"spurs" poems
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.
In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.
There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.
And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:
Bony toes
Tendons
Deep arches
Shins
Ankles,
Sweetmeats,
Light and delicate.
As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new night,
And crown our heights.
This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.
As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
#
Each body part
sizzled in pure pleasure
in the blissed wake
of your oral efforts
brought forth the waves
of rapturous delight...
Spurs poetic inspiration
in equal liberation
of desires to please.
Bodies transpose
in fluid motion
as brazen eyes meet.
Savor the voluptuous image before you.
Indulge your eyes in my carnal halo
before they roll to the back of your head.
On all fours
knees between your thighs
tips of swollen breast
caress your chest
tasting fresh honey
upon lips in a kiss.
Ripples of ardor
hover
by wet trails
of sensual kisses
suckling towards
the apex.
Breathe in
the slow motion pace
that pulsates eagerness
to the fore tumescing bulge
leaking with anticipation
of viscous lava.
Tickles of silken hair
against flesh edges closer.
Emerging subtle grumbles
in deep resonance
betray your impatience .
Hands tightly twine
in tangled hair
to maneuver
the treasure hunt.
Licked lips pause
at the sight of fire
burning in
glazed gazes
before engulfing
the throbbing member.
Plump ruby lips
greet velvety texture
in a slow deep dive.
Tongue curls around
the flavor
in a dulcet embrace.
Moans release
as grip tightens
in my hair
settles the
rhythmic pace
to taste in an
oscillating dance.
The masculine aroma of heady musk
lingering there, arouses my appetite.
With my enthusiasm
attuned to
your preferred rhythm
suckling, slurping
surface and dive
in measured unison.
Break of breath
allows tongue
freedom to roam below,
licking, soft kissing
the tender hammock
of testicles.
Tongue and lips escalate higher
to mount another assaulting dive
deeper in the depths
of the cusp in cavity.
Wetted fingers
probe even lower
circling superficially
as gasp escapes
your heavy breath;
flaming eyes lock.
Finger dips in
with expert finesse
gorging hardened growth
within a wrapped hand.
Thighs tighten
with rocking grip.
Head thrusts onward,
drilling forward
in each dive.
Salvia slips
fingers grip
lips dip
Engorged swell, flesh tightens in an intensity
of volcanic eruption ...
HALTS
assault
Pace retracts.
Loosened lips kiss tip.
*“Soon sweetheart, your time will ***
inside me as we surrender to synergy."*
#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
1. De-Colonize This Space
Drum circle protests genderplop demands
Indigenous discount store camouflage
We demand persistent stereotypes
Solidarity initiative project
Take back the people’s cultural statues
Ethnographic curatorial practices
Red spray paint fire imperialism
Repatriate the Iphone Starbuck’s cups
And don’t forget the “Hey! Hey! ** **
Because we’re, like, artists and stuff, you know?
2. De-Colonize This Space Too
Guns and cholesterol made America great
Fat white boys in discount store camouflage
Duct-tape the Bible and the border wall
We won our freedom with our Kalashnikovs
Fake news back-stabber not a war hero
SecondAmendmentSecondAmendment
Lock her up get ‘em outta here yuge deal
You RINO losers can grab my MAGA
You snowflakes are sissies, you millennials too
But ouch! my heel spurs hurt, oh boo-hoo-hoo!
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
He is narcissist of highest character
is sunshine that is so smug
with its
wide smile
and rays that
poison
yet sunshine is
still your happiness
he is holder of many hearts
he likes to clutch them like
soft baby skin
to his soft chest
and feel the
beating and
warm gush
of blood
against
him
it feeds him
some say
like your eyes
never could
like the spark
that
pumped
like the
breath never could
that
beating
marvel
never could
like you
never could
he tells you that he has always loved the sun
you believe it is because he
sees himself when he
stares at it
in the reflection of the
car door
it slams behind him
as he steps over the
threshold
he does not whisper
of how your lips
were the key to his
he does not let his tongue
trail across your aching chest
as he murmurs
of how
you are the sun
baby
you shine so bright
baby
your skin is so soft
baby
sometimes you believe he has forgotten
that he was once you
was once the boy who lied
beneath the hungry tiger
and let its jaws
wrap upon his neck
and squeeze
sometimes
gentle narcissist
is he,
he likes to hold you to his chest
to feel your heart
and whispers about how
beautiful
you are
and how he
doesn't care
a pang shoots through your chest
and you feel tears leaking from you
you feel as if he has betrayed you
and then he
puts down your heart
looks you in the eye
and says
I don't love you for your beauty
baby
I love you for the fire
that spurs my wind
and
darkness that
sets my
skin aflame
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:08 AM UTC
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
Spurs in a grass hill
wind blowing up your skirt
honey and money
sweet and selfish
i like you touching my body
and i like touching yours
love oddity bright city
and glistening sun gilded skin
i need my fishing rod
when im around you
need the compliments that i might
complete your outfit by the end of night
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
^¡^
/\^/\/\^^/\^^/\/\
like a wraith your smoke doth rise
into sulphur yellow skies
a fiery raptor... awesome sized
where the sultry brimstone lies.
from the ash... so grey and dry
erupting with a piercing cry
as volcanoes steam and sigh
dancing on the sparks you fly!
the devil mounts your back to ride
over molten rivers wide
his golden spurs dig in your side
on the thermals... up you glide!
then you turn and make a dive
into the flames
where you may thrive
born of fire you survive
you were dead...
*but now ALIVE!!!*
soulsurvivor
(c) 2014
rewritten
(c) 3-17-2015
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry
split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire
pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail
raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char
thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july
smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem
stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace
quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead
past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack
sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone
cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
With dusty wings
and awkward flight
Your tiny buffalo body
bounces on the
delicate glass surface.
An exaggerated shadow
announces your plight.
Is it the beauty of
the butterfly
that spurs you.
Why so frustrated;
so persistent?
Do you know of emotion?
Maybe you do,
and it is your own
dark turmoil
that draws you to the
glass skirted flame.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Just your hot heart,
nothing more.
My Paradise, a field,
no nightingales,
no strings,
a river, discrete,
and a little fountain.
Without the spurs,
of the wind, in the branches,
without the star,
that wants to be a leaf.
An enormous light
that will be
the flow
of the Other,
in a field of broken gazes.
A still calm
where our kisses,
sonorous circles
of echoes,
will open, far-off.
And your hot heart,
nothing more.
3.7k
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
I miss you,
West Texas,
You more than most.
I miss people
And things
But I’ve never missed more,
Than I’ve missed you.
One day, I’ll return to you,
And we’ll be together until I die,
My dear West Texas.
Some say your deserts are unbearably hot,
And I say,
It’s easier to make shade
Than a fire.
Picturesque cacti,
Blooming in the spring,
Sunsets that put oil paintings to shame,
And wild mustangs escaping man’s unyielding possession,
Just like me.
I can see them running along the dusty banks
Of a wide river in canyon carved by the Great Artist Himself,
West Texas,
I want to drive a rusty old truck through hot afternoons till frigid nights,
Miles and miles of sweet loneliness,
Until it’s just you and I,
And I can watch your brilliant display of stars move
Across the endless horizon.
Desert owls,
A serpent’s rattling warning,
Creatures that crave solitude,
As I do,
Emerge in the night,
Like the neon lights of lonely bars in the middle of nowhere,
Sweet prickly pear in perfect harmony with Jose Cuervo in my glass,
A tribute to my lonely West Texas,
Singing me a tune of cicada chirps and desert winds,
And the jingle of spurs on concrete floors,
As the men,
As old and covered in sand as the bar itself,
Make their way in from isolated jobs miles away,
To listen to Tejano,
And sip on that cactus nectar,
Distilled by the Great Bartender
For a night like this,
In my West Texas,
Perfectly lonely,
Perfectly perfect.
I just want it to be me and you
And your hot red sand,
I want to see those yellow blossoms bursting from the deceptively spiny hands of desert life,
I want to hang a dusty, wide brimmed hat above dusty leather boots when I come home,
I want the sky to explode with color,
As a reward for enduring a long day of the heat,
And when the rare jewels from heaven fall, and nourish your cracked ground,
And peace is sworn between all animals,
Predators and prey,
For that moment,
So that all may celebrate the loving dew sent by our Great Caretaker,
I want to dance on your planes,
Twirl in the rain,
And let the drops fall between my lips like the crevices of your canyons,
Brought to life when you are,
Slumber when you do,
Live each day as you live,
My sweet West Texas.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
For one moment
One small moment
I felt like I could taste the salt of her forehead
With the kiss that closed her eyes goodnight
The city, door-by-door, curtain-by-curtain
Shut
Just as the eyelids that followed
But only hers did I long to see the beauty behind them
And if I were given that chance, not a shimmer of tears
Would I find on this night
Only fulfillment
Only peace of mind
My fingers envy the rays of sun that find her back to gently awaken her
As they spill through her window
My words wish to take on the ways of the wind and carry
To her door just as it opens
My heart’s only offering is to protect hers
With the strength of her own bones
And the body that spurs them
Will hold hers endlessly
When there is no more space between them
No distance left for longing
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Knit, knit, knit away.
Life unfolds
under the needles’ sway,
creating lovely order,
bit by bit,
and soothing memories form
for you to display.
The neat rows of wool,
that now exist,
allow a whispered hope for
beauty in the mist.
It spurs you on to focus
and industriously look for meaning -
saving dropped stitches
can’t be your reason for being!
But it’s hard to not be entranced
by the sound of click, click, click.
So, though your
search continues,
you still knit, knit, knit.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
In my chest there is a bird
Who's fluttering spurs all my words
A muffled song her sorrows sing
In ribcage trapped a fragile thing
My body is a birdcage
And butterflies, those wicked things
They dart around on razor wings
My insides now all ribbons be
My body is a birdcage
Translucent skin on hallow bones
And as time goes emptiness grows
A song once sung now no one knows
My body is a birdcage
Now windswept ribs begin to bleach
Sandshifted joints begin to preach
The heavens high a bird does reach
From what was once a birdcage
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!
But come bad chance,
And we join to'it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to'advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
2.4k
Is this feeling positive or negative?
Sometimes it spurs me on
Sometimes it drives me to madness
So what do I do?
Can I live without stress
But isn't that the same as aimless
I therefore conclude
Stress is confusing
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink
...
I remember when we were in sync
But things changed
We will act strange over change
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish
Are we hopeless?
Why can we polish our pinky rings
But leave rust on our linkage chains?
Our words don't bond anymore
Our words are shackles
Our words are like crooked spurs
And unbalanced saddles
Yeah It travels
But lies are to be told
Only to smear what we really withhold
I think that we're going extinct
I hate to blink
As my eye lids flicker
More and more existence spills from our mankind
Man-kind
We're turning into the kind of men
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities
Where's our rectitude?
I think we're going extinct
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch
More and more she accepts the word *****
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips
Where's our morality?
Are we going to expire
All because we create our entire empire with desires?
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt
We smile and we smirk
We loath from good work
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve
We absorb potion
Only to tranquil our motion
We indulge in copulation
With a stranger
But somehow for consolation
...
We are endangered
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation
Eradication
Liquidation
Obliteration
Cancellation
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient
We will need medication
I don't feel any radiation
To not become subject to our decimation
I think we're going extinct
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation
We are approaching ruination
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation
And if I blink one more time
And if we keep wasting time
We'll be wastage
We
You and I
We'll be ejected from the race
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement
Can we come together with cooperation
Resisting this operation
May we all stand up
Before they go through with this amputation !
Blink
Lets see
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
In My Many Travels and dealing with the challenges of MAN'S MIND, Teaching and Learning with each STEP; I HAVE THIS "BURNING" DESIRE , For the "W H Y S " of life. SO, I ASK OF YOU !! Have you ENCOUNTERED ANY OF THE "FOLLOWING " ?___________(#1)= The Trail we Leave Precedes us, BUT the Shadow, do WE Lead or Follow. (#2)= "SHUCKS" said the Cowboy as He climbed upon the Steed, forgetting to put on His SPURS, NOW what would GOAD the Ride, to the SPUR store "OR" would a collection of SHARP words "WORK AS WELL" ? (#3)= Don't Tell Anyone, BUT, I have found a WORLD where the meaning of words are OBLIQUE to the words we use, Can YOU believe it, I've seen them ! (#4) The NICE THING about being OBLIQUE, when using "HIDDEN-MEANING" words and Allegories, the "ENEMY" *CAN'T Hear the words of TRUTH COMING! (#5) Do YOU realize that Glistening afternoons "USUALLY" result in "SHINING" attitudes for the Evenings; "GO FOR IT ! (#6)= For Those who are Still Rehearsing their LIFE; It's time to go Stage-Front, Turn off House lights,,Bring-up the SPOTS and see what "GOD" has in store for YOU ! (#7)= I USED to smell like Canteloupe, THEN, I discovered "ESCARGOT", NOW I Smell like an "OIL-SLICK" , What is? The Price of a Barrell today ? *(#8)= MY Songs are Not Just Words Written on Paper, BUT the Voices from My VERY Heart and the Melody Has JUST Begun ! ___"EVEN AS I held them up to the GREAT-LIGHT WITH HOPE= "YES" *TRULY I Understand NOW the "W H Y " of "OBSCURE OBSERVATIONS".......
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
Did I dream
I saw a funeral
Procession leaving
St. Giles Church?
Sans caisson,
Black horses,
Boots and backward spurs;
No black feathers,
No armbands,
No Oliver's crocodile tears;
No Orleans trumpets
To allay my eternal fears.
I caught them slide
The silver casket,
Bullet-like,
Into a chamber,
To shoot into the ground.
I never heard a sound.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Creeping souls, Beware.
Look around, shes here!
The Ringmaster's near.
Prepare for thy seasons,
Spring, Summer-sault, fall!
Light, shine,
Blinding thy eyes.
Look, Look this way!
The Ringmaster is here!
"Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen, To thy Haven."
Of sanity's sphere.
Hello Boys and Girls,
Cackle, clap, cry.
Laugh away my dearies!
High air fives! Good one!(Yeah Right)
I twirl my cane,
dancing into the ring.
I tip my hat, Announcing my name.
"Ringmaster Jinx at your service!"
"Rhymes with Sphinx!"
Stampede around!
Bounding lions roar,
Elephants triumphant!
Sounding war,A war of the century.
A crack of the whip spurs motion,
Big cats rear, growling at the stands.
Ace makes them sit, and spin!
"Get on with it!"
Thundering hooves sound,
Rippling figures race into the ring.
"Horses freedom ring! Hail Gladiator!"
They rear raising their heads high,
Controlled by Vex and Zakirai!
Cackling children scream,
"Oh my! Look!"
"Clowns wheeling into the ring!"
HONK! :o) Laugh and Dream!
Pies fly,
Unicycles collapse.
Laughter erupts!
Pie war! Duck!
Spring, soar!
"Guide the war!"
Left, right,back.
One "SMACK!" Two collide.
I control the theme, an Extravagant team.
Even if, I'm covered in pie cream.
Dance, Bound, Leap!
Up, Up and away my sweet!
Dancing through the air, gravity defy!
Hysterical...Insanity.
Your leap, of faith!
Vex falls into the net,
Safe, grounded, relieved.
My friends cheer with glee!
Insane sanity!
Look around, see me on the ground.
Hello Boys and Girls, Enjoy the show!
Haven Circus, Sphere of Humanities finest!
I twirl my cane,
Tip my hat,
And proclaim my name.
"Jinx the Ringmaster of this train!"
Goodbye one and all!
Hope you enjoyed the show!
Laugh, Cry and Dream!
I take my cane, and hat,
Exiting the Ring..
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC