Pass The Tequila But Don't Spill The Passion

I find it to be quite sexy
The rhythm to which your hair swings
When you softly run your fingers through
It is but only a reverie to yearn
To see many happy, shiny faces
With a striking quality such as yours
And to drink of your lips
Within the wake of the moon

Her Neck Screamed One Tune Though Her Thighs Screamed Another

Again I played witness
To the stunning vignette that was her body
All evening the thought to compose words
Materialized from a former canyon of desolation
Merely because I had been swept into the distance
As I am forsaken to ponder
When she’ll become attainable

Eight Track History

I had taken a seat along the sequences of curiosity
When suddenly my mistress dawned
Her eyes alternating in succession
With the pattern that were mine

“Hello” was the word that ejected from her lips
Firecrackers had begun ascending
History was being sculpted before us

But She Looked So Lovely Under The Lights

Each time that I see her
A switch is stimulated within me
So arcane yet freakishly alluring
And like a tiger hunting its prey

I chased her pirouetting shadow ever so enthusiastically
The taste of it quite addicting in a hopelessly romantic sense
Tirelessly becoming the axis on which my beliefs lie

Her Hips Were Like A Motion Picture

Thick like knuckle sized sheets of LSD
Her hips swung just like the doors of my virginity
With great ease I grew aroused by the rhythm
That produced the beat of evolution

How I imagine gently seizing her hand ever so tight
And holding it for only the universe knows how long
Occasionally I ponder on whether or not she knows
The lovely effect that she has on my bones

There Was A Tattoo Of Religion Upon Her Lips

If like a sponge she acquired the ability
To ingest the amour that I have for her
The possibilities of establishing a new religion
Lie concrete and sound as the images
Of her body and mine as one

If ever a chance arose to fix a woman
She’d be just the gash to mend
And the scriptures would be her satin skin

Darkly Teat Of Misery

Here I stand
In the arms of a comely apocalypse
Foreseeing my deathly fortune
Reality never served as a good friend

But it was in that moment
When the sun shed her darkly grin
And hummed a song of comfort
In the mass of increasing terror

Between The Legs Of Dogma

The artistry of the dogmatic
Lies upon the breaths that are bated
Unwanted sarcasm tossed
Though often musters hostility

And the branches arc
With each split decision
Affirms the logic
Behind each laceration

A Strange Sunday

‘Twas something strange in the way she waltzed
A majestic triumph of the age
Her classic imagery paints the room
With such vibrant colour

Often this will leave a man to ponder
Upon life’s eccentricities
Will they ever shape into meaning?

Foolish Sex Of The Century

Hardly any creature is
Of equal proficiency
To decipher a melody
Void of meaning

Though the reason for such foolery
Defines the existence of apathetic beings
Therefore upon there foreheads
Carved were no meanings

Graphic Barbie

My fair ladylove
How dare she saunters the halls
Taunting a man so graphically
She holds the very knowledge
That her figure is astonishing
It is to be concluded that she cherishes
Being the focus of my poems
She then exhibits herself quite flawlessly
Bearing equivocal fervor