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Sun, 03/30/2014 - 18:37 -- Ben Ray

Letters, my love, I have longed for your dulcet tones
Like a lemming dreams of Dover Cliffs.
I tingle for your alphabetical arms
Around my waist, rising, tightening round my neck.
Your soft, sesquipedalian murmurings
Have transmogrified me into a placid pseudo –masochist
Injecting injunctions and sniffing sentences.
Your allure and aphorisms aid my attacks of alliteration addiction.
Ours is not the love of the tabloid journalist,
Hacking and bending you to fit his pleasure,
(Those pejorative, bigoted heatspots on The Sun)
No, nor that of the politician, twisting you cruelly,
Or the religious preacher, the primary school teacher,
The early language learner. the Mills & Boon churner
They let your fire expire on some bookish back-burner.
They do not feel your glorious, anthropomorphic abuse,
Your unstoppable, drowning murmurings, that I sense
Like ink in my skin as I sink, poisoned veins of verse.
And I smile as I go under,
Happy we are together again.

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