As light as a handful of feathers
The pack is strapped to his back.
The heat of the summer sun
Reflects off the world around him.
So sure it will work he steps off,
Weeks of planning and a million
Dollars in research say he can,
The ledge of the forty story building.
Falling fast, as he passes floor twenty-eight
The It Dies Today ringtone
Sounds from his pocket.
Maybe he should have waited to hear
The results of the engineer’s final inspection.
I take no credit for the image. I found it on Google images search.
An expanse in the shape of an hourglass;
With all the angles of one too.
Up the center grows a porcelain tree.
Its branches, the definition of symmetry,
Are the perfect frame to drape ivory flesh upon.
At its base, two dimples as if
A maker’s mark for man, showing him
The best place for his hands
When he holds her.
I take no credit for the photo. I found it on a Google images search.
Hanging from hip bones.
Flat, sloping flesh.
Flexing inward.
Begging for the touch of my lips.
Framed by the low-ride of his jeans.
Leading me south toward his virility.
Petite poised person
Resplendent in red,
A simple a-line apparel and
Hellishly high heels,
Before a behemoth of
An abstract
Pollocked painting.
A contemporary cognitive contradiction?
Or a cherry colored canvas clear
And ready for ravishment?
Gender: Female.
As you can probably see, I have tits
(They’re smaller than I’d like but they’re there).
And I’m into guys. And shoes. And makeup.
But man when I catch the smell of gasoline
And I hear the practically-feline, smooth-talkings of a well-tuned engine
I get turned on
*
Age: 18-24.
Yes, I’m young and I like to have a good time.
642 Poems and More 