Wet Sunday Mornings

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Wet Sunday mornings
Grass still damp from the rain
Fresh air still cool to the touch
Rising without a hint of pain

Voluptuary visions upon a treasured bond
Hoping we might become bosom buddies
Remotely fond of the Bon Vivant’s taste
When I proposed to you in the study

My parochial quips; unacceptable in polite society
Profane & unprintable odes to her formidable posterior
Writing what catches my mind’s eye
I can’t help it if my motives might be ulterior

Vice & folly are complimentary rectitudes
But please stop staring at the lady’s chest
There’s only so much to explain away
& no one cares the origin of your Preppy crest

Tell me what constitutes good head
With my mind clinging to her curves
These dreams; had their own Silicone Valley
Yet, when she speaks I’m a pile of nerves

Boxing Day is the day for cunninglingus
Cauliflower ear from her thighs
Witnessing nature’s perfect curvature
Nonperishable lust eschews the dandy’s lie

Vanity is fundamentally unstable
Draping you in silks & laces so gaudy
New souls full of an easy virtue
Just know, how badly I want your bawdy

I Can’t Speak To You With An Unbuttoned Blouse

I can’t speak to you with an unbuttoned blouse
I can’t stop dreaming about what might be
My eyes drift as I’m quiet as a mouse
I can’t help but objectify all that I see

I’m trying to be your gentleman caller
My purpose was to be on an even level
But you have me squirming a little taller
Falling for you again as you’re perfectly disheveled

Writing Sonnets For My Beloved

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Writing sonnets for my beloved
But I cannot speak in pentameters
The lines & sentiment lost on my tongue
Erasing the stray marks upon the parameters

Mother Nature is exhausted
Discovering it’s time to hibernate
Humble beauty of the landscape
Folding into herself unto the infinite

Hearing the last strains of Autumn
But the air is still hot
Clinging to a customary belief
While we hide behind a fig leaf
But we all know leaves fall and rot

I Don’t Speak Of The Dark Times

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I don’t speak of the dark times
For I don’t know how to describe
Numb from the constant rows
Beating my head against the tide

All the while, I’m trying to keep in step
Attempts to parry everything exterior
Concurrent remedies do nothing
Resulting in the residue of the inferior

Intentions to escape these trappings
Quietly absconding along the coast
Ambitions to enliven another day
& thus a creation of a ghost

The Carcasses Of Inspiration

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The carcasses of inspiration
Wine glasses with Burgundy residue
Speaking to late nights & early mornings
Scribbles in the margin on the follow through
Feeling parched as I wake
Noticing your lipstick stains
Upon the rim of the glass
Reminding me of the dreams that remain
Bleary eyed, drinking the coffee grounds
Searching for a fate within the dregs
Fumbling over these typewriter keys
Lightheaded when I see your naked legs
Your smile is a distraction
But you pop a button & then one more
I’m at your complete mercy
Once the nightgown hits the floor

Image by TastyCinnamonn from Pixabay

 

You Didn’t Sell Out, You Bought In

You didn’t sell out, you bought in
At least that’s what you regurgitate
But you, yourself, are a cog in the machine
Grinding out this state sponsored hate
You speak of crying in the streets
Heartbroken your flavor of evil didn’t win
But it’s a system of corruption throughout
With each career politician speaking the sin
Where did all our heroes & leaders go
Driven out as the bureaucracy multiplies
Buried the truth in all that paperwork
We’re doomed unless the people rise
Against these manufactured lies

Make Sure You Call Her Beautiful

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Make sure you call her beautiful
Don’t refer to her as merely ‘hot’
Don’t say tits or tatas
Be respectful of all that she’s got

Be charming when you speak of your lady
Be a gentleman; know how the game is played
Don’t divulge any of her secrets
When you shut your mouth; a better chance to get laid

Plastering The Interweb With Fragmented Thought

Plastering the interweb with fragmented thought Cultivating an insane kind of fame Convincing an illiterate society That you’re more than just a silly name Penning out frivolously piddly odes Basking in the lack of their attention span Trying so hard to be cool, plus Your slams make me not want to give a damn The barely legible equivalent of an Insta-model Don’t you know, writers write & speakers squeak A farce played out in bits & bytes Preying on the vapid, the stupid & the weak You’ve grown your hipster beard You fancy yourself as suave & dapper But I know your dirty little secret That you’re no PaRappa the Rapper

Picking Out Tunes From A Lost Childhood

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Picking out tunes from a lost childhood
Icons from an isolated life; memories fleeting
Can’t keep track of my overblown tragedies
My own imagination responsible for these beatings

My past is a weight, tugging at my fragile soul
Written missives, but she flew off to Ontario
Shunning my offerings for a comprehensive life
I speak of love, but she merely turns up the stereo

Speak Up, Stand Up; Announce To The World

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Speak up, stand up; announce to the world
Spread the news of truth’s availability
Don’t be shy; we’re all in this together
Easy now, no need to hate on my virility

I honestly distrust anything popular or sacred
Passing them by & allow them to hide
I have to figure it out 20 years later
Force-filtered through life & time & tide

Opposing magnetic poles claiming Orwell
Both deluding themselves he’s their saint
But he was human & all the related flaws
His divinity seems a little too quaint

We need people with a firm, decisive choice
No interest in your ineffectual, intellectual porn
There’s no time for pussyfooting around
We must find the truth & feed it to the bullhorn

Listening To Wollstonecraft On The Radio

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Listening to Wollstonecraft on the radio
“Don’t turn that dial!”, that’s what the DJ said
Not tied to any system; I’m still analog
I’m dangerous; so the advertisers pled

Hereditary responsibility to the common good
Therefore I don’t believe what I’ve been taught
I see y’all got opinions, from your suburban thrones
& these school systems regurgitating corporate rot

Criminal malpractice leaves us with poor examples
But we’ve seen far worse on both sides of the aisle
Bribing the lowest common denominator for votes
Rewrite history, but perhaps that’s not in your files

I’ve been cast off, labeled a subversive heretic
But I’m easy – so I’m doing my best to unlearn
To unwind these falsehoods they tried to entrench
The slow burn; time to take candor for a turn

Rash choices based upon juvenile aesthetics
The understanding that we all might partake
Though one must know speaking the truth too loud
Turns into testimony & they might burn us all at the stake

What Do I Do With My Words

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What do I do with my words
How do I contain when they start to leak
Like the Little Dutch Boy
Who’s listening when I start to speak
But I can’t worry about the audience
I’ve got to keep playing my own tune
The steady groover with the proper notes
When it comes to our hearts, no one is immune