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patty m May 18
Easy rider,
looking like a fighter,
someone put a foot in his face.
Small town Susie,
flirting like a floozy,
dying to get out of this place.

In duo spin
two sheets to the wind,
ships that pass in the night,
they held on together,
dressed in jeans and leather
trying to make it all right.

They did Dallas
the pleasure palace,
slept out in a barn,
do-rag daddy's red-hot mama
going round the horn.

She got drunk and he got wasted
as they rode to New Orleans.
The food they bought, still untasted
as they danced like Cajun queens.

Hot jazz funnels,
the darkness tunnels,
white limbs twist in flight.
Hot sin city, cool lick ditty,
eighteen bars in sight

Blues at night,
fried notes on white,
hash browned and over easy,
grind and grit, wind and spit,
slide down the sax so greasy.

He rolled the throttle
she emptied her bottle
then did her beauty queen wave

they leapt the highway
and carved the canyon
spent the night inside a cave.

Big bear growling
wolves out howling
till morning lit the pass
they hopped the bike
and coasted downhill,
their hog was out of gas.

Now they''re hikin'
no more bikin'
the whiskey drank, now fumes

if they can't hitch
then life's a bitch
and this ditch could be their tomb.

Red hot momma
always ready for a drama
sheds her clothes with certain flair,

the first truck passing
almost crashin'
as the driver slowed to stare.

Ring-a- Round Sally,
lollin' in an alley
two flyin' over the moon
they toured the world
until their long hair curled
and they came home
crazy as loons.

Patty M
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
Keep your sea
keep your
treasure trove
just spare a drop.

Big story small bottom line
that matters the most.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!  

Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.

Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.

This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
Nassif Younes Apr 2016
The winter breath is winded
It's icy teeth are filed into a smooth breeze -
Warm but not quite that kiss
From summer's steamy lips
And I'm hardly horny enough
To call this Spring.

This, my friends,
Is the nothing season.
The slugglish March
Into April.

The nights are no longer cold enough
For people to fake romances with each other
Just to have a spoon
And this is not quite the heat
That makes people hook up
To prove their summer body
Was worth the effort.

This is just
Nothing.
A time so desperately dull
That I'm stuck here alliterating
And talking
About the fucking weather.
serpentinium Jul 11
pompeii runs through our veins,
hot with the taste of ash & decay.

some of us are fortunate enough to
become ruins; others are ruinous,
sepulchers of epidemics, air-born, contagious.
a disease that could make London a cemetery.

we dress ourselves up like relics, clothed
in silk and gold and gossamer,
as if they could one day be armor.
as if they could bring us safety.
as if we deserve such things when everything we touch rusts.

it takes only twenty-two years for the
average person to realize they are a weapon.
that words are knives and actions are razor blades,
as if to remind the living that we
came into the world screaming—
and we have never been silent since.

we are the Morrigans, the cursed women,
those whose destiny is entwined with death.
we court death, invite her to our dinner table every night,
let her sleep in the guest room, leave the doors and
windows unlocked for her.

death, we realize as women forced to bear
the weight of the dead on our shoulders,
never comes as a thief.
she comes as a lover, smelling of lilac, a grin
too white and too large to be human.

still, we invite her in,
because even death, regardless of form,
makes for better company than the empty dark.
inspired by the line: we are naught but rot and ruin.
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