After a Lemon Margherita

So what do you think of
my cherry bon bon?
Mr Fantastic, the lucky boy who won,
my style has unparalleled flow,
so you don’t have to go running to
Another ho.
Watch me grind on the dancefloor,
make you want to lick lollipop more and more.
But you need to prove you can handle this,
if you want to share me in this bliss.
Paint me a Warhol, no a Lichtenstein,
buy me some expensive wine.
For these lips are rare,
do this dare.
Let me put my lipstick on,
it’s time to get your groove on.

Loverboy.

The Password for Life

An orchid born of the sacred dawn,
whispers the scent of life
in dormant butterflies ,
like the innocence of fairies
in a child`s vivid fantasy.
Crystallised trees,
attack the sword of love into the anarchy
that we have made with our god-given hands.
A luminescence in the dreams
of the purest souls,
such is the rarity
of this summer which we can conquer
through the sacrifice of cynicism.
As our wicked pupils torture the belief of prayer,
let us guide our guilty footsteps to the shrine of the
eclipsed jewel.
A single touch will cleanse our smoked existence.
Trickery is a weapon that no intelligence can fight, except for
chance, the holiest disguise of forgiveness.
So close your eyes and pray
For it is only in the darkness that such glory can be found.

Numbers

The walk of love,
If I were to become a poet will
dress with the cliche of a spiked rose.
But with this new age,
such antique thoughts will face it’s harsh inevitability.
As it burns with the legacy of the Id.
The brutality of beauty,
we all are victims of
the silent obsessive compulsive disorder.
Vintage.

The innocence that black and white possess,
sweeps my mind into the colour of love.
And as the shadow darkens,
A reminder of reality,
in which the four chambers of my heart,
cannot tremble,
in te amo.
As a young woman,
in this poisoned generation, I wait.
A miracle. A firebomb,
to shatter the hidden glass of my broken window,
so the poet inside can cease scripting
mathematical words.