Being underage is like living in the prohibition era
There's always a party going on somewhere
Golden girls with bobbed hair and flowing clothing
Bad boys over-age importing alcohol in.

The roaring under-20s
The tales of the Jazz age
There's always a dance to have
A friend to stick with
A boy to catch your eye.

I never got invited to parties
That is, until I reached the roaring heights
Of high society
When for one night I was the focus of your attention
No other girl danced as much with you.

People were taking drags on long cigarettes
Noise everywhere, wild young hearts aflame
You caught my eye once more
And you looked at me the way all girls want to be looked at.

Our courage bubbled over, I gave you a kiss on the cheek
A Parisian end to the night
And I let you go off
Into the misty green light.

Impossible understanding
All burly reasons how
Sweat and gruff groaning
Very deep inside you now

Pile on mad manhood
Smother you in kisses
Plunging tongue further
Feeling it all listless

Groping, hardening
Comfort letting go
Shocking, hocking
Swallowing to and fro

Testosterone wins
Beats against a chest
Trusting all this thrusting
The room's a ******* mess

Confused blessings with bruised memories
Delights fixated upon, rushing hormonal rage
Not all tragedies are what they seem
My time soon to be distant as this page

Terrific is my precious time with you
Falls amongst feed most unpopular post
Friends who won’t even look unto
To them, I am mere gabardine ghost

Lines will be forgotten and forged
By a mass of “who knows who” status
Emotional detectors are blinking on
Pay no attention; just more apparatus

I went gentle into that good night;
A decision with which I am rather pleased,
For what would it profit me to rage?

When the absolute of the darkness slides in,
And grants me these last few moments
I see no incentive for them to waste.

Dissatisfied men may cry out in indignance,
And let anger and rebellion consume their last breaths,
And frivolously spend their last minutes in livid disdain.

Wild men who chase and pursue the stars in flight
Feel their chests swell with the hatred of submission,
But I? I know that the setting of the sun does not oppress.

Disappointing men reserve all defiance when it is most required;
When others’ blood pours freely and tears spill liberally
They will shackle all insurrection to themselves.

That is, until they are faced with this finality, this ultimatum
That they cannot change, no matter how they rage. Not I. I was content.
And with the last gifts,
I went gentle into that good night.

Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle
Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure
Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle
Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure
Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more

Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue
Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust
Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young
Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust
Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must

Qualities as these voluptuous encounters
Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy
Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter
Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy
Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy

This could be your final lap around the Sorry board.
The moment when the German man chokes you on the Acela Express.
Skin kisses skin
crossing cheeks, pecking noses.
Before your vision blackens,
you see the blurring of blues and greens:
Live action bruising for the eggshell queen.

And my creativity
has left with  her backpack
she has gone camping

I can blame her
I sat here like a bump on a log.

She says she will be gone for three days
So I'm left here just scribbling lines.

When she returns we will have a lot to do
Fitting in my words to her lines.

Three days is just long enough
To drive me  bat **** crazy
Bore of some of my splintered self.