"proms" poems
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
my mother was born a gardener
and my father became one
through patient snap peas and
angry red tomatoes
he seeded and watered and waited
while my mother grew hibiscus in the mountains
and plums in the shade
i was born a painter
but its tank me years to pick up a paintbrush
and my brother was born a poet
but i sincerely doubt that he’ll ever show it
i mix my paints on my palette of flowers
and my brother goes to meetings at banks
My other attended the only Agricultural High School available to her within a 40 mile radius of her South Philadelphia home. This was not a coincidence.
My father attended the best athletic conference in his affluent suburban community. This was.
She started out watering plants in fast food joints, arranging flowers for junior proms in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. When my father met her, she only ate lettuce and seeds because that was all she could manage to put in her body.
My father kneeled to the ground, saw the soil beneath her fingernails, and fell in love.
I can only love men who garden. I can only be a daughter of the earth because of them.
I don’t like terrariums because they frustrate me. Life trapped behind glass, that I cannot touch, or feel, or smell. I cannot water, I cannot fathom to even slightly disturb their existence, no matter how desperately I want to.
I’m getting my hands ***** touching old soil. I wipe it on my skirt before I touch the sweat on the back of my neck. I’m planting forget-me-nots and basil. I don’t even know if those go together. But I am putting them deep in the ground and it occurs to me that in a few weeks, I might not even remember them. They might die and become some stupid memory, a part of my dinner party story vernacular, Or maybe waiting for them will change me, will allow me to commit as a meditation on earthen peace.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
my ghost will haunt the space of that old cafe;
nestled into the air above the second booth to the left
or tucked into the corner above the fish tank,
delicately breathing memories of proms and first dates
to renovators and brightly fluttering couples.
molecules agitated, eternally lingering in pursuit
of love lost to time and particular circumstances
dancing in stasis and unable to drift away from that cafe
and pink sheets in the sunshine, of longhorns
and the feel of a waist
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
The many stage of a smile.
From birth our smiles became picture perfect
home movie ,the videos,
most memorable the hallmarks moments
posters and post card entries.
Page and pages for each moment of the day
little Jadie could not get away
Then her toddler’s years came and vanish into puberty
The high school proms and the marching bands
Throughout her college years,
fears, tears and uncertainity about her careers
The do and don’t
The older we get our smiles became frozen
Into shapes of wrinkles and frowns
The fewer things seem worth waiting for
What’s in a smile?
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Go ****** your opinions and your political minions up another ass’s ******* or maybe take that noise, and show some glamour and some poise like the bigs wigs on capital hill, filled with the ideals of the real, reality sets in with a pen on paper and a veto or a stapler to add another pile to another pile stacked high with paper and anger and a wager on top of all that to rate his and her, him and them, freedom or not, this is when the world goes black, back to a rack of what was and what wasn’t and isn’t and hasn’t been or whatever may come, from, whatever’s the machine in charge of the largest country on a scale of humility to ego, eating eggos daily, watching bombs drop and proms go on like any other day, a dance filled way too high with alter personalities and ratchet fatalities. This is another normality in this bleak reality of life. Full of wisdom, full of strife, take your knife and force it down someone’s throat, coat it with words, thoughts, sought after beliefs and chiefs of the mind. Find what’s real, what’s good, something borrowed something bought, this freedom we fought for, blood sweat and tears for, die for, cry for, ride it till its outlasted every past and bold and rash incision upon decisions. Fission fusion and confusion driven, is a country with stripes stars and bars, filled with past and present Heros, veterans, bet again they’re there for the third night in a row, about to row away down te river of blood and dirt and dignity, until the tugging of righteous voices slices the void of sorrow, but that’s tomorrow, today is just a work in progress.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
Have you ever stopped to wonder
Where pocket lint comes from
Is it mass produced, does it just run loose
Or is it grown on a pocket lint farm
And are there tiny little farmers
With tiny little hoes
Who's time is spent planting pocket seed lint
In tiny little rows
Is that why so many pockets
Are lined in cloth of white
For the best in growing conditions
Letting in the perfect amount of light
But then you have to wonder
What the farmers do for rain
And if your always wet in the front of your pants
What would people have to say
And why go through all the trouble
Since apparently it has no use
Unless we hire tiny little tailors
In the making of pocket lint Leisure Suits
And if we do I'd like mine in baby blue
To wear at all the Bar Mitzvahs, Proms, and Wakes
I'm sure that once it catches on
It'll be the latest craze
There really must be some sort of purpose
In pocket lints grand design
Don't you ever wonder where it comes from
I myself think about it all the time
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Nothing remains there anymore,perhaps few stains on the floor where the body lay,sadly,
badly scrubbed and faint signs where death outlines in multicoloured decadence,his eminence,the one who went when wings lent him the final flight.
