A Quartet that does not sing but rhymes.

My Muse Is A Fair Lady.

My muse is a fair lady,
who haunts me
in the strangest of places,
and flaunts her beauty
that begs to be captured
and kissed with red inky smears,
across the pulp of my
often blank dreams.

She taunts me when I sometimes
don't get it write and whispers
sweet somethings in my ear,
guiding me to the exact spot
that brings us both
the most pleasure.

There have been months
where she has grown gaunt
and anorexic at my failure
to nourish her needs,
but then there are other times
when my fat, fair lady
sings like a banshee in heat.

Encapsulation.

 

 

Encase me deeply in

the amber of your love,

seal this moment of

breathless blending

as an opaque treasure,

melt over me with

the nectar of your limbs,

harden me within you,

capture my soul

in your eternal center,

my jewel of timeless love.

 


 

Regrets To Spare.


Mundane morning finds me cradling
a three hundred pound bowling ball head...
fingers clawed and quivering beside
two eye sockets sunken above
one yawning, bone dry hole below.

Drank a bit too much Rolling Rock last eve,
till all I remember is the pointless split
between me and my girl and how I
wound up passed out in the gutter.

Staggered home only to wake up
with an open frame of mind,
scoring nothing but pain,
Hanging over an empty heart.

 

 

My First car... wherever you are?

 

Yesterday's Scrap.

Rattletrap,
chrome encrusted
time machine,
should have
been my coffin
testosterone driven
at the speed of
devil-may-care.

Back seat a
vinyl altar
to passion
hump-teenth times.

Junkyard
fodder
long ago,
memories
a steel cube
melted into
someones else's
journeys towards
nostalgia.

 

 

©-MFB III

 

 

 

 

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pbwriterchick 6 years ago

All very different... all very cool! You're a writing maniac today... must be your fair lady ate too much yesterday! :)

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