I'd be okay with getting old
If I got to keep these gams
They'll wrinkle and sprout those purple-green veins
Like spiderwebs spun over kneecaps
Yes, since aging means ugly legs
I think I'll find a Peter
And a Neverland
And fight pirates in fabulous Lost Boy tights
That accentuate my ever-youthful gams

I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
   death(.)     (oh)
At The Juice Joint.

All wet.  (incorrrr
--ect.)

Applesauce. (non


sense.)

All dolled up. Showed off my
       Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).

Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.

...my fella.

?

Didn't have enough clams.

Any of us.

We

   're the new

Lost

      ...generation.

I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.

Might've been
     the
cat

's

meeeeeow.

And
how.

Ahhhhh...

we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
      Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.

Deeeeeewdropper.  ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt

...for me.

Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.

How ironic.

                You were the extinguisher.

Bring Your Own Knife

      , we said.

It's a Stabbing Party

     , we said.

I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
       ("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")

I percolate.
I percolate.

I percolate.

I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.


Just admire my

           chassis

if you will.

    they

all
    do

The engine'll purr
   for you,

~~if you turn the keys just so

Everything was
    Copacetic.

Copacetic...

For a time.

         (get'hotget'hot!)


Caesar's here.

                                       Hussssshhhhhhhh...

...speak


         ~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.

And then I realized.


  

                                I'm tired of being Caesar



(      .       )

Imagining the perfect girl
Is a fantasy of mine.
Every feature perfect
in proportion by design.
I’d have to start with
Elizabeth Taylor’s
captivating eyes.
Anne Hathaway has perfect skin
and is the perfect size.
Emmy Rossum’s flowing hair
Attracts some envious eyes
J-Lo is most bootyful.
Sweet Scarlett has nice thighs.
Mila Kunis gams are fab
And she is worldly wise.
To make her warm and welcoming
Add Julia Roberts’ smile

Of course this perfect girl of mine
Would want some change in me..
Six inches taller would be nice,
Then I’d be six foot three..
I’d then be perfect for my weight
The abs would come with time.-
I’m sure they’re somewhere buried
underneath this flab of mine.
I’d have to dye my hair for her,
to hide the tell tale gray.
Some dental work to fix my smile.
And keep bad breathe at bay……

It seems a lot of work to me.
I’d not enjoy the rack.
I’m better off right where I am
than having to deal with that!

I have a tendency to give up.
Not because I don't care, it's just because I don't care enough.
So when I sit some 10 rows back, curtains open, fade to black,
and I see your gams creep from stage left like that,
there's a symphony that runs through me when I see the spotlight.
Something like, with hypnotizing might, you take me elsewhere as I gaze at your sight.
The power you have over me, and you don't even knows it.
Makes me grin that I'm safe for now hiding this secret but truth is, I want to expose it.

Keep dancing. That's all I think when I think of you.
Two powerful words that describe the truth and how to get it through.
Life is as you take it. And your constant flash of whites reminds me to never forget:
'There are two sides to everything", but I haven't seen the greener grass yet.
And it's probably on your side of that picket fence.
Devil smirk, woman's worth, with a child innocence.
Of course, I mean, I trip over the right words to dish out,
Haven't been too fond of broads lately and you're one of which I can't miss out.
See, you're that I'mgoingtoregretnottryingharder type of dame,
oozing with beauty like you can't keep it contained.
But if that were radioactive waste, I'd still want a taste.
Let me bathe in that divine cesspool and show you how to drown,
I don't mean it literally, I just mean I'll hold you down.
Don't feed me sympathy, simply tell me don't come around,
And I'll pack my thoughts within poems that are internet-bound.

He loves to hear the rapturous whistle blowing clearing his mind of dark despairs,
to breathe in the scented whoosh of the slowing wheels
as he stands on the platform watching the arrival of another train.

Coast Starlight, Sunset Limited, Southwest Chief, each with a name.
He joins the other watchers standing there without shame
to greet the wave of an engineer or porter, sunshine or rain.

It's the pageantry.
It's the arrival and departure majesty.
It's the impromptu theater soothing a soul's troubling pain.

There are times he books a Pullman berth, its pillow he snuggles
to lose all the world's cares and struggles,
while rocking so blessedly to the clickety-clack refrain.

One such morning enthralled by seeing America's historic prairies
outside his window, he sets forth prancing through noisy unbalancing vestibules that make him even more merry!
till he reaches the car where like a king he'll reign.

Breakfast in the sun-splashed diner, pancakes and ham,
joking with the headwaiter, and being lavished with free side dishes by the cook, and smiling broadly like a suitor when a lady blushes
from a compliment he makes on her gams.
Though never too busy to sneak a look at the lunch menu where he decides he'll order later the hot meatloaf sandwich with gravy on a wheat bun of  7 "healthy" grains.

Late afternoon in the club car, a Coke by his side
he asks the guy opposite, "Enjoying the ride?"
"You bet! Beats the hassle with planes."

The stranger continues, "Going far?" he asks.
"No. Here and there. Keeping active since my wife passed."
"Ah, nobody wins the life game."

"Honey, the kids want a hamburger"-a stunning blonde stands over the guy who rises, shakes hands and says goodbye.
The train watcher feels a loss he can't explain.

But the lulling vistas of farmland and the soothing whistle blowing such pleasing keys
soon abolish all traces of unease.
He knows when arriving at his destination he'll be the first to ride back again down the all-healing railway lane.

Those Hypocritical Men

He shows off his biceps. She shows
her gams. Isn’t he handsome? She must be
a vamp! A little cleavage and she’s a ****. She’s asking
for trouble to parade her stuff. Tight, wrangler jeans

on him look ****. Isn’t it delicious how you can
see each curve of his bulging manhood? He
can talk. He knows the stock market. If she says
something it’s immoral. He says **** when gets

angry. She says the same. It’s only because
she has no other vocabulary. She’s lived with it
as a kid. It’s no different now than it was back then.
It’s very painful, those hypocritical men.

The representation of the leg
fall too short when compared
to attributes above the waist
or that region of ***** fame

gams extending to the foot
both the curves and the straight
attribution of delight
to the review of the eyes

the shapeliness that few deny
when honesty is applied
the delight of verity
only ****** by devil’s lies

these edifice of angel’s breadth
recognized by vision’s bliss
defying nature in good jest
with perfection of the leg.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190916.