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Taylor Alison Swift
Tug at my soul's demise
snuff the light of your eyes
cradle the exploit of the wise
insist at the opening of her thighs
without the mind of the ice
lost ships are holdings of its flight.
Addressing my times
he says: a feat lies
not in air flights
but in what I hammer light
I thought of him, a sprite
showed him the signs
he whistled until out of sight.
What is credible
isn't it to be edible?
long starved, I gargled
premonitions huddled
wrought rumpled
on my tongue, bruised
I blurred its wrinkles
made a day old truth
of its scratches and cuts.
It surely depends
not on what tempts
into the few cents
those of interest
for two cents
on what to attend
to beget the nest
what remains in health.
I'd give up to the chants
had they burped a pant
in beclasping puissance
For arising, I'm a champ
untoward to grievance
to pontificate, to badger
an unattractive pilaster
My mind is as an apse
the only facing broider
Fatigued, it's hot rash
my fracking dingbat.
Guiding my thoughts
you say to me: get up
I'm smooched frump
as your stutter words
it won't do as much
nor are we in any luck
feeling for our first rut
I touch the fingers I fought
digested in the memorious
I wait for them to clutch
that voice rode like a fop
when they first robbed
they weren't this argot
that gives me no vision.
My dear princess
a lapsus calami rend
is in transit on bailment
I'm disturbing peace to rest
I'm recalling needle to dress
without this appropriateness
the guiding hand with an intent
their parade isn't the homestead.
I've been dreaming of a rim
at times, I gasp at how it seems
a life, where only I, can truly sing
I hit it, all knowing from listening
I see it nonetheless, and to it, grieve
for a whole world of cretins
being mine, I know I found victory.
Let's make out on the night sky
where the fading rays sigh
at the horizon suture holding time
for my longings are past cloud nine
and my coven, where the sun keeps its lie
on the other side, with a treacle and a fright
to see it rise, its slow setting; to see you chide
but to remain here with me is to ruse the sky
for a boutade only you and me can find.
Gingerly, I held on to my heart
leasing it the similitude of the quiet
ungregarious, I forged what was faint
my mind was in a jink, at its cline, silent
no one said, but I was failing the test
if only the vapour, it would get its grith
as for me, I'd need a great dush to hit
In this given situation
the stairs has me stumped
by its appetite for the frivolous
orchestrating case thoughts
it sets out to convince, I'm stalled
with a thought bubble assumption
in a landing's snug, I catch the bogus
that I'm myself a story that does talk.
This isn't advantageous
and neither is the hardwood floor
you reported to seeing my what?
you said the creaking legs of a frog
every night, when laying the rug
I do so wearing my starched uniform
and when I hear the last of the applause
I sit by another reminding winding clock
when you and everyone called me a crock
I then see why I'm here, in mayhem's shawl.
Waiting, I must
by a night's light's stump
to dispossess my lust
and to rede my hurt
for through a book's clause
the experience of its rust
the testament with its dust
at its end; first of fights lost
do I have to climb with words
ones to polish for a new edition
for the lights of your eyes in crop
open to the same mind I was wrong
so when another tickles, and you fall
I'd be as matched close on your tongue.
Outlets like shadows
in their disgruntled abodes
the shapes that fill their space
unbecoming, sporting their oak
no more than their judging roles
their amicable take-home rote
outlining, dissolving, as do soaps
saying eve, not morn, the sun to go.
It's a feline's beeline
with your cart racing by
swoosh, past the aisles
to checkout what you liked
somewhere far, not nigh
new cubs too, come alive
no different, they too ply
found by the usual lines
we steer clear of in insight
chasing a meal in a fight.
I'm sick of waiting to be dealt
my cards are packed with health
my club sits, and my hearts are red
and you ask what's the thread
but you obviously meant target.
A grenade drinks an explosion
expelled from a flawed realization
of its own crumbling nature
it's to say: its smatter is cardboard
well off in every direction.
Clasped maps
by high grave grass
of lingering haps
sensu stricto clad
with lips resting lap
in a time rule to adapt
in fade of their trant
legend of the withered
hold no more itinerants
so when owls get feathers
their raised higher backs
retreat, to never attract
what earth don't remember.
The quotient end
ripped in early trends
has more than tears
seen to not just wear...
earnings of a wastrel
tailing her sterling stealth
for a reminding éclair
they slurped every repair.
Isn't it a better day
the earth is dry like hay
mugs aren't shot at to pick weight
maybe, you'll say
but when clouds overtake
and the sun retreats backstage
the wind sends its presage
by some it plays, others it says
to what song do the trees shake
none answers, for their lines' rein
it's where in the play I miss my fave
my buddy sun I never want away.
So lovely in a hurry
as an often told story
it chased its rickety
by an unseen speed
awry did that lorry
I thought I'd missed.
My ego by its turn;
an opinion
she took for hurt
it was by the bus
she handed her knock
No! by an upcoming red stop
it was what I could afford
a bet to accord
little aware of her court
now past like floods
the several escorts.
Living across the street
so she pretends she's free
but in the morning
you'll hear her weep
the sun bathes her creep wilt
the moon welts nightly, her feet
aside listening, seeing differently
she resists what it predicts
of her mind, she goes for steel
but still, in there, we rob and steal
no one is taking away our stills
not all of her memories
before the lights from the switch.
The critters are affected
the stretch is of the tainted
with flowers in my pocket.
Drinks are on the boss
when we've had enough
but to all that puppy love.
I've had a life like goo
a match patch chute
out to strike clues
misteps at root
living is a ruse.
It all holds a feeling
a good till it's swizz
and I tell you it's sweet
but all things aren't tea
today, it's a raspberry
but only if you hurry
lest it's cold, ornery
I hate a picture's leave
when it's worse to vapid
so sorrow is its morning
what you have to breathe
it's my soul glowing
my time reminding
of solace in being
heaven or benighting
when change heals
it does only seam
you're filled
you tell what it beats
and so know what eats
a new life memory
for your picture dating.
A jolly lolly feeling
from a buggy dealing
best I'm dealing grease
a ounce counting hobby
comfortable moonlighting
so here's to birthday gifting
but don't forget the reporting
what do we have if not friendship.
Playing married to Time's Person of the Year isn't a walk in the park, thank you to everyone that makes it a stroll of warming smiles my way. I love everyone of you who reads my books. Thank you.
At the start of the Summer Street Light series, obscurity was my pleasant find, and curiosity had the better belt. I'm glad I've come this far to comfortably dedicate books to Taylor Swift, I have a sense about the mundane I still want to keep when I meet her as clay never faces the heat forever.