skin glows like the orange blossoms in Tesco’s at Xmas
Sweet as  poison oak in the purest  depths of summer.
My yearning heart rises to your Arp-like voice and leaps like a goat at the whisper of your  post modern name.
The evening ascends  as if heated on a great owl’s wings nightly.
I am calmed by your airy shawl that I carry into the twilight and hold next to my heart
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears on my duvet cover in the next week
As your thighs falls from my trousers, it reminds me of our coalition government.
They are all mixed up like you and there are more of them.
In the hushed  play time, I listen for the last humming of the singing bats
My heated arms leap into my coat all alone. as per usual
I wait in the crystal moonlight for your secret sheet of text messages
so that we may be as one,hand in hand,foot in shoe.
in search of the gloriously gay and spiritual soup of love.