Tomorrow night they'll hold a wake and take a minute to remember him,whose hold on life was getting slim ,and it was time for him to go,but they will show due deference to what was once his eminence,then stuff their maws and fill their paws with good food and fine wine.
It happens all the time don't be surprised, for when the time comes that you fly away,they'll have a pray and settle in, to eat what's left in your bread bin.
Then they'll go too,they always do
but who will hold a wake for them?
Worry not,
for there are always men to feast upon the dead.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
No matter what happens just keep playing kid.
I was sixteen when I first started playing music as a DJ in a little redneck bar in Carolina .
Green as a glade of grass that would soon change .
I hung with the barflys the rejects the bikers and the ones that just couldn't leave there past behind.
I wasn't friends with kids my age I found my crowd and tried every vice in between.
You don't know **** at sixteen so don't pretend you do I learned from those who scars were many as the stories they told.
I watched the crowd they were always willing to turn on you
It was sink or ******* swim in a sea of smoke and stale beer .
The women weren't like the girls in high school .
There was no delusion of something more just a fast night and a good time followed by a ****** up hangover .
I had nothing in common with my own age group hell I partied with there parents knew off duty cops thieves and dope dealers .
They were all full of **** in there own way.
I cared little for a classroom I learned everything I needed to survive in those little dive bars .
I was underage six foot four acted and looked older so I just fit in .
There was danger
There was always some **** just waiting to happen .
No wonder I left the awkward world of social climbers and ******** proms behind.
Money was fast and so was everything worth a goodtime.
Who the **** needs someone when you can have the chaos of another night.
It was everything that I missed and never knew existed .
I will always remember that little ugly *** stage .
The faces changed real music still lives .
I gave them happiness they gave me there money.
It was my life's college .
The brain would learn what the pen would write many years later .
If your worried bout the page at sixteen your lost already.
Life will fill in the gaps .
Live first then it will all eventually fit together .
I forget everything now but I never forget those times .
One stage is always like the next .
The only rule no matter what happens when your up there .
Just keep playing kid .
Just keep playing.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:52 PM UTC
I am a ******
That is a powerful word
a putrid, painful word
a psychotic thing to say
out loud
to know
about myself
to admit
to You.
This is the worst thing I know
about myself
that I ***** a girl once
without even realizing what I was doing.
I don't know why I'm saying this now.
I know a lot of people will hate me
for saying this
for admitting this horrible thing I did
for displaying this
repulsive
repugnant
piece of my personal history
like picking up a piece of my ****
and showing it to You.
I don't know why I'm saying this.
I don't know why I'm telling this.
I guess because
after all these years
more than half my life later
I still haven't forgotten
I can't forget
I still regret
so I guess it simply
needs to be said.
So call it a confession.
And now the bargaining begins.
The inevitable qualifications.
Because while it is true
I am a ******
that powerful, putrid, painful, psychotic word
calls forth to mind an image
of violence and brutality
that is not me
and is not what I am trying to say
and is not what happened that night.
We were very young
not even twenty
and stupid
clearly stupid
and we'd been "going out" for years
Homecomings and Junior Proms
we'd taken each others' virginity
many years before
this was not our first dance.
And we were drunk.
Blind drunk.
It's not an excuse
but it's a fact
and it's relevant
and it needs to be said.
We had rented a hotel room
away from our parents
alone
free
and we were *******
joyously
terrificially.
Young
Free
Drunk
*******
It was a glorious night.
At some point
she said,
"Wait, stop."
I don't know why.
To this day, I have no idea
what happened
what was wrong
why she wanted me to stop.
