I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

There's ether in
the cloud at the
bottom of the hill.
Birthdays come and
go,
and they seal the deal.
Feelings change with
the wind,
but time is real.
It's a thief,
and it likes to steal.

He was a boxer

Picked up the craft at six
and never put it
down

Unfortunately though
being a good boxer doesn’t
earn you a good job
in today’s society. Best he
could do was bouncer
at a local bar
His IQ wasn’t much help either

He beat up quite a number of
troublemakers
and earned a reputation

became a local celebrity

The women desired him
and got him
and life was good until the one
invincible opponent stepped
into the ring

Well, there are many invincible
opponents in a man’s life
but his was prostate cancer

All the women who wanted to
take pictures with him
and have his autograph on their
chests and wanted to take
him home meant nothing now

One of them was a rich
older lady who
gifted him a car after he served
her a few times in the bedroom

He used it to
drive at full speed into
a pole

And as it happens after someone
dies, the people had only
good words to say
about him

They thought he didn’t leave
much behind
but one of the girls he’d been
with knew better

She rubbed her swollen
belly as she
thought of him. It’ll be fine
as long as her husband wouldn’t
suspect anything

Your memory becomes
nebulous when
you think about your wrongdoings,
however, it becomes
crystal clear
when remembering mine.

This one goes out to
the rambling, gambling mad man
from Aspen- the late great
Hunter S. Thompson.
My drinking has landed me
in prison for a short stint.
To occupy my time,
I read and write,
it keeps my mind sharp
and the nursing homes at bay.
Also, a pen or a book in my
hand has the added benefit
of a signal to the other
inmates that I'm in my own
world, and I don't care to converse.

H.S.T's guerrilla approach to
writing, and his sharp gonzo wit
keep me laughing and thinking
on this carnival ride from hell.
And if I can laugh in prison,
I'm halfway home.
My mind will go where my
body can't.

Like Hunter, I'm a betting man too,
and I always bet the long shots.
So I'm putting a bundle on
me to pull out of this **** hole,
and do something with my life.
** ** **, God Bless you Doctor.
And as my old man used to say,
"They can **** us, but they
can't eat us."

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

She acted like her ****** was
made of gold.
And
that my heart was to be
bought and sold.
And
that I would bow to
that wet alter and
sell my soul.
She was
wrong though—it’s not  
for sale;
not for any price;
not even if her
****** were made of
gold.

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