Wednesday, November 24, 2021

Her Devastatingly Delicious Wake

She struts clam'rous ovations from a sumptuously clappin' derrière. 

With every stride her bounteous bosom bounces, straining her brassiere.   

The cocks crow and hens cry foul, windows tremble as the Skyline bows.

Waves of heat flood her wake, horned devils aflame to strip the blouse.

They burn double: from God's decree and her flesh's heavenly abundance.

Their pricks sing as spirits burn, such agony never gleans a glance

from those bright eyes and brighter smile as the deafening parade passes.

Women decry, hissing "She's too much!", and Men athirst taste bitter ashes.  


Thursday, November 18, 2021

Highball Low

She has it all, glass in hand,

and speaks dry ampersand.

Words coarse as her skin

gilt a fulsome grin.

Beyond considering,

she abhors feeling.

The highball goes low

and all her friends know

if she scorns to stop 

she, not glass, will drop.


Tuesday, November 16, 2021

Squared Circles

Men stride in circles inscribing

a ring of wan yellow grass,

discarded halo of the 

Fallen Angel.

Concrete wall encloses them

and forms a square which binds

the cycle of their blighted footfall.