I could tell what you were thinking
******* me with
Lust-filled eyes

Drowning me with naughty thoughts
and an animalistic desire
as you crept closer,
licking your lips seductively
like a lioness moving in
for the ****

                                                                                     I don't think you realized how bad I wanted you too.

The little whimpers and whines of want
you would secretly secrete in my vicinity
made my heart maniacal
because I knew I would not
have you that night.

Who says that fictions only and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines pass, except they do their duty
Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves?
Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines,
Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people: let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime:
I envy no man’s nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,
Who plainly say, My God, My King.

"Pardon me, Sir..." -Marie Antoinette [to her executioner's foot]*

One day the overprivileged
will be trampled underfoot
by the downtrodden.

One day the poor
will have nothing left to eat,
but the rich.

One day the homeless
will have nowhere left to sleep,
but your new marble countertops.

One day malaria
will have nowhere left to spread,
but your country club pool.

One day wars
will have nowhere to be fought,
but your well-manicured lawns,

And there will be
no one left to fight them,
but your well-manicured daughters.

One day the Bourgeoisie
will awaken to find
the Workers scaling their wrought-iron gates,

And there will be no
turning us away
like petty solicitors-

For we have a debt
to collect,
and we will accept
nothing less
than The Merchant of Venice’s
request:
a pound of well-fed flesh…

And we will rejoice,
as we warm our frost-bitten fingertips,
on the smoldering remains of your estates.

And we will rejoice,
as we dance beneath your majestic maples,
composing eulogies for the Good Ole Days of the Good Ole Boys…

it's quiet, but there's still a sound I can't hear
I've been listening for days
but it doesn't seem to come in clear

like the dust that dodges my hand in the air
I can't quite grasp it, but i know it's there

is this the sound of indifference--
will I ever know?
or is this dust from the days
I refuse to let go?

it's quiet, but I'm tuning up my ear
this silence unearths these dusty tears
I can't crack through it, or even let it be
I let the silence dismantle me

When I see humans of abnormal disproportions
I automatically want to classify them as ******
As guide myself onto the metro, repetition daily
I choose my seat accordingly
only to discover that the B.O stench of the sad
non-hygienic human before me has left their putrid for me to taste

I call this death of my Cilia

The underworld,
hidden from the heavens,
so deep down,
that no-one hears your screams.

Traps you from the light,
turns you into a living corpse.
Leaves you in depression,
giving you no reason for life!

The underworld,
a black pit of dispare,
taking all hopes, crushing all dreams,
leaving you with a darkened heart.

The underworld,the place where life ends,
the place I rule and where I wear the loyal reef.