It Was A One-Eyed Kind Of Morn

It was a one-eyed kind of morn
With evening’s festivities going awry
I scrawled out all I could remember
Once a gentleman, turned drunken guy

Slight images of a lovely form
Olfactory sparks upon my brain
Sketching the party’s guest list
But no new faces could remain

Racking my skull for a proper memory
Writing down every & each detail
Compiling a list to rediscover
I’m trying to think, but it’s to no avail

A faceless gown with affectionate gloves
Somehow my mind is able to recall
Cognitive fragments begin to linger
Clouded out by last night’s alcohol

Scenes slowly begin to return
I believe we’re out on the dance floor
An embrace of smoldering desire
Yet I couldn’t figure out any more

Scraps of notes spread before me
No identity to place upon the truth
Scant reason to be shy in my search
Basking in honesty of my lapsed youth

Cobwebs have been sparsely lifted
Won’t think of her in the past tense
Her ghostly touch encourages me yet
We shall meet again, I firmly sense

To hold her with determined spirit
Seems fantastical at this sad rate
Yet she’s left fingerprints upon me
Remaining until I succumb to my fate

The Gentle Fog Of Last Night’s Revelry

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The gentle fog of last night’s revelry
Walking the streets before the sun
Overcorrecting the crooked events
Getting myself right before the day’s begun

Dreamscapes fading in these early hours
Scars to tell tales of an alternate narrative
Truth impedes the recital of our union
Clinging to our bodies not always so imperative

Setting the scene amidst several libations
Resulting in sloppy notes from the underground
These aren’t mundane epitaphs from stone
Rather just trinkets for creation to remain unbound

Dreams Of Pretty Dancing Girls

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Dreams of pretty dancing girls
Tartan skirts & gold buckles on their shoes
Legs draped in such fine stockings
High kicks, but treasure out of view

The fantasy of a joyous party
Spirited music playing a bit loud
Fiddles & bagpipes; what a scene
You pulled me out of the dense crowd

Beauty of drinking black beer all day
My stature begins to slightly tilt
You quietly asked me for a light
But there’s no pockets in this kilt

Envisioning what the night might bring
Is it possible that you could be this real
Sharing a pint in a secluded corner
A second Guinness is considered a meal

So You Think You Want To Be Wild

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So you think you want to be wild
But you’ve never left the city gates
Living within such structure
Organizing a lush, manicured fate

Pushing forth the semblance of influence
Yet, outwardly needing to create a scene
Dreaming of an adventurous existence
& what breaking free could possibly mean

Erratic Rumblings First Thing In The Morning

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Erratic rumblings first thing in the morning
Thoughts all aglow from castiron candlesticks
Sunrise hasn’t interrupted my intercession
Another cup of coffee might ease my ticks

After watching too many hectic movie scenes
A set of expectations upon our furrowed brow
But I need to recede into my own soul
Let us return to existing in the here & now

You’re happiest when spooning a salted bourbon
& I’m certainly not one to overtly judge
But I’m at a crossroads in this life
From that woman; my heart defiantly won’t budge

These Broken & Delayed Dreams

These broken & delayed dreams
Electric toothbrushes that constantly hum
A pocketful of change
& girls with eyes so pretty it makes me dumb

I’m not one to make a great scene
Yet I’m your average middle-aged guy
Not counted among the mundane
I couldn’t be normal, even if I tried

So we’re all stuck in this spinning limbo
A world with mixed up priorities & hate
I’m confused by all this wasted time
One of these days the hourglass will cease to rotate

So, I’m probably going to be late for work
For my beautiful woman resides in this bed
I could be responsible & get there on time
But I’m always going to choose to love instead

Image by Claudio_Scott from Pixabay

A Study In Inexact Notions

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A study in inexact notions
Differences upon the prospective scene
Our unruly burdens confound us
Nothing to save us when life turns mean

Yet we can never let apathy rule the day
In these times, we must be all the more aware
Knowing truth can be unpopular
Yet compassion is the way to genuinely care

Having Tea Upon A Union Jack Rug

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Having tea upon a Union Jack rug
She sang, “Get Off Of My Cloud”
Man, this is a trippy scene
This might just be my kinda crowd