Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like an offering.
The unrequited love
Of years to come
Glistens in his eyes
For but a moment.

Sharp young minds
Clutching magnolias
Spinning webs of imagination
Like silk worms and spiders.
The webs, soon to be tainted
With lies and flies
And magnolias.

Bright pink magnolias
Epitome of womanhood
To brighten the rainy day
When he layed magnolias
On his mother's grave.
Only a child,
Weeping into his father's
Sullen form.
To young to understand
Death.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like a promise
To remember.

Scottie spot a thot
Scottie spot the thot
Taking multiple shots
Scotty hopped right off his stool
Up to the thot he walked
Hoping she didn't find him
A fool
He said hey thot
From across the bar I spot
Such a **** fine thot
Wouldn't you hop on my ****
Now the thot looked restless
What a decision?
This might be the first time the thot
Well..thought
Needless too say it wasn't long
Before the thot hopped on
Scottie's ****
Scottie thought
Man after this thot
I might need a penicillin shot
Oh no, Scottie watch!!!
Here comes the thot's
Big pop
Threatening to give Scottie,
A pop pop

Scottie prayed to god
He wouldn't see no cops
Especially since before he
Made a stop at the ******* spot

And especially not for some
Thot

We all know Scottie
For a thot he's never fought
So he hopped off his stool and
Ran out of the club
He ain't no nub!
Scottie didn't get popped for no
Silly thot
And so is the story
Of Scottie spot the thot
Who took multiple shots
Hopped on Scottie's ****
And called on her
Big pop
Who almost gave Scottie
A pop pop
Scottie went to the clinic
To get a shot
And thought twice
The next time he spot a thot
Taking multiple shots

His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.

Rough ,Wet, Make it hurt
Sore in the morning
No time to flirt
No love, no whispers
Not even a kiss
Like animals, Mechanical
Tasting this
Bruises, teeth marks,
hickeys, thirst
*******, licking, Harder, grinding
The spot, Almost
Screaming, finding
Spasm, tightening
******, blinding