The best thing about her ? Whenever she speaks The tip of her sweet nose will flex up and down. But only the button, you should understand – The subtlest of bounces beyond her command. Crowning her philtrum and charming her cheeks, Her pogo-ing hooter is hitting the town. Her bobbing proboscis is truly quite stellar