Peter Granger
7:02 PM (2 hours ago)
to marshalgebbie45, Denis, Dave, Peter

By Piddles Granger

In our little town, permanent attire is dressing-gown,
outsiders find it impossible to believe
Most believe we is abnormal, nonetheless preferring informal
Dressen' gowns are our clothing motif

Its their unappreciated beauty, specially for us with big-*****
the deception is made at each weigh-in
concealing a multitude of sins, its a fashionista win-win
creates an illusion even when public tennis playin’.

Its the classic wrap-around garment, conceals unflattering enlargement
a truly remarkable master of disguise
not an opposite-*** attractant, au-contraire a comatose relaxant
its a virtual cold shower for most red-blooded guys

Made of quality chenille, has such a sensuous feel,
with hundreds of Pantonian skins
pastel ripple pink is my favourite, but high-vis is also made of it
its unmistakable as street-ferrying trash bins

Whilst the gown is entirely inflammable, near open fires dont be too casual
one percent natural fibre improves its aeration
If the belt-knot comes adrift, one’s inside package may shift
but on a hot day providing much-needed ventilation

When it comes to arthritis, swollen ankles and phlebitis
provides gown-length that perfectly suits
it will always be low-down, ever so close to the ground
without ever concealing those treasured ugg boots

Unfortunately, dressen' gowns and cosmetics do not equate to chick magnets
the two being completely incompatible
when venturing beyond one’s own premises, socially unacceptable skin blemishes
in some quarters have become ever so fashionable

PG

Each line edited for content
Every rhyme missing its mate
Beat time to reach the end
Only to find a blank slate

Fingers slide, sensuous,
Tracing sunlit skin,
Caressing warm memories,
Etching my heart within.

Lips share passions,
Of word and kiss,
Tongues bare souls,
Fears, hopes, and bliss.

Dreaming in your embrace,
Arms encircle, legs entwine,
Drifting in your eyes,
Love reflected, in yours, in mine.

Me: I spill my guts.
DM: Nothing happens.

Do it.
( Nah, just lie on the bed. )

Do it.
( Isn't it comfy here? )

You have no time.
( I have some reels to share. )

Five seconds to decide.
( "No", that's what I say. )

Do it.
( Five seconds over.)

I think I should leave it.

I try to breathe, and observe the moment.
Sounds beyond notes,
Hush between seconds,
To try and be still,
And withhold the judgment.

My pulse, a metronome
Keeping time with now.
But the past smokes through the cracks in my strength,
Dragging me back,
Into silence that howls.

My memory, a muscle
Flinching at threats gone by.
Painting shadows on the backs of my eyes,
Until daylight feels like a lie.

I try to sit still,
A collapsing star
Triggered into fusion,
The future a black hole.

Still, I breathe.
Still, I try.
Because, I am here.
I am still here.
Resisting the gravitational pull into darkness.
And that, too, is worth noticing.