Lovely mornings, evenings, nights our hearts took flight
Laughing ceased as sighs increased.

Wafts of sensual sweet smells rose.
Bodies, curved in writhing poses glowed.

Cares lost in arousing touch, lingering fingers longed for
Secrets, shared in sacred sighs and wanton lies.

Arching union quivered and quaked.

I whispered then and will again
Stilettos are not made for walking,

Their soul purpose, freeing our rising desires,
Feeding rapturous tinglings of sensual ecstasy.

Crap-tastic manufacturers thicken molasses,
While the turkey workers burn by the boss shoppers.
Consumers pay your bills and spit out your will,
After they chew up the crews and disrespect the efforts turned black.
Good intentions don't exist and content is what they expect.
So take pride that your worth dies when your work is defined by the consumers ability to think they're always right.
And remember that reason takes a slumber when consumers choose the seasons of the year they want to see.

The forest is still, like a crouching beast, slowly seeping
in to our cells as a tranquil wild feeling,
behind the closed doors of our room mon amour
is busy in some secret ritual I suppose.
I am watching the dance of tangled trees
leaning over the veranda rails of the forest lodge,
door opened, she appeared, asked me in,
across her luscious *******, my name is written in brown,
I get the prompt, like all urban animals would,
lick the chocolate from  her perfect ******* down little by little,
and feel how each swell second by second
"Whatever you deem fit"she suggests, unambiguously
I saw desire dance wildly on her eyes, nature's prompt
I am a yogi, let me confess, my heart set
on the union on the highest level, that tempts
but the demands of here and now, can i reject?
all it says is this"Be a bhogi, seeker of sensual pleasure
as this moment is ripe for that, neglect it at your peril"
I am not  dogmatic though seeker of truth higher,
I have to get ripe more, now I understand,
I obey her, my sensual desire and the call of the moment
I won't fall as this is the truth at the level of flesh.

Houses sitting condemned, taking up the view
while the old guys sit sipping forties in forty degree
temperatures facing the wall so the wind doesn't burn
their faces too much in what could be called a modest December.

They turn their back to the guy hiding bags of rock
in his lips to avoid detection from the cameras posted
on both street corners. This place is set to a constant sneaking
violin pluck. We are all capers in a burgle commune.

I hung up a tarp today so the stray cats can hide from the wind.
In one stanza, January has set in and it is bitter to the bone.
We summoned the name of old man winter from repetition and
no one man may hold that burden. The ***** only warms their blood.

Lost shells, endless beach,
Waves wafting, breaking, quaking,
Made love by the sea.

Union Station
I remember the drunk man
Bellowing opera in the corner
And the train that flew under
Us on the windy bridge
How we circled the quiet halls
In the floors below
But now I’m here
And these moments have passed
The station has not lost its splendor
But simply isn’t full
There is beauty in the hollowness
Of cheekbones
And this place is just a skeleton

One fine day on a sandy beach
I saw something in the clouds
slightly out of reach
It was my dreams inside my mind
my life in full and intertwined
I've traveled near and far away
from Liverpool to Cayton Bay
I love to see the various sights
and when with friends we put the world to rights
through rain and hail and sun and snow
I can show you where to go
now I'm married and acheiving my dream
Me and hubby are an expert team
He helps me and I Help him
when put together we're proper and prim
our dream keeps going round and round
but at the moment is sound on sound

Its not your actions
that define you instead the
colour of your kerbs.