Blazon

Here a couple good ones:

Dear Tiara
by Sean Thomas Dougherty
I dreamed I was a mannequin in the pawnshop window
     of your conjectures.
I dreamed I was a chant in the mouth of a monk, saffron-robed
     syllables in the religion of You.
I dreamed I was a lament to hear the deep sorrow places
     of your lungs.
I dreamed I was your bad instincts.
I dreamed I was a hummingbird sipping from the tulip of your ear.
I dreamed I was your ex-boyfriend stored in the basement
     with your old baggage.
I dreamed I was a jukebox where every song sang your name.
I dreamed I was in an elevator, rising in the air shaft
     of your misgivings.
I dreamed I was a library fine, I've checked you out
     too long so many times.
I dreamed you were a lake and I was a little fish leaping
     through the thin reeds of your throaty humming.
I must've dreamed I was a nail, because I woke beside you still
     hammered.
I dreamed I was a tooth to fill the absences of your old age.
I dreamed I was a Christmas cactus, blooming in the desert
     of my stupidity.
I dreamed I was a saint's hair-shirt, sewn with the thread
     of your saliva.
I dreamed I was an All Night Movie Theater, showing the
     flickering black reel of my nights before I met you.
I must've dreamed I was gravity, I've fallen for you so damn hard.

And, an anti-blazon:

Valentine
By Kiki Petrosini


Sorry, but I just don't love you
more than Darwinism.

More than: Farmers take their animals to feed
upon the alpine balds.

I don't love you more than this cheese slice
which tastes of Swiss feet.

I don't love you more than falling off the
button lift, or haul lines,

or deciding whether peanut M&M's are treats
or snacks.

I don't love you more than old darknesses
and sipping from thimbles.

I just don't love you.
I just don't love you more than pizza.

Or the final scenes of Clue.
Or colored chalk.
Or what Clive Owen's jaws are made out of.

I don't love you more than the social imagination.
Or more than NPR on Sunday.

Or my own face, glyphed
with tulip pollen.

I don't love you more than the word classic.
Or my afro.
Or this badass wrestling singlet.

No. But you're better off.
I'd only cause you grief, in time.

Abandon you for someone jazzy, more hirsute -
Probably.  I guess.

I mean, maybe if you stepped into the singlet right now.
Theoretically.  Just to see.

Wait - Wait -
(...)

Nope.