In your eyes brews a fire.
A longing to be.
You are wanting to roar.
Are you there?
Are you lost in a warehouse of spies?
You are empty?
Or are you?
Who believes in you and your heartaches  and heartbreaks?
Who postures in gestures?
Who wants to hold and caress?
Misinterpretation of death,
Guess who?
(c)Livvi

Playing silence in the tombs, the catacombs in the yard of death.
The yard where children dare not play.
Do you think they're frightened.
Maybe not enlightened.
For they don't understand  that the peaceful sleep at the other side of the tracks.
The train flashed by,
Electrical storm
The rook perched on the stone angel,
Her role, death's scavenger,
She's not out to ****.
Just seen the carcass of the beige rabbit,
The one curled up, seemingly sleeping,
In the midst of the grass,unattended.
Sleeping it was not,
it died wild in the surburban cemetery.
And so the rook swooped.
(c) Livvi

You are a black  fluffy kitten.
You were my very familiar.
Magical moments spent together.
Hubble bubble,
got no beef,
I carry no trouble.
Never here to chuck you grief.
I know I will see you again,
When the sun burns out,
I'll see you once more,
Can hear when you shout,
when trouble piles up around your ears,
I'm really cool at wiping tears.
You know that anyway.
Once again, I'll see on the dark side of the moon.
Where I can feed you poetry from a silver teaspoon,
Shared,when at least we'll realise that ones' another cared.
Where we can share,
drink coffee from life's loving cup,
Well you can have whiskey in yours,
You think that's nicer than me,
Ha ha,
Lay down,
Relax,
Retract your pretence of showing your claws.
You are not a fluffy kitten and I am not a witch.
I'm Just a poet and a flying super *****.
Haven't got a besom,
As nobody wants one.
They're rather out of date.
Wholly over-rated.
But my bosoms aren't too bad,
I smile and wink,
That made you think,
I said you were my inspiration.
And you,
You are,
You're just another crazy poet,
At least you're still my mate.

(c) Livvi

It's all in the genes you know what they say.
If the genes are right you may be bright.
You may have eyes of ocean blue.
Very deep, or maybe serene.
Maybe your hair will be raven black,
Or maybe even streaked with ginger.
You maybe a right whinger,
all moany and groany.
You might have ears fitting for the cup of the world.
Your stature maybe six feet four,
A brick outhouse
Or  maybe a mouse,
With neat little teeth,
In a jawline that's fine,
Like a porcelain doll.
With perfect cheekbones,
A spot of rouge dotted on mischievous mums,
Whose jeans fit perfectly over their bums
(c) Livvi