Poem Number 20739

The revolving five mailbox post
with new phonebooks and junk mail
that vital news remains unhaled
sludge of contacts who want me dosed
The northernmost winds have here bailed
Stuff to greet any male desire
Who shall I touch to share this wealth
this sludge me, solitude on fire
watching you while here I dwell'th
~
As suggested I spent some cash
Only the guns held their value
or helped restore my solitude.
Her tapping knock not at all brash
lost she sought my solicitude
proven traffic cones mark my drive
I sketched the way to highway eight
tried coffee, cocoa and all that jive
but cold fear and dark had made her late.
She blew in, eventually, tied to a stake of her own making
eager for the guttering flames of my mouth.
I knew then her life was mine for the taking
so I put torch to the pyre and headed due south.

It's not much of a start but I hope someone can help by adding ome lines.
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Whew! almost have a creepy metaphor going here
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There is really nothing to destroy here by adding a line that doesn't rhyme, especially an interesting one. Errors are permitted on my solicitation for collaboration. ~Cooker
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Again I must qualify what I have said, many poems that do not even try to rhyme are superior to mine, that is to say not errors. I try to slagger them around too much anyway. Still.. sometimes working together an a thing like this works out. An idea that was way too small is opened for business, or something.
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I am foud out! ~Cooker
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Sorry about that...I tried to salvage the rhyme as best I could. Can this continue?
~~Cor~~
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I cannot recall enjoying a poem more. You have really lit the end. Is it angsty or is it fun? She must have had a checklist for men and realized he fit all the boxes. Or maybe it's some overwork tahiti thingy. Wow what fun. ~Cooker