But I remember
what I said.
I'll never forget
never be able to forget
what I said
what I did.
She said, "Wait, stop."
And I said,
"No,
I'm almost done."
There is no apologizing
for that
no accepting it
no getting over it.
Not for her
or for me.
Some things just become
a part of you
forever
and you can't hide them
no matter how much you want to
or how hard you try.
Some words weigh on you like Marley's chains
and you carry them for the rest of your life.
And you should.
I'm not seeking sympathy
or solace
I deserve neither
and I wouldn't want them
even if I did.
I want to carry this chain.
I have to.
Because it is the only way
I can attempt to
balance out the equation
and even have a hope
of trying
to begin
to make up
for what I did
to her.
I guess I just needed to
acknowledge the chain
admit it
make it real
so that I could keep carrying it
a little longer.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
I've been looking through my box.
You know.
The one I use to keep my memories
So that one day, when I'm old, I can show my children.
"This is what your mother's life was.
This is who she was, once."
But see, the problem is it's filled with you.
We were so happy once.
We were so in love.
I see these pictures of us
At proms, ***** inside your car
And I see that.
There is no way these people could not have been happy together.
But things change.
I don't have any pictures of you
From after the middle of senior year.
From when we started growing
Separately.
From when we started falling out of love.
Or at least, I did.
But I have your notes
Your photos
Your movie tickets and circus stubs.
I have your photos
And we were just so happy.
We were so together.
I'm not going back to you
I don't regret what I've done
But it's just hard to understand
And hard to see that smile
Even if it is frozen in time.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 6:40 PM UTC
It’s not easy being a girl.
Guys walk around thinking life’s a bowl of lemons for girls.
It’s not.
We girls have to do our makeup perfectly.
Have the trouble of running with ***** bouncing all the time.
Careful not to let our nail polish chip,
We worry about wearing shirts that show too much.
Have to make sure our bra straps don’t show.
Dreading what to wear every time,
We dread wearing the same pair of pants too often.
Always braiding, curling, and straitening our hair.
We have to shave our legs and armpits.
Always tweezing our ****** hair daily,
We’re always insecure.
We have to buy dresses for proms and homecomings.
We become sad when our guys don’t text us back.
Always on our periods,
Massive cramps.
Getting our first kiss is a big deal.
Missing your ex,
Breaking up or fighting with your boyfriend.
We wonder what we did wrong.
Hate being lied to.
We go through fighting and losing best friends.
Being cheated on,
We’re always misunderstood.
Wanting different hair color or eyes,
We go through liking a favorite shirt but it’s never in our size.
Never feeling good enough,
Being called a ***** when you’re a ******
We suffer secrets getting out.
Being dumped,
Making mistakes,
We have people letting us not forget our mistakes.
Bad hair days,
Swearing too much,
Always smelling good.
And the hard part of being a girl,
Is that we have to go through this for the rest of our lives.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
No fanfare here
no trumpets
just a
so long and nice to seeya
and move along there's nothing to see
be a
darling
move along, please.
High above the bay of pigs
tables moved around,
no fanfare here
just the sound
of change being changed and
nothing to see here, be
a dear and move along, please.
On hallowed ground in hallowed halls where stalls are put out to catch those locked out or in depending on their point of view
I saw you dancing with Joe Carter, bartering your soul?
The devil dresses many ways and moves like Fred Astaire
I saw you dancing there with him
I saw you in the dim light on the last night of the proms
on hallowed ground in hallowed halls I wished I'd had the ***** to punch Joe Carter in the face
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
I endure -
this is
the way of the unblessed
in a land of storms;
A moment expands -
scared river on the hills
then back
tumbling
sandwalking
in a land of worms;
Holding hope
by the beat of heart,
closures
ever birthing
in a land of proms;
And then a candle
burns through -
fragrant at night;
The blessed
have their heavens;
The unblessed,
satori;
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
Play the drum roll!
Enlist the naive
young men who played
hockey and lacrosse
in high school.
Who got laid at
their proms.
Drank with their buddies.
Planned their futures.
Dreamed their dreams.
Tell them they have to
defend freedom.
Play them songs of
heroism and pride.
