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First glances are strong and ripe,
First touch is like a midnight musk against my skin,
Right leg goes over and i'm sitting on my black beauty Virago,
She's a warrior, fierce as fire and brings light into my darkness.
Everyone tells me "you're" dangerous but can't they see i enjoy the thrill of the rush between my legs as the rumble dream continues further unto highway 10.
Fresh crisp air, blue sunny sky, these are moments i'll remember when i'm older, true and genuine.
I love my motorcycle and always will,
no one can ever change the rumble dreams i have for my ride.
A lady and her motorcycle. I want to travel the world with you
There's something about the rumbling sound beneath our feet in the summers heat and the smell of exhaust covering our leather jackets and jeans.
I want to take my beauty and ride her from day until dawn.
I want to take her on adventures that we never seen before to make our ride as magical as it should seem.
When your with me, i feel free, because you're my stallion, my black beauty Queen.
The virago roars and runs beneath my ***, as my hair dances in the wind to the sound of my bikes heart beat matching to mine when adrenaline's meet.
She's loud, dark and fun.
So exciting, all the places that me and you can see.
Let's ride into the sunset, where our heaven meets and it's just me, you and my black beauty.
Me, and my motorcycle Black Beauty.
Sharon Talbot Jan 2019
Perhaps his duality would always be
Irreconcilable,
For had he not been made this way
by genetic chance?
A hulking man with gardener's shirt
and biker's leather pants?
He might speed along a coastal highway,
Wind in his greasy hair,
Unchopped Harley shivering,
Eyes watering from the wind,
or was it because of sheer depth of soul?
As he peeled along, avoiding fatal curves,
Did his thoughts of roses blooming
keep him from launching himself
into the fog?
Were the droplets on his face,
full of salt from the sea,
the same as those he saw
in the morning dew on his flowers?
He was a not a Hunter Thompson,
who might return home to drink and write
reams of rage against the foul Effendi,
who beset him at night
after descending from their mansions.
Yet he too needed respite and beauty,
an Owl Farm in his mind,
Or a hotel on Sunset Boulevard,
Safe under the canopy, among the palms,
His security, not a typewriter
but a garden of perfect roses
that he would tend and breed,
Keeping beauty alive to feed
His hidden desire for peace and order.
Like an old man in the country,
The “rose rustler”he played
Lived in a little house,
His unassuming paradise,
with a cat, as secretive as him,
a lone goldfish in a bowl,
who looked out each day on
manicured paths and brick walls,
worthy of any English manor,
with acres of flowers,
dozens of colors...
but every single one a rose.
This whole thing sprang out of a title from a photo site, combined with an excellent book I read, "Freak Kingdom", by Timothy Denevi, about Hunter Thompson's "Ten years of fighting against American Fascism". If you read this, it would help to listen to Elvis Costello's "Brilliant Mistake" simultaneously!
Monotone May 2017
Wind therapy
is the
only way
I can
feel that
for once
I am
free
But it wouldn't hurt to send a Yakuza biker called Keyser Suzaki
as an agent of embracery, who'll hurt any justice nuts amongst
the jury, mow Magnacarta hardliners down doubly with his sports-
bike and his katana. For should goddess Pomeroy pointedly
forgot to blindfold prove totem like Diphoterine t'any o'
that 12, who should have been crying blind ( tho' their
intimidator was trained in Tokyo Road Rash Kendo,
not sprayin' Captor), then they'll send Deathreat Man
to deathrebtors' gaol in a blackmaria like Batman's campervan.
Wolftrax May 2016
Put your arms around me, never let go
Tonight we’re going down this winding road
I’ve got all I need right here, tonight
If you agree to come along and make this right

My life has been lonely for too **** long
My heart has been beaten and trying to hold on
You don’t know how close I’ve come to giving up
The pain hurt too much, I had more than enough

Then I saw you walk into my life, on that summer day
You turned my life around, I had better things to say
I knew there was something about you, yet to see
I was so glad you took that chance, to be with me

So as I pack the last of my things, and ask one more time
Will you come with me, ride with me, forever be mine?
The road gets lonely, and together we could do more
This could open so many options, who knows whats in store
Cara McKee Jan 2015
His look is wolflike; hunter in the dark.
“You come with me,” he said, “don't be a wife.”
He lifts his leathers, ready to depart:
“You come with me, and leave your boring life.
“Come ride with me, and see the edge of doom.”
The edge? I follow him where he would go.
And gentle him, and watch his glamour bloom.
I raise him up. A man whom all would know.
And I, remaining there, upon the edge,
Find I have, unbeknownst, become a wife.
And while he wins high praise upon the ledge,
I live my unremarkable own life.
And yet I have seen o'er the edge of doom,
and bear remembrance here within my womb.
Inspired by Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. My first attempt at iambic pentameter and sonnets. This won me a competition!
She was costly Bordeaux
  he was recycled biker leather,
her classic affluent beauty
  yearned for motorcycle thrills,
she lifted him up a grade
     he brought her down to street level,
  they fused at steamy rush hours
   under trafficked high ways,
    pursuant to reckless merging
                   reality's intersections accelerated            
   crashing expedited speed limits,
       would never again drive
  mid smoothly paved junctures
             at the standard rate of normal
Amit Shroff Dec 2014
Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence,
The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination.
I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises,
A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown.
Green sanctum reflecting the temple top,
Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals.
Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest,
Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves.
I see vessels carrying newest of the goods,
But here they still stick to their roots.
True its a gods own country, abundant beauty,
I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.

— The End —