Where the hand is placed

a pendulous swing

beneath trusting eyes

and conversation

Beer after beer

at a subtle coaxing

should not mix well

with pigtails 

and patent leather

Mary-Janes

Where the hand is placed

a thunderous clap

beneath meticulously ironed lace

upon bewildered skin

Kiss after kiss

against terrified protestation

should not mix well

with pigtails

and patent leather

Mary-Janes

It's early.

The moon is barely peeking through the faded, black curtains like a bat after sundown. My crunched up dreams lie on the ground in the form of crumpled paper and broken pencils as I try to grip my thoughts like a spider web would a fly. Bricks fell from my eyes, smashing my feet, but leaving no pain. Just the damp feeling of worthlessness.

The dark space underneath my bed beckons for my small feet to be swung over its surface. Maybe the demons should drag me to their underworld. Maybe that’s where I belong.

Breathe

blithely,

syllables

in my rapt ear,

I succumb, smitten, 

common sense a care best

set aside for bitter days.

Today we carouse, you coquette,

regrets can carpet our demise.

We are in this moment, amnesiacs.

I would rather you remember me as a story,

See through my pages.

Memories make tragedies where as, if you read through my clips and phrases you'll find discovery.

You'll meet all sides of me,

and it would be as if we walked together once more. In pages I pour messages of my hearts gentle music, and i illustrate a side of me you just couldn't view if you were to simply just meet me. Even if you were to see me in your day to day. So, with each word that I drip to this page in my outpour, it is one more thing I wish to share with you.

It is what I have to give. What I'm here for, and so remember me your friend, but know me henceforth as each sentence I leave when I can't be here anymore.

Corseted 

by fate

and circumstance

misunderstanding

may further muddle

one's prospects.

In the end

Love

makes equal

fools of us all.

The butcher 

had hairy forearms

monumental 

slabs of meat

and sinew 

peppered with 

the finest

cinnamon threads.

This I noticed

as one limb

moist and strong 

rubbed brusquely

against my 

naive breasts

passing the mutton

to a patron 

that one humid

Provençal summer 

(a challenge from @tatteredthread.  My inspiration came from a French tale of erotica I read several summers ago entitled "The Butcher.")

Little money soon expended

Snobbish imp on lofty pedestal

Vagabond vaunting vanities

Of ecclesiastical proportions

Stop it! 

There's more to being than

Mere manifestations of mental

Enslavement to things material

You say, "Money"

I say, "Manners"

What gives you fright? 

That you lose it all 

And the veil of pretense that

Cloaks your rottenness swiftly

Torn? 

Who do you think you are?!

Midas? 

Your ill-gotten golden glitter 

Soon fritter away

You are but bone and ash 

And foul malignancy

Little money soon expended

Vain-glory leads the little of heart

To their deserved grave 

Money, swag and craven soul

Money! 

And the endless chase...

Now what's so special in that? 

PS: Looking at you, Trump.  

Would you believe it was a mere coincidence the following day that Lavinia was also chasing that little snobbish bastard John Peppard? After all the nasty things he did and especially the mayhem that shyster caused during the elections it was a worthy cause.

That night we both were out celebrating again by coincidence at the same club, our graduation as journalists from Fleet Street & Words College. We defiantly did not bring up the very first tasks we both had planned for the next day. But after spending a special evening and night together happily inebriated, I’m sure we did not recall everything!