What do I want? , you ask

Ha!
regurgitated
first syllable of
HAppiness
yours
and mine for being there.

My east coast rolling hills and verdant plains
have nothing on your western Purple Lakes,
skies azure dotted with cumulus nimbus
heavenly cunnilingus with angels and gods
sucking up their frivolous interests
on each other –
and I,
fishing for your delicate point,
set the lure,
your Master Baiter
feeding you the seeds of what sown by your inspiration
blossoms in the pit of your viscous vulva
hoed and hewn,
harvested in the chambers of my heart –
(not literally) – for wherein that muscle,
ruptured bottom,
lets fly that crimson tide
to fill your Purple Lake with all of me,
my cataract of non-sense syllables
align themselves for your inspection,
introspection as to my meaning -
why the YOU I see with blind eyes
(for you are invisible to me)
is so clearly obvious
that only those with eyes looking right at you
can’t see what I do –
my alter-ego loving you,
producing poetic progeny
in the private room of our imaginations.

What MORE do I want?

No more than the HAppiness of having pleased
you, nay, PLEASURED you to the nth degree.

More to come, dear Muse, till damned – lo! – dammed,
my rivers cease to flow.

Lorenzo Costigliolo

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/purple-lake/