Show them pretty
pictures of foreign women.
Insist they should be
proud of such a “career”.
'The few and the brave! '
'The mighty and proud! '
Dress them in the
same green uniform.
Shout at them.
Destroy their
will to think.
Give them guns and
banners to carry.
Make up an enemy,
teach them to hate.
Send them far away
to a country they've
read about in
magazines.
March them.
Parade them.
Deploy them.
Set them against
other young men
who were dreamed
into the same nightmare.
Let the two sides
come into battle.
The ultimate hero
contest for young men!
Brittle bombs.
Knives, destruction.
A good cause!
When you are finished
using their youth,
send some of them home
shattered and afraid.
Keep some for tomorrow's
new headline war.
For the dead, send home
a flag to their mothers.
Don't forget to tell
the grieving families
that their sons
died
for freedom!
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
when angels get deadly bored in angelland
they decide to matchmake yin and yang
a breathtaking game of -love and hate- kicks off
their watch broadcasts meditative brittle glitters
as expected from the dutiful glitter brittles
finally they also have fun
oh the glorious common hearted one
but for a while it remains
and ubiquitousness escapes
within that while infinite loop
while with
condition always returns
true
assured they are
to have hoarded a concept of none
because only none can break the program
it runs
through
curls and whirls
attracts and repels
hums and vector sums
bubbly groans
made of sour cherry wood drums
asymptotic shapes of ascension moans
'Oh yes this surely is miraculous!'
one for fun
one for ‘oh please be my hon’
Stay at the jolly night of proms with us
we are so heartily amused!
They travel beyond ignorance
to a pointless point of their own absence
‘for the land’
they repeatedly say
from far far away
lost words as such
slowly produces by-products
made of tingly-wiggly bugs
capable of delaying holiness
of now
capable of creating time
for no one
with a halt sign
until game of supremeness bears a ...
break!
made of HUM
a Sound
like none
heard once
along the aileron of a vitreous dome
while
the unheard stays
with the one
and which is of one
wipes off that angelland
for the better I guess
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
"don't let anyone you wouldn't want to be
inside you"
stuffy grandmothers whisper after bar mitzfahs
or quinceaneras or senior proms
while they are whisked away by the rough hands of boys.
protecting the inches between her legs
will always be more important than anything else.
ankles crossed sitting on the washing machine
until her mom slaps her across the face.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
To my mother on Mother's Day
Before I start what might seem like,
The longest, most important,
Extremely emotional poem,
I must say these words
Although they don't express the amount
Of which
I LOVE YOU!!
I love you,
I Love You,
I LOVE YOU!
I know that there are days,
Days when I say:
Go away;
I hate you;
I wish you weren't part of my life.
But you have to remember,
Most of all,
The memories that stick with ME,
Are these:
The day you brought home our dogs;
The day you told us we were moving;
The day we fell in love with my puppy;
When we brought home my puppy;
The summers returning home;
All those sports games you showed up to
And cheered me on;
The day I finished 8th grade;
All those dances you helped me get ready for;
Those lunch/shopping dates;
Both my proms;
Senior graduation;
And finally,
The day you dropped me off for college!
These days and even more
Are forever burned, seared,
Into my mind.
Nothing can ever replace them,
But we can add more days,
Days just as important,
Or special,
As the years go on.
Through all my mistakes,
My accomplishments,
My craziness,
My ups and downs,
You have been there.
Lifting me up
And reminding me who I was
And that I was special.
Showing me
That nobody else's opinion mattered,
No one's but mine.
So today,
On this day,
This day specially for you,
Mother's Day,
I want to say:
Thank you.
Thank you for loving me;
For watching out for me;
For showing me the way;
But most of all,
Thank you
For being my mother!
THANK YOU
&
I LOVE YOU!!!
Happy Mother's Day <3
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
When there are troubles way beyond our prediction while in the clear
of things that become everything that we have hoped in a sense of
being a mortal being and face diversity like that's how it was suppose to
be waiting for the lord himself not to be a hologram,
In times like this we should look forward to the outside beyond all the
imagery that they portray to us is just planting all the seeds in the garden
where birds and bees aren't afraid to manifest their feelings, it's no secret,
Regretting it all but you mean it,
Poisoning virtues, just like the way the cruel world will just end up and hurt you,
what's with the soul food ? chemicals in these products is what i don't wanna be expose to,
Meet the curfew , don't wanna be caught outside at night and I'm black too,
they'll desert you,
Lets Be real right now , the killers need peace too,
We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute
We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute.
And even on some normal days.
when the gangstas light up purple haze,
when a group of friends required any race.
when will the proms stop the segregate,
when will we see the peace we need?
stopping the real criminals with shameless deeds,
materialism is this country,
I hope that Heaven is where I would be.
We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute
We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute.
butterflies, on my hands.
looking for whatever flaw was missing,
hiding smiles , admit the truth.
Searching for the soul that's lost from sinning,
butterflies, on my hands.
looking for whatever flaw was missing,
hiding smiles , admit the truth.
Searching for the soul that's lost from sinning.
We all need to hold hands in this cold society,
not one person in the world can take on an army,
better not let your guard down not even for a second,
not even for a minute.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
There will be pictures I want to see.
Pictures of your life-line growing,
In a background with Christmas Trees,
School days, soccer matches,
Recitals and dinner blessings,
Parties, proms and outright laughing,
When all who matter are present.
I'm not taking the picture.
I'm not in the picture.
So, Remember Me.
Don't release me.
Sit with your children's children,
Open and tell a story
About a picture in the book;
They may laugh with bewildered looks
At the old Irishman,
The Da da, Daddy, Dad, and Faja,
The one who's loved you
From conception on,
Your old man.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Dear straight people,
whilst you are happy holding hands with your partner,
there are people hiding their feelings for the person they love
because of the steel gaze of passers-by,
and because of words ripping through their skin like bullets as people jeer and jest.
you are the reason we are trapped in the closet.
On the daily teens are faced with protests, murders and fiery screams of condemnation for holding hands with their partner,
then see stories of a man who married himself and a woman who married the Eiffel tower. They had no shrieks of hell, no sour protests.
Leaving us wondering---
“Is it just me?”,
“Am I a freak?”,
“Is it really just a phase?
We retreat to our cast iron chamber that is the closet,
waiting for “This phase” you keep talking about to pass.
whilst you are busy planning proms, going out on dates and hanging out with friends,
there are teenagers sat crying,
because they are too afraid to leave their room,
they are made to feel unwelcome in their own home.
whilst you are busy reporting on Donald trump’s rise,
Kim Kardashians latest dress
and even Burnley’s championship win.
There are stories that will never be told.
Stories like the fact that 40% of LGBT have attempted suicide with 34,000 having had succeeded this year alone,
that’s almost enough to fill Stanford bridge. But of course, we only care if they attend “Oxbridge”
Dear straight people,
we care,
we matter,
we live,
we love.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
You're not who you were.
You're not who you will be.
You're part way up your steep frail stair
And always will be.
You're a part completed work.
You're perfect as you are.
You're emerging as from aged oak block,
A part-seen piece of art.
You're a faint chime in the wind.
You're a symphony by Brahms.
You're an orchestra tuning up
At last night at the proms.
I love you as you are.
I love all you will grow to be.
As I hold you in my arms
Lost in your newborn beauty.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
She knew
it wouldn't last
with Chrissie.
Chrissie
was too moral
too limited.
Delia wanted
more *** and *****
the fast life
to see the world
and play
Bach or Bartok
on the piano
at five
in the morning
before the light
was dawning.
Now she lies beside
that young student girl
whom she befriended
after the Proms
and who sleeps
beside her now
full of soft fruit
and juices.
A viola player
not bad player
up for it after
a few drinks
and dinner at that
posh restaurant.
She wonders
what Chrissie
was doing now
whom she was with.
The young student
is lying face
turned towards her
mouth slightly open
sleeping like some
picture book princess
or sleeping beauty.
Delia smiles
feels hungry
feels hungry
for *** again
wants to finger
the honey hive
**** the juices
nibble the soft fruits.
Her father
is in Spain
sunning it
with that
young rich *****
Delia scratches
her thigh
and thatch
feeling an itch.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC