Circle of Life

I stare into her nostrils,
Held to her bosom tight,
Which threaten to spill over,
On to mountains of white.

Pressed between her and her man,
For a sloppy kiss,
Then above her head I sail,
I’m released from her fists.

And before I know it,
I’m flying off like crazy,
As the wedding band breaks out with,
‘All the Single Ladies’.

Women try to reach for me,
They bite, pull hair and claw,
Until I end up with a,
Spinster sister in law.

She puts me into water,
And now it’s up to fate,
Whether she’ll get married soon,
Or even get a date.

I’d let you know whether she,
Found romantic passion,
But, you see, she had 8 cats,
In likely spinster fashion.

So a set of fang-like teeth,
A pair of real sharp claws,
And some flying fur would be,
The last thing that I saw.

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The Eye of the Beholder

I can cook for love or money,
But I could not turn down,
The job offer at this joint by,
The high class part of town.

But the prices on the menu!
Compared with the portions!
Was this place doing fair business?
Seems more like extortion!

For as a guest comes through the door,
How was I to nourish,
With a pricey dish no more than,
Broccoli with a flourish.

The restaurant is due to close,
I’m cleaning up my station,
When I am hit by a sudden,
Wave of inspiration.

Since I’m feeling a bit hungry,
I will take this lonely,
Time in the kitchen to fix some,
Bacon macaroni.

But then suddenly it hits me,
And I’m going for bust,
When I think how great it will be,
When fixed in a pie crust.

I throw in handfuls of pork and,
Pile on Doritos,
And consider how it would taste,
Stuffed in a burrito.

Spaghettios, chicken nuggets,
Go in and no sooner,
I’m searching the shelves for Twinkies,
And a can of tuna,

My concoction almost perfect,
Although what’s missing is,
Added as I go top it off,
With mountains of Cheese Whiz.

But perhaps it was all a dream,
For the reality,
This restaurant has no such food,
There goes my fantasy.

And so It seems that instead of,
My white trash masterpiece,
I somehow managed to whip up,
A fucking veggie quiche.

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The Final Countdown

Silly Sally ran a tally,
Of all the days to be,
19 days until Christmas,
25 to New Year’s Eve.

71 ’til Valentine’s Day,
Will roll around again,
122 ’til Easter and,
Just one ’til the weekend.

And so the days went passing by,
With no time to reflect,
For whether good or whether bad,
Time to look towards the next.

Years passed and she got older,
She never wavered from,
Her great enthusiasm for,
Waiting for days to come.

When she lay on her death bed,
Sally was heard to speak,
That Christmas Day would come at last,
Exactly in two weeks.

But Sally’s counting came to nought,
As her obsessive ways,
Would lead her to breathe her last breath,
After just 13 days.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/countdown/

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The Nerve Of Some People

imgres-10As I sit bored in the office,
The clock hands inch on by,
There’s nothing very pressing here,
To utilize my time.

So I look to the computer,
Onto Facebook I log,
Before I know it I’m caught up,
In someone else’s blog.

Transported to another world,
I see before my eyes,
Each page a juicy peek into,
Some random strangers’ lives.

The office door flies open and,
Without any warning,
My boss walks over to my desk,
Not even a good morning.

I’m frantically attempting and,
I’m praying and I’m hoping,
To quickly shut these illicit,
Windows I have opened.

My boss just stands behind me,
Sternly shakes his head no,
“It’s the third time that I’ve caught you,
I’ll have to let you go.”

So sadly an employment search,
Becomes my daily strife,
But it’s always my mission to,
See the bright side of life.

For a great lesson I have learned,
And now it’s clear to see,
I need a boss who knocks before,
He barges in on me.

http://yeahwrite.me/fiction-poetry-writing-challenge-190

The Rock Star’s Wife

Your faded words only wear thin,
Days pass, they come to bore,
Your thoughts just lines upon a page,
That I can feel no more.

The notes you play on the guitar,
Can not bring back old times,
Or memories of when they sent,
Those shivers up my spine.

The girls that threw themselves at you,
Like some pieces of meat,
Take them as I no longer wish,
To win you or compete.

The way you throw your hair around,
It used to make me tick,
But now it has become old hack,
Some tired circus trick.

This consuming role I have played,
I no longer covet,
Only I know those fancy shirts,
Hide a mounting stomach.

So those silly teeny boppers,
No longer will pretend,
When they wonder if you have,
Room in your heart for them.

But maybe after years gone by,
They’ll start to understand,
The reason that the rock star’s wife,
Ran off with the mailman.

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