hop, hippity hop, happiness hipster girl opting to cruise, hangin' in my sky
glider, whizzing the stars, my mind; you, me, Madonna still wanting to dance to
the groove. Jungle drums banging timpani at my head. Let’s do it, darlin'. I
promise I won't be Elvis, Heart Break silly, and cruel.
The beat, the heat, the conga drums, sidle over
here; that killer bod giggling girlish girl. Snake that silky skin around my
fear, your sweetness like a candy cane. No disguise: just reality, an
adventurous baby doll, an impossible dream. You, thinking that you can play
with love, this girl bending, wending, and pretexting at womanhood; starving,
thirsting, for too much is simply never enough.
trying human being of way-out
endings and party scenes, beginnings of no gratifying ends; playthings, body
parts, and parted lips from busted pleasures and hijacked dreams, and
everything stolen in between.
OK, 20-year-old, expert at nothing but sex and
smiles, melting a girl’s heart and rock 'n' roll. So, you’re mine and oh, so
young, Kevlar Vest wrapped around your heart and soul, and your way just so
damn hip and cool, and me?
wiser, vagabond wastrel
of Generation X, just another sexed-out trick, again looking like the fool.
Every time I kiss those striking pouts, taste that sugar trailing along your
slender thighs, fuck those baby lips, adore that Pharaoh Nefertiti neck, grip
for life those narrow hips, I'm heading for another emotional fucking and
atomized train wreck.
Between bubblegum and bubble blues, you think
you can understand, assimilate, digest, con and juke, pout and fuck, party me?
And isn't that cute, you, nubile fearless baby child, sex diagnostic meter
center, break heart, fast break absolute mind infusion girl of problematic
woes, magnificent laser of an ice-crystal soul. No ethics, nor rules, I can see
of dancing toes, girl-sex wild con, tempered in nothing real and MTV; fuck, why
again don’t I know better, what is wrong with me?
Boggling my credulity once again, hemlock creature
of skin, and blood, and of sin, sweat and perfect heredity of DNA. FUCK, darling,
you drive me mad, make me suck my lies and secrets back, pass out, orgasm out,
and make me scream.
heard there were girls like
you from the barrio; I'm just your boot-legged pleasure tool, thought it was an
illusion crafted of a bullshit dream, and here you are, blown away; OK, I call
all in, babylicious babe;
make me believe again, make me feel my body bliss and bittersweet, there deeper
in the deep. Make me realize that my life is real again, free falling and in
gear; that I am alive, where before I thought I was dead.
those diva legs; I
think it’s time enough, baby. Don't you think enough lies have been whispered,
So, place those low poker chip agate eyes on the
table, please; bet mascara blues and eyelashes and pink-fire rouge, and lip
gloss that reflects everything I ever thought I would never see return again.
I day trippin' with just
the thought? I might wake within those flower-tangling arms, enclosed along my
body aquiline, your breath inhaling along my own. Part of a quintet of cotton
sheets and sweat and smiles and a spiraling spine; just then, when the sun sets
and we can fire it up.
once more, doll, before
the Rem wanders within the earth’s axis core of rain, because something
beautiful is evolving, when everything gorgeous and tempestuous thought for me
was never to exist again.
We fooled them, my pretty petulant darling girl;
yes, or am I a delusional, litigated drama queen? I can hardly breathe, but you’re
real, forever, for a moment; now, you’re mine, for a crystallized gem of denial
is my survival stone.
heart is faceted from your
smile, and I can ask for nothing more; thank you, darling, for the gracious
temporary gift of aquamarine eyes and golden rings, breasts, lips, kisses, and
I mention the rebirth of
my heart? How I love you, simply and simple words, I've thrown them against the
love you. Good night, my
transient wicked child. No tomorrows. . . .
lie, and I understand that
my night is now; sweet dreams, my precious and treacherous and delicious baby
is a writer with over 100 credits, and never
lists them. It’s simple for J., for it’s never what you have already written,
but what you are going to write next. Contact info: firstname.lastname@example.org
comes from a relatively large family and has been illustrating and painting for
about twelve years. She writes a little on the side,
plays a couple of instruments and dabbles in tattoo