Upset

Those groans men use
passing a woman on the street
or on the steps of the subway.

To tell her she is a female
and their flesh knows it,

Are they the muffled roaring
of deafmutes trapped in a building that is…
slowly filling with smoke?

Their views are…
“Precious number of 8
My dying desire is you to date
You have a warm hole,
A big bum
And flashy tits”

It goes on buzzing in her ears,
it changes the pace of her walk,
Because dark flashes in echoing corridors.

But if she were lacking all grace,
they’d pass her in silence.

October Thirty-first

Spooky tunes
Spooky like hell
Our ears and eyes could tell
But “Trick or treat”
Still remains our slogan
For a shiver night to remember

Ruttish act

“These rubbers will not,
Themselves nut.
So, comply, if not,
There would be a plot.
Fill my lotte,
With sensational lot”.
These were their thoughts to trot.

The drummer’s crave

In Nature’s piece still I see
No error that amends be.
My fair love,
Was framed by the motility of her hips
And flattened belly,
Setting my eyes ablaze
When motions be,
At the beat of my drum.
Had Nature, that made me, made her?
Because the errors in my being
Is far from perfection,
if a line is drawn.
I confess, I cannot spare,
The urge to stare at the glamourous shape we call “8”
My confession had me beg for another beauty
That heaven may bring
Because she had too much divinity for me.

Fortunate trio

Twenty four hours in seven days
And still counting,
The toll the oppressor had to inflict,
The hurts in our veins,
But the support we had.
The late nights distress
The funds spent to stay alive
But the hope we still had.
October 13th, we witnessed,
October 13th, we survived.
If assaults not be
By our opposite being,
We would say “condem the bra”

Cellular addiction

My humanoid android dried my veins,
And inflicted me with its cellular addiction.
Laying not a tempting offer but a mandate,
And castigating me in my own will,
But with its eminent gain
I am lost!
To accept or terminate,
Which will I pick?

Late night fantasy

From my heart,
I let loose
My bottled up grief
For a revival on the deceased;
My pals and folks.
After the event of the night,
To myself,
I promised;
Not to fantasize
But my art is a cheer to my soul,
So I must fantasize,
And revive our lost memory.
Precisely,
The event of the night.