Harry

It is wretched, it is fatal
It is glorious, it is brilliant.

To enjoy life's finer details,
To enjoy what commonfolk cannot.
Ooh to indulge in pleasures,
Pleasures so sacred, no man can buy them.
An experience no man can put a price on.

To hate with a hatred so cruel,
Because you have been robbed,
Robbed of perfection of the object you once worshipped.
A robbery so stealth, ordinary men will not notice the difference.

It is wretched, it is fatal
It is glorious, it is brilliant

Six stringer

My baby don't talk much but when she talks, she produces the sweetest sounds I know.
She doesn't cry out for attention but her eyes betray her; and melt my heart.

She ain't 100 degrees hot but she sure is as fine as the word could be.
Sleek and beautiful, not too flashy but stylish. That's how I like them and I got myself a good deal.

She's a storyteller, telling stories of times that were, times present and times to come. Rich in history and possesses a tongue, wise like that of a serpent.

Beauty is encased in her body, where the heart reverberates with brilliance. Right in her bosom where all fears, worries bad anxieties are settled. Where hope is rekindled and joy set ablaze

I love you my love

My guitar

Cut-and-dried

Nice tux, good clean nice tux.
Perfect haircut: hair beard and all,
Fashion Omega watch,
Brilliantly polished shoes.

Perfect wife,
Beautiful in every sense of the word,
Perfect stride
Proper make-up
There's no room for 99%, it's all or nothing.

All eyes on them,
Focused attention,
There is none more perfect,
None more enviable,

Or so it seems.

Valentine

Darkness engulfs the whole land.
Dull, heavy nimbus clouds block out the sunlight,
And in a matter of moments, releases the contents of its belly,
Wrecking destruction and yet, giving life to the land that so desperately longs for a refreshing.

A bolt of electricity lights the dark skies,
Momentarily revealing the beauty engulfed by the darkness.
Escorted briefly by a thunderous roar that shakes the foundation of our souls.

Then follows the calm silence that is the raindrops, beating on the iron sheets.
For the madness that preceded it: beauty and craze,
Makes this feel like a drop in the ocean.
And just like that, a beautiful moment in time passes.
Etched only in the canvas of our memories

Sorcerers' well

He is the devil
She is the devil
They are the devils.

The devil is all around us,
Masquerading in various shapes and sizes; looks and appearances.
Whispering in our ears,
Holding placards to our faces.

But always hiding his face,
Veiled under the shadow of deceit.
The face that remains consistent
The face unknown.

One day she took my hand,
And led me to a well,
A well not so shallow but neither so deep,
Nonetheless, magic resided within.

Look keenly, search with your eye.
The enemy resides in your household,
A person you know intimately.
Look and tell me who you see.

I looked and searched,
With my eyes and with my heart.
And I saw the devil's face,
So attractive, so beautiful,
So me!!

Feminist speak

Today being the year TWENTY SHE-XTY. the year of our Lord and or Lady

Today is a great day for Womankind and all her folk. We have finally got our victor(ia) that shall (s)henceforth be recognised with the changes in the naming of the number six to she-x and many other pheno(wo)menal changes to the Queen's language thus restoring the pride and dignity that the patriarchal half of the society has for so long denied us.

Rise up now all ye women, No longer shall we be the slave(ttes) of those who have so long tried to suppress us. The chauvinists who continue to belittle our cause, who try to resist the wheels of Justi(nna). Always putting up the Men at work signs in an effort to create potholes on the road to freedom. No longer shall the signs of the patriarchal age dominate. A dawn comes upon the night blurring out the night that is the age of inequality and with it, the rise of the age of a new balance. disrupting all s(h)ocial order, closing the pages of history and rewriting a new shestory. We will no longer speak of the story of the lion and the hunter for none of them concern us. Now we shall tell the tale of the lioness and the huntress; the Pocahantas and Brave-heart. We are rewriting shestory, the kind of shestory Cleopatra would be proud of. We shall sing aloud praises of Marie Curie. Not of Napoleon and Hitler, of Obama and Blair.

This is our time. Stand tall. Justinna is served. The scales of Justinna now swing to our advantage.
This is Feminist Victoria