April 28, 2013

 

 

Raunchy Roxy, giving it some welly

on saturday night in front of the telly.

Dancing naked, apart from her beads

which she expertly manoeuvres as

her hungry man pleads.

She prances left and right – and the beads

flying over her shoulder, as excitement

starts to build, and she feels a little bolder.

‘Come and get me, big boy’ she exclaims

with wild desire, as her beads go whizzing

passed him – her hungry eyes on fire.

‘That vodka and coke was worth every dime’

her man thinks as he watches

Roxys body, on him climb.

The beads create the mood as she caresses

him with pleasure.  ‘Oh bloody hell’ he thinks –

to the occasion can he measure?

He really doesn’t stand a chance,

her beads just drive her wild.  Maybe they

were a fetish, she had when once a child?

Next day the beads have vanished, they

are safely tucked away, and her man crawls

from the sheets – he’s lived to see another day.

He smiles throughout the week, he really

loves his beaded lover, though he worries

it takes so long,  from the ordeal, to recover!

 

 

 

 

 

Ever beckoning, ever taunting,

ever constant, but rarely understood.

Showing no respect for work in progress,

it is the sub conscience, arch enemy of good.

 

The harmful interloper, that spreads

through the mind like a plague, yet

sits quietly in the background unnoticed,

a picture of innocence and somewhat vague.

 

It doesn’t go by any set time scale, nor

any deadline date to work back from.

Though almost unseen, it is ever present

and as destructive as the atom bomb.

 

 

 

 

She’s refreshingly unpredictable,

some might say a touch crazy,

but there’s no harm in the lass,

none at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To know her was to behold

the beauty of simplicity.

She was an earth mother,

and natural nurturer.

She was a kind person who

bore no malice, and such joy

to be around, was dear old

aunty Alice.

 

 

 

 

She’s an innocent soul who’s lost

control, but her intentions are good.

She just approaches life from an obtuse

angle because she’s wired differently.

In her head there is chaos and clutter.

She speaks from the heart without

agenda or chart.

She’s an open book, with a raw outlook

and has an impartial view, but as a friend

she’s honest and true.

 

 

 

 

 

They’ve pulled the plug,

now they’re in the mire.

All assets gone, times

are really dire.

Only charcoal embers

remain from the fire.

Gone in a flash

like a funeral pyre.

 

 

 

 

 

She was a virgin of her own choosing.

Not yet de-flowered, a sexual coward,

and heiress of untrodden sand.

Her body a temple, a shrine,

a wonderland of undiscovered treasure,

and only she held the key in her hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She shuffled around the house with the

broom handle under her arm. She said

it was more reliable than a walking stick.

She loved going to funerals. She said

they were a refreshing change.

 

 

 

 

April 19, 2013

 

 

The headline news on monday,

filled everyone with dread.

It revealed we’d outlive our children,

because they’ve all been over fed.

 

On Tuesday, they reversed this fact,

saying children would now reach a ton,

which put the smile back on our face,

and another crisis was won.

 

On Wednesday the news was dire again.

‘One in five children would be an alcoholic

by the time they reached fifteen because,

we’ve set them free to frolic?’

 

On Thursday devastation came,

in the form of a bolt from the blue.

They said ‘Don’t save for retirement,

because you’ll all be dead by fifty two’.

 

By Friday we were worried sick,

and banned the ‘switching on’ of the TV.

We decided to withdraw our savings,

and go on a final spending spree.

 

By Saturday, we were almost broke,

not but a cent did we have to our name,

as we’d booked a last fabulous holiday,

for the next day, to escape all the pain.

 

By Sunday, we were  set to go,

‘sodding them all’ and doing what we like,

until, on the radio, we heard the news,

that airport workers had all gone on strike!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One cannot fail to be acutely affected,

sad news cuts through the heart like a spear.

One cannot fail to be knocked over sideways,

whilst wiping away a released held back tear.

One cannot fail to be instantly reminded,

that on earth, time is surely running out.

One cannot fail to feel ones mortality,

and wonder what life’s truly about.

One cannot fail to turn back the pages,

though, what’s there is still written in stone.

One cannot fail to be troubled by heartache, but

what’s done is done, now your life is your own.  

 

 

 

 

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