Its the perfect costume for a superhero goddess, and it makes her feel invincible; fishnet stockings, blazing red bra, heroine hotpants and the clincher; kitten heels.
Bunny can take on the world, now, appropriately dressed. She's got superpowers, alright, the doom-dogs seem to think so, and they're running scared.
Those rumours, that they trade and use and barter, of baby bunny's beautiful mouth, sloe doe eyes, and inexhaustible tongue. It's been said that she can bring an evil tyrant to his knees as she sinks down to her own, it's been said, she's good and bad, so very bad, so very, very good...
Sex bunny's been given a new mission; There's a new and timely terror, and the doom-dogs are, of course, the evil source; find and fellate, sex bunny, the formidable phallus of doom.
Only you, horny tawny Queen of Dawn are up to the task. Don your whiskered mask, wriggle your nose once, twice, yummy bunny, and fly, fly! Find the phallus, save the world.
It's your destiny.
You were born to blow the horn for cosmic porn.
Regrets are nonexistent reflections
That were never actually possible
They say that hell is an eternity
Of fire and damnation
But at 4 AM
When sleep eludes my advances,
It only sounds like the description of my own mind
Life is temptation,
Temptation beckons coyly
With the promise of heaven often
And I've got nothing
But a come-hither smile
And fragments of fragile lace left
The best you'll ever be able to do is look
I am much too far from redemption
Fail to prevent your inevitable fall
Seldom have I ever felt remorse for my lack of "grace"
© 2014 Peach
in eyes of storm
dares a flightier dance
to the peacock chorus line
(...two in the hand?)
I'mpure, painted fancies
can fly blue to cyan
in his diffused light,
your beautiful backside,
splitting your lovely orbs
& you do not fight him.
He hangs onto your pink thong
& the song that he sings
sounds so lovely,
a delicious melody
off your white walls.
his wanton mind,
is a terrible thing to waste.
Do you read him...kitten?
risque thoughts inhabit my mind
as she steps back and forth across the threshold
nubile twenty something hippy dreadlock girl
such a lovely persona
and moist inked beauty of form
she shouts my poem in the parking garage at four am
the echoes add integrity to it she laughs
my girl takes her in our bed
and shows her some integrity
i would so willfully indulge
but i know that such a creature is
the kind i could come to love with true deep feeling far too easily
and i dare not such misadventure
i am so drawn in by her golden patchouli locks
her fine line inked breast
her laughing gentle eyes
i tell my girl
this interloper of her treasures must depart
in the morning
she is unhappy but agrees
i sleep on the floor
waking to my happy home restored
In whiskey sodden dreams I feel silky bedclothes encompass
my flimsy pretty negligee clad body
Whimsy takes a hold, bold dreams drape my mind
My dimly lit boudour welcomes the vibrancy of the dream
Unblushingly dis inhibited by the sweet sickly whiskey
I feel frisky, risky, risqué
I want the silkiness of the dark dimly lit night to
ignite, I want flimsy, gipsy, filthy, kinky love.
In whiskey sodden dreams I feel my inner whore,
in dreams I can open the door.
There is a certain mystique about Essex County where Wiccan boutiques smite the eyes with linguistic confusion.
Salaam reminds me of cold meat and Shalom reminds me of Welsh breakfasts even though the 1700s knew nothing of peace.
So, now that we almost reach the threshold of Spring Aequus Nox, I commend Julius Caesar for his respect towards atmospheric refraction.
We need to talk.
Come on, and let us delve into classical and mythological philosophies where games of death are an aphrodisiac with a sprinkling of risqué.
It was a cool summer day,
In a land far far away.
Oh to go back to that day,
Would be very risque.
It would be amazing,
To go back to that day,
That was so far far away.