the morning trees blush
but lose the facade by noon
then revel at night
sex
A Little Revelry
the nights i find are total delights
indulgent a muse red tannins imbibed
and all the world neath shimmering pearls
blue blankets moon blossoms kisses from girls
and for my love i am a hedon
for gay is blush bacchus with whom i reason
that now i find Nature a scarlet creature
with her motions she wakes this enamoured satyr
and finds my body naked on the world
beneath firmament s blanket
and shimmering pearls
A Wayward Strap
An image I remember quite clearly still.
A wayward strap hangs
loose around her shoulder
‘Til a hair tickles
the slightly exposed nape
Her right hand wanders
where fingers find misplaced
Loose around her shoulder
the wayward strap hangs
A Wayward Strap
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A wayward strap hangs
loose around her shoulder
‘Til a hair tickles
the slightly exposed nape
Her right hand wanders
where fingers find misplaced
Loose around her shoulder
the wayward strap hangs
A Sonnet & My Muse
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Do I wait for my Love, wait for this muse
To find me napping, or with pen in hand
Only to savour each whimsied demand
Where I shall be punished should I refuse
And should I refuse, yet follow her still
My muse may bless with an exquisite penance
The prick of her whip my arrant ebullience
Which fills my blood with a dubious thrill
And with this blood may I find the diction
To letter each name she calls in rapture
‘Fore I collapse beneath her exhaustion
Recording each wail she deems I capture
Dear Love, be merry; I came to my muse!
With a pen in hand, how could one refuse?
French Press (or ‘Would You Like a Cuppa Coffee’)
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Two minutes to eternity
So I enjoy the wind
The summer breeze does taste as sweet
As the lips of Her, my friend
The fainted flavour of Her kind
That I do eager meet
And such my single, solid mind
Shall worship at Her feet
From up her toes, those glamour gams
Shine brazen in the sun
Her goose-fleshed pricks send men to fits
Of which I am but one
Each one drunk in a punch-drunk love
From which we all repent
For lust that lingers on our tongues
Shall bring our descent
Alas, but one mere minute gone
My mouth still burned with thirst
Then I do spy from up her thigh
Oh dear… I must be terse
The womb of man and all his kind
Shall in no way diffuse
The weight upon my maligned mind
Which found where went its muse
Into Her bosom, higher still
The bronze perfects its hue
Where we all find sublime delights
“Dear Wife, I bid, ‘Adieu!'”
And with my lust, I deign to thrust
I press down to Her toes
Two minutes gone…
Surely, they’re gone
My cup filled with Her throes.
The Geri-Geri Mantra
Geri-geri mantra of love and night
Fills the dusk with exuberant delight
Coaxing the sun to disappear from sight
For the geri-geri amours requite
From boggy-bottom marshes some opine
“Had I but the meter to sing in time,
Might I have your sister and call her mine,
But my cadence is cost by too much wine”
Of those whose timbre is as fine as silk
Find favour with others who are of ilk
The drunkards surmise and chide, “They bilk!”
And never delight in honey and milk
So the geri-geri mantra rolls on ’til dawn
While those with no meter retire to ponds
The amours in marshes appear to fawn
Celebrating the night that’s come and gone
I wonder
I wonder if
George Washington
Would be surprised
To find
The places all his faces
Have been
Would he be pleased
To adorn
G-Strings?
Blank Stares and Vile Villains
Empty pools reflected
Blank stares and vile villains
Lascivious imaginations and lines
Faux fancies and fluid movements
Rhythmless ripples stagger
Cresting and crashing ashore
Like mountains cracking
Valleys quaking at the prospective economics
May the sun never rise
Lest we scatter on legs of sticks
And suffer the crunch underfoot
Of a magnanimous god’s ire
Genera
She feigns a moan for the grown men
Who waddle over to wade in her flower
Who imbibe her body; inhale her heather
For those who would father the teenage martyr
Cast out and stoned by the hands of sinners
Emboldened by birth and right
From wealth to wealth
Fluid by fluid; liquid and lurid
Gyrations by generations
Eating generations
Beget the next martyr bathed
In pulsing neon lights
Mild Musings from a Mediocre Man 