The scent of *** perfuming the frame
As you smile for the camera, so profane.

I can feel your trembles
Legs shaking like Parkinsons
Barely able to compose a word
Letter fumble and bounce out of order
Dyslexic disorder from guts rearranged
And every thought’s the same

Feeling empty without a brain
When your heat feels cold without me near
Every opening on you claimed
Dripping an army of me like a leaky main,
White contrasting white, glueing to your frame

You coax me with a finger, want more
It never stops, you’re insatiable
And I love the way you move,
Head game incredible,
Bob like your catching apples in a barrel
Gawk gawk the sound in bass and treble
You want my hand around your throat, girl you are trouble
But I can’t help but give in to the urges
This XO in my body got me nervous,
I’m switching gears giving in to perversions

This paddle gets it’s work in
*** so red, painting white roses
Part those legs like Moses
I promise you, I’ll take you to paradise
Now succumb to me in osmosis
Oxytocin lucid, screaming to wake the muses
Amsued with every stroke that produces,
A huge rift, crescendo of screams we can make a new hit

Reverse it on me baby,
Show me how you do this,
Ride me like a bull
And teach me a new trick
Hit you with that good whip
Bruises across your plump ****
You’re begging for more
And this XO got me nervous
Giving in to perversions
I’m about to get this work in


Inhale the X running through your veins
The scent of *** perfuming the frame
As you smile for the camera, so profane.

take this road
to the moon

take his hand,
the moon child,

cause that’s how
its supposed to be

all this pain
all this sorrow
that’s our destiny

Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago,  a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....

life is a magazine of stories, of  poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades  of sepia...

i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...

but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...

wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to  God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i  pray for strength.    
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.

Sally

Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan