You

Make it as sentimentally mushy as you can.

He said. And he smiled.

That killer smile.

The one that always left me wondering

where did oxygen suddenly disappear?

I miss you..

Even if you're sitting right next to me.

I look at you..just a glance

And then..Im unable to take my eyes off you.

While emotions play contact sports inside my brain

Rugby, wrestling, boxing...

You sit there, smiling at me lazily

Blissfully unaware

Of all the injuries.

Sigh...

:-)

Read more...

She said..he heard

Im fine.

She said.

Tossed her head.

He stared.

Crinkled eyes.

Sad but wise.

She looked.

Lopsided grin.

Sadness within.

Held hands.

Fiery sunset.

Over...not just yet.

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The Writer

You kill me in all your stories...she said

Oh that petulance, that pout

It makes me want to bite..that mouth

Show no mercy.

I need not kill her in my stories

But I like to

She’s so stunningly beautiful

And so dumb.

I’m a man of few words.

Strange line for a writer to utter.

But I watch her

As she speaks...enough for both of us.

My books are exhibitioned

Like her breasts and her cunt

And her ass and her thighs

And those hips and that waist

And those legs and that neck..

I laugh out loud.

She stares at me with those vacant eyes.

I think i’ll fuck her now.

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The Artist

Is this a brush that I hold in my hand

Whilst you lie there...naked glory

All around me I see a blue haze

And glimpses of you...naked story

Billy Corgan growls ... i’ll pull your crooked teeth

I sit down on the stool...easels taunt

My paints lie wasted on the floor

Skewered, grimacing rainbows...but i flaunt

I see you walk away

Your breasts pert...can i squeeze, please?

Your thighs, milky creamy

Propping up that perfect ass...can i grab, please?

I peep for that one last look.

The door slams.

I grin.

Easel taunts.

Paints grimace.

I light a cigarette.

I wait.

The door knocks.

She walks in.

And I grin.

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The Poet

I write this verse

For better or worse

I imagine thoughts

That will create words.

But then I think

Of cocks and cunts

Of tongues and digits

And giants and runts.

Then the words disappear

And with them the verse

And I am left with a disgruntled member

Not better just worse.

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The Marquis Syndrome

Whiplash

Gashes, lesions, torn.

No.

Not the body.

If this was physical, it would not have hurt.

Whiplash

Gashes, lesions, torn.

Yes.

It is the soul.

If this was physical, it would not have hurt.

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Princessliness

Amidst purple velvets and satins

Enmeshed between multitudinous, billowing lace

Like foamy waves on a turbulent sea

You recline supine sublime entwined.

Your wealth makes its noise

Reverberates through the yawning hallways

And corridors.

Ka-ching.

Hard-eyed and hard-hearted

You scorn, spurn and splurge.

Watching with glee

The killing spree.

My day will come.

One day.

I say.

From behind the bars of my cage.

Read more...