Bitching Brew

Thursday, May 18, 2006


I felt the urge to write another trashy ditty lacking rhythm and finesse. So, here we go again: coy double-meaning confessions through formless amateur verse.

I know my heart rosés my loves
My eyes do too; my hands play victim.
Seasoned snoots peer down on rose
Half-bred, half-caste!
Class bias bared?
Pure white/stripped red - so two-dimensioned.
With wines, I grant you; lovers
no! Idea Lie Zur at your peril.
For all their thorns, I love my rosés.
I never drink, but love them still.
Too 'fraid to drink? intoxication!
Weren't timid sips sufficient thrill?!?

Silly novice, out of place -
You're out of time and Out of Time!
My manners came from cot, not cradle
Rough, naive, unpolished, graceless?!
If suffix -isms (rather roughly),
The abject lack is unaffected.
Without affect? If only here!
Where artifice stains wealth and courting.

Naive? About a tricked-up rose flush?
True, still I see past pupils rosy,
But pricks draw blood not gone unnoticed.
And thus I clasp hands all the tighter,
For love sans loving's only (...)

Fifteen dead and eighteen foreign,
Aimless twenty - barren forty?
I jest, "I'm not so melancholy":
I've loved before but still I'm loonly.
Adventures, writing, flights and flirting:
Sublimated substitutives
(An honoured trend that shall continue).
What motivates: a hollow love? Aye.
Plurals lie, unavid reader!
Contentment's slipped my grasp once more,
But should I catch I'll break... from moving.

I really should feel ashamed. :)



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