Kissing Gwyneth Paltrow

I kiss the neck of Gwyneth, off the screen
and know my lips have found the middle place
My mouth descends to taste the flesh between
her breasts, then move above to kiss her face
Three kisses, Gwyneth, starting with your neck
are worth more than a story on a stage
If Shakespeare tried to write it, I would wreck
the Globe and every word on every page
I do not hate the Bard, but I can see
not even Shakespeare’s words are worth the kiss
on Gwyneth’s skin, like petals feel to me
when I imagine roses look like this:
Like Gwyneth in a dress that’s like a vase
which holds a beauty nothing can replace.

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