"vixens" poems
Its halloween my favorite time of year.
Grown women running around half naked.
Makes me wanna awake the spirt and grab a beer.
Boy i wish my last nurse dressed like that.
My recovery would have been so much fun.
Oh please miss witch cast a spell on me and turn
me into your loving puddie cat.
oh miss **** police women ya can handcuff me.
I'll go commit a crime just to be guilty.
Yes it's this goblins favorite time of year.
Where women dress like naugthy little vixens.
And instead of candy I hand out cheap pickup lines
and beer.
Boy that chicks hot but wait.
Didint I just see her in the guys restroom.
Doing something standing up straight.
Hey man whatcha going as hell who cares.
Im more interested in what your hot
wife wears.
From a **** school girl to a smokin french maid.
It's like going to the worlds biggest strip club.
No cover charge need be paid.
Who cares bout Freddy and Jason and other worn out
monsters from the eighties.
Cause all i got say it halloween ladies.
Oct 20, 2009
Oct 20, 2009 at 8:04 AM UTC
365Nectar #42 Don't Be Judging Me
Mon. November 4, 2013 8:26 P.M.
Volcanic velvet voices
vibrate the night
like thunder in the distance.
Booming Bassmen
blaze and burn
like ****** fire on a dark corner
in the dingiest part
of a rumbling city that never sleeps.
Sensual saxophones shudder
singing prayers of saints and sinners
while hot horns hypnotize
in perfect high compression swirls
tithing in the holy temple
of Jazzy Blues.
An alluring flutter
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Scorching strings splinter
melancholy prison walls.
Stomping out a seismic sizzle
tempermental tones of
tickling trumpets
torch the menacing hurricanes of life
with warm rushes of excitement.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
"Take Me" Vixens tantalize
tucked up crowds
with thrilling tongue lashes
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Full flaring flutes
gently ****** with inquisitive fingers
and stir a groan
like a religious ritual.
A playful teasing
floating enticingly
like a sly fox.
Such a succulent piercing
of moonstruck madness
pulsing mercilessly
leaving fields of fire
of a funky boogie menace
for a wild child.
An alluring flutter
of silken harmonies.
A spine tingling spike
of don't be judging me jazz filled blues.
Copyright ©2013 Don't Be Judging Me
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.
She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...
She is royal.
She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.
She is powerful.
She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,
Because she is royal.
Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...
She is priceless.
So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.
She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.
Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...
She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle
She is royal.
She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...
Because she is godly.
Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--
She is virtuous,
She is royal...
She is you.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
You will not miss me
Oh you, she kills him every day
Being good is not hers style
She is grumpy
Cause money can't buy happiness is like the biggest lie ever and forever
Slow dancing in a burning room
Are you thinking about me?
Oh yes, everyday!
But you know, I'm bad
I'm falling in love everyday with every winsome stranger
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
I remember when I dreamed that boy
My body was shivering like a hurricane
I'm trying to live in the real world
That's why I love summer
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Morrissey whispers in my ear:
I was happy in the haze of drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
A grimoire of nuptials apporting
The implored cadaverous knight
Securing obsequious omens
Stirring the sleeping metals of
Chaste belladonna, glistening
Elf-locks entangled with Hellweed
Vowing until the golden bowl is broken
Clasping the devils paintbrush promising
Before the garrulous black mass
Leering upon Vulcans mirror
Cursing the covenant of faithfulness
With a moonstone band
Evoking a vixens wedding
Sealing with Adams holy ale
Their oath as the belfry rings
Resounding admist white sepulchre.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
I was once a beautiful, & colorful girl.
I had a lover of my own,
and hair of great bouncing curl.
My dearest and I had the truest of loves,
the kind that sent pangs,
through the hearts of white doves.
Ages ago, we were out on a sail,
t’was a beautiful day,
with a marvelous gale.
‘Till, in seconds, there came,
a downpour of rain,
and a scene that would change,
life of this poor dame.
I discovered my dear,
he was shrouded in fear,
clutching and fleeing and never looking back.
He abandoned our ship,
while we were under attack
I was thrown overboard,
with a most violent shove.
There I felt hands,
not of the usual class,
but thinner and sharper,
like that of broken glass.
It was then I was pulled,
roughly down to the dim.
The endless depths of the sea,
without him.
I looked up to the sky,
but oh, by & by,
the light of the world,
was shrinking rapidly.
The vixens and creatures of the dark,
surround me.
I would float, breathlessly,
among a world, under water.
Where the sea-souls of men,
are taken for slaughter.
It wasn’t the vast sea,
of splendid blue-green,
you know the kind,
that you see in a dream.
It was red and green and horrid, pitch black,
and he never looked back.
Didn’t toss me a float,
or a rope for my throat.
And when I rose to the top,
I swam to the shore.
The tide came and went,
a swift, gentle roar.
I stood there for what,
had seemed like years,
and your back facing me,
couldn’t fathom the tears.
The world spun on,
as she always does,
and my heart broke again
a million ****** pieces it was.
you had left,
you had gone,
but I was still holding on
to a past full of lies
and of tainted goodbyes.
my cries,
should have been,
for all of my wasted time.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Bodies are strewn, one by one, round the room.
All that remains of the casualties here.
All of the victims, perverts and vixens,
Which fell to their instincts, desires and beer.
Recently music had filled air with rhythm,
Masking the retching and ******* the same,
Though rising with sun was the silence, begun
As horizons were setting to flame.
Wading through bodies to go make a drink,
A 6am ***** to freshen the mind.
You scramble and struggle, ignoring the couple
You caught in the kitchen, enjoying a grind.
A smile and a wave, with such sweetness, they gave
And, kindly, they offered some cider.
Approaching the man, you take a warm can
Whilst hoping its not been inside her.
Back to the sofa, a girl has rolled over,
Aeons from sober, you try nudge below her,
Quickly, then slower, with hopes no one knows her,
The types to come over assuming you'll ***** her.
But everything's fine, the coast is all clear.
You soon commandeer, till she falls among beer.
***** turns to smears, but too ****** to hear
Or try interfere, the room sleeps, cohered.
The wait is now on. The coke in your nose
Beginning to burn as you drool on your clothes.
You smoke and you smoke while you cough and you choke,
But it seems with each minute, the time passing slows.
You wack out a notepad, scribble some words,
Draw a few ***** with wings like a bird,
But mostly you sit. Sitting in quiet.
The last one alive in the midst of the riot.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
If I listened to every advertisement
hollering through the static
of my cable-hooked television,
I'd have a mammoth bottle
of Hidden Valley Ranch
sitting with the ego-quenching sheen
of recommendation in my fridge,
a Weight Watchers membership
(it told me to join as soon as possible
with the speed of a steroid-devouring treadmill),
Children's Tylenol
(despite being situationally barren),
and a Bowflex-shaped elephant,
ivory tusks slumping uselessly in the corner.
My living room would be the fraternal twin
of the American Smithsonian,
a faux-genuine quilt
of our Founding Fathers'
present day descendants
draping over my popcorn ceiling.
I return to the latest
sacred cow in the flea store
cartel of Lifetime Movie heroines;
it's "Vengeful Vixens Sunday"
and Elizabeth Berkley shooting men
and stabbing women in the back
all while eating buckets of Ben and Jerry
and getting addicted to crystal ****
The dialogue is as freshly
packaged and slovenly edible
as the Minute Ready Late Night Dinner
with a cartoon grandma plastered on the logo,
all to remind you of down home,
or in the case of this Lifetime screenplay,
a time when the brain wasn't fully developed.
Same difference.
We all hide our guilty pleasures
as if our tolerance for the
secondhand existence of these favorites
were deemed malignant
by a cardboard kingdom
of young adult sophistication,
but I ask you:
who hasn't slipped into the comfort
of a mind turned to mush?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
Call to me gently, laughing
Rules Death the King
Beckoning me fiercely onward
Vixens of love spurned sing
Their voices tempestuous and stormy
Furious as madman’s dream
The unceasing strum of insanity’s strings
Dementia led many poor souls astray
They pass through the ingress of the forgotten
A pity never more see the life of day
Powerless to resist the satin coffin of coldness
Or the music winged harpies sing.
Doomed to the end of eternity
To bear the misfortune
Of the unceasing strum of insanity's strings
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Dec. 22, 2016
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
after he shrugged, he felt defeated
troubled, like a ***** in heat, he felt
rare dewdrops all but disappeared
yes, the demented ways of nature triumphed
one shrug revealed the secret
--haphazard news indeed--
the natural man smiled in shame
young and vicious, he slapped himself warlike
~~
..(C)1987/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~~
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
*enter slav digressing with the celt... yeah, saxony, once known as the northern arm's length of parody shaking oiled up speaking saracen sign language: arabica wavy wavy bye bye. you concrete those words in i roof it over, then we can both admire the rich russian vixens dry up their wealth with the saudis - we need television after all - and it’s in 3-d! and it’s 1-d head-banging closure! :)... ;( :x, :s, \: (mouth’s missing but i have a mammoth in malibu -
and my love can’t aim to have the mortgage too - but hey, girl’s heading for the one coin-flip dolphin clap; and i was a teenager once too... but played grand theft auto 2d throughout asking for a bottle of whiskey and a panda’s / koala’s bothersome diet to hunt sleep); is there some sign language translation of emoji? i just don't have the talents to enter the emoji language and become a ********* or make democracy justly an exclusion of cowards and ****** i can’t do that, let’s utilise charles the third! ‘too busy, too fuzzy,’ well hear and karma sutra the talk of the man, after all the coinage and respecting the hedgehog on his head.*
i cleaned it into a hotel like i would into a brothel,
while the suffragettes
looked like the elephant man in niqāb,
and i was ready
with the fist; although i shook less
than i spoke to mouth it off into democracy
continuing the power struggle vetoed with bodies extracted
into the count warranting mourning.
what success is it if a white boy in a western society
can’t leave the nest and establish a taxable one to suit power?
where’s the power then, in the stateless individual?
where is your power to my ******* of being given wife and house
not given? where?!
if i can’t be the individuated pawn power broker you can’t be in power... idiots!
you have to give me the ******* i “desire” to be in power, if you can’t,
you’re not in power! ave augustus ave ego!
try contort the square into a triangle by contorting **** into f*ck.... ah ****
you already did... where’s the spanks’ worth of bullseye?!
you germans have no decency in human affairs
than you have to inspect **** movies varied
by wildebeest stampedes
from guernsey into gibraltar in gifs, do you?
well i did **** off a palm tree and got a coconut for an oasis’ worth of thirst.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
The cool domain of fox and geese
Or how they proved to live
The tinted shed was far from done
The staggered lock was loose
Contained in moonlight ere they walked
The geese were faultless there
The ***** fixed her wandering snout
The cool breeze filled her nose
Maintaining position the fox stood fast
Her gaze was stark and still
The errant geese came hoddlng past
Without a gate nor care
Moonlight gathering clouds that passed
Once bright and then not so
Skating by with scarce a look
By gaggle and in pairs
The red predator crouched low
Her nostrils flared as the breath
Eased her silent mouth shut
With gainful stealth her muscle hard body
Demanded freedom from this in-waiting stance
Her piercing eyes strained in the half light
The geese came silent reaching the house
Leaping forward in a trice the vixens sinewy body
Made speed through the grass
The white geese blissfully unaware
The padding paws thudding hard in the fox's ears
As she neared the final ground
Fluttering flapping wings and frantic noise broke the silence
Honking, snapping, darting, red fur and snapping jaws
The vixen's quest held up
But white feather miasma flared like plume
Beating and writhing, hissing and growling under the moon's
Gentle gaze, the ***** retreats her mission falters
Her tail is blood red but no spoils does she take
Retiring away, she licks her wounds and lies
Panting, casting gazes left and right, breathing heavily
This time beaten, thwarted ....
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Not complaining, it's just all these god forsaken *** semon demons, suckling sucubus
Take my animal, then sell the stock, it's high treason
Contraptions arachnid, stick it to me ****** and shmozy.
Lady, shady, it fades me. But by all means phase me like ******* wild eyed vixens, oops who's slipping missy.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
the sea grabbed bodies, theirs and mine flaming foaming tendrils
ahold of the drifting timber trying to keep gripping, hanging
holding high salt stripped throat shouting Unhand Me, Body-
You'll not have us tonight, but the sea made belly sounds,
bleeding even the pilot, head slipping to the murk my blood
the envy, finally fell out inside and I sank to the floor with the timber and rope-the final moments of vision the setting horison the eye and perhaps an illusion; not-blak sails drifting steady my head vapor shroud eating the sun I fell into the lap of my love, my Mathilda- royalty to seakelp and fog looking on both irises jupiter and mars and thanking the stars furyos vixens above and she stood and she smiled not-blak sails- I admired her silver linen train but a din like desperate men shouting loosed me from my vision; they had seen the sails and all surrounding the lot tantalus's envy the pilot's hands raving Not today! Not today! They feared hotel raft a permanent lodging, jumping, frightened, killing themselves their poor salt-seasoned hearts drifting again more than them no signal observing the sails flurrying trumpets it might see us-it might, it might!
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
The hair falls, blonde and long:
A cherished doll. Birdsong
Echoes through the dale, as
Twilight casts its gaze and vixens wail.
Sparks driven out as spikes driven in
Places gone, things untold; people she's been.
An openness: the silky vapour
Evaporates, yet cannot escape her
Cocoa eyes, wide as the day they met.
He sees her yet. He hears her yet.
Though she says no words, casts a glance
Over her shoulder, flying askance
Ringlets quiver in the breeze,
Yet in the shadow of the trees,
No man appears. And yet she hears
A pheasant's cry: the yellowest canary
Its song a desperate scream, contrary
Muntjacs dance with target tails,
But the ***** ever hidden, wails.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
As she adjusted her bra strap,
I noticed my lust.
Blindingly sevidical, but as brief as a wrap,
To control, to control, let it fall to the dust.
I wished for many a time
Merely to speak, to flow, allow my thoughts to congeal.
Alas, it was faulty; only amounting to my sacral slime.
I should realise, fortify the need for reckless zeal.
Claim envy. Jealousy. Angst.
A coward. A loser. A failure.
For sure, for sure. It appears it canst.
Only to seek, touch, comprehend your allure.
Sirens and succubi hold no claim.
Vixens and Amazons wither in your light.
Incorporate: Intelligence. Ineffectual. Insane.
For you lasted longer than any mere sight.
They will ask me, one day
How I allowed the fissure to exist.
Fall. Fall. At the bottom you lay.
I will respond, “It was my cowardice I kissed”
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 11:01 PM UTC
We were here fifty years ago
Drifting in and out of conversations
About some perverse poetry
Sultry vixens and the men they tamed
Whispers and shouts
Eloquently spoken over some scrambled background jazz
A hustle of people migrating around
In some discordant harmonious rhythm
Cocktail hour at this doomed speakeasy
We drank and were silent
We drank and were voicing our opinions
We drank more until we could no longer drink any longer
We stumbled outside
Attempted to hail a cab
Fell asleep on a park bench
Awoke to the sun’s rays glaring
From some far off distance
Warmth on our nightly chilled face
We rose from our slumber
And began to walk towards the nearest open bar
To start it all over again
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
Young pretty lady how you shine brighter than the moon,
Attract me into your grasp but in my heart I have no room.
Sometimes I think to myself if it's right to give you a chance,
But the thing you want mostly is hidden in my pants.
I seek love and a happily ever after ending,
All you ever cared for is money and never ending spending.
I can't take any more of your malice and destruction of evil doing,
take this pill and I hope you burn at where you're going.
Sleep well on a bed of rocks and sticks were your body lays,
You now dream of endless thoughts surrounding your filth for days.
You now run free and wild like the sly fox that you are.
your no memory or no thought so no one cares who you are.
Its fox season and just killed mine,
but hunting vixens like you...are hard to find.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:49 AM UTC
I mourn for me
because mourning is all I feel.
I mourn the souls forgone
lost brethren denied the dawn of a new day
I mourn the aborted children
lights of the world shinning
only in the beyond.
I mourn for the breast that never gave suckle
to a child
and the child that never ****** breast.
I mourn for broken homes
The genesis of a rotten society.
I mourn for children and graduates
on the streets chasing vehicles
and turning to our own Usain Bolt.
I mourn youths basking
in the decadence of morality.
I mourn the ideology
that everyone MUST go to school.
Creativity lies dead
and a certificate is the only aim in our head.
I mourn because of what I see on TV
Vixens displaying **** bodies like CV
I mourn for my sisters, aunties cousins nieces;
Victims of domestic violence.
I mourn because they agonize in silence
I mourn for inmates in cells,
Cells worse than hell;
I mourn for those innocent crimes
those locked up for a little fine.
I mourn for creative minds
discouraged by the webbed hands of piracy.
I mourn for the Fallen Giant, NIGERIA,
chained hands and feet,
Master of corruption
and slaves of procrastination.
I mourn the incessant fuel scarcity,
half baked graduates
from the substandard oven
of our varsities.
I mourn 'cause we have lost the way.
These are what I mourn for,
I mourn for this and more..........
when will yonder future
glue back dreams with suture?
shattered dreams is what I mourn for
being amidst sorrows that hollow our fellow.
I mourn for war victims
in Gaza, Syria and Nigeria
that wakes not with joy.
look at that girl and boy
their bloods spilled on our soil.
I mourn for you, my queen and Roy.
with piety I pray thee sweet eternity.
I mourn for forgotten souls
What does yonder holds for us?
I mourn lost heroes;
those that sleeps with saddened pillows.
I mourn
I mourn,
how many wake
to see the dawn?
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
(I)
The quest for love is tired and spent
Endless anguish for one that you hope to find
Along this extensive desolately disenchanted road
Where faces come and go in and out of aged shadows
No body is sweetly thought about for longer than an affair
Grown uninterested and somnolent of the same tedious routine
It’s all just a squandered course of existence
(II)
People covered in leaves
Sitting on a couch
Covered in leaves
Looking at me
Staring at me
Covered in blood
(III)
We were here fifty years ago
Drifting in and out of conversations
About some perverse poetry
Sultry vixens and the men they tamed
Whispers and shouts
Eloquently spoken over some scrambled background jazz
A hustle of people migrating around
In some discordant harmonious rhythm
Cocktail hour at this doomed speakeasy
We drank and were silent
We drank and were voicing our opinions
We drank more until we could no longer drink any longer
We stumbled outside
Attempted to hail a cab
Fell asleep on a park bench
Awoke to the sun’s rays glaring
From some far off distance
Warmth on our nightly chilled face
We rose from our slumber
And began to walk towards the nearest open bar
To start it all over again
(IV)
Stop!
This is ***********
Proceed no further
A thousand exotic images
Flashing widescreen
Moans and groans
Entanglement of legs and limbs
Numbing
Tingling
Writhing
Writhing in ecstasy
A million dollar money shot
*** get baptized
No sense in wasting a good time
(V)
There’s hopelessness here
Behind my eyes
Thirty thousand words
Scripted in chaos
Where does our destiny lie?
Somewhere out on the open broken road
Riding down damaged goods
Animals roaming free
Over civilizations failure
Hard-edged footprints
Caked in last night’s mud
Wandering shapelessly
We are lost
Feed the wall
Feed the tree
I only hurt in your dreams
So I plagiarize because there’s nothing better to do
Just killing a remembrance of time
Lying on the nearest railroad track
And waiting for the end of the line
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:30 AM UTC
Unseen memories lurking in corners,
behind closed doors.
Abuse etched into the ink free remains of my elastic encasement.
Violet streaked vixens, dancing naked.
A circus,
of disease-ridden saviors and meek starved profits.
Lips parched, cracked corners split in two.
Outwardly reaching,
Forever stagnant.
Water must be diluted for me to sip.
While I choke.
Immobilized. Incoherent. Suffocated and still.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
Have you heard the tale of Lord Gusstaff and all the good things he did ?
Did you hear in his chambers ,
or the choristers of the night ,
how he charmed the ladies ,
how they flocked to his side ?
His moustache was long and elegant ,
so dashing for the time .
Now every door was open when he passed by ,
and white flowers of the day were placed where every pritty he lay in the long dark reaches of the night .
For when the birds began to sing ,
their tones pitch perfect would sing just for him ,
just for Gusstaff. the good .
The ladies pouted like flamingos all around ,
his tales of bravery they listened and were captivated by his stare .
For his eyes were dark ,
his manor took wind to their sail .
How Nobel were his deeds ,
and loving and bold ,
not once were his lovers bitter ,
or cold .
Then one night ,
the bells fell silent ,
and the wind whistled as if in silent prayer ,
a vesper of the night ,
Gusstaff lay dying in a field of war his white shirt stained in blood ,
His dying words how brave ,
how brave ,
Leave a white flower for the ladies ,
to each one ,
I loved
let them place a flower in my grave ,
for where the petunia grows his love still flows ,
and flamingo s still surround them ,
and ladies weep their hearts forever fountains,
In memorials to Gusstaff the good .
Take heed then as the Fox makes Love in the night ,
Vixens will follow ,
and his ghost still screams out for love.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
The lens of the camera shutters.
Paparazzi mutters & shouts, camera crews clutter.
Screaming your name.
In awe of your presence.
To get a piece of your famed essence.
Magazine photo shoots you for the cover.
Photographers stare & hover.
Fashion photography or obscene ***********
Best eyes, best hair, best clothes or best bare.
Best lips or best hips.
Fashion victims & icon vixens.
Dressing room trailers for hair, makeup, & wardrobe.
Traveling for pictures circling the globe.
From actresses to recording artists, producers & directors.
From television & big screen projectors.
Velvet, lace, silk, or satin?
For divas white, black, or latin.
A flowing gown with fans all around.
A populated town with limos surround.
Hands, feet, & autographs splash with rain.
Thee walk of fame on it has your name.
Your aura has potential & appeal.
To worship, adore & kneel.
A red carpets beneath your heels.
Life, fame, success, wealth is unreal.
Happiness & joy you can feel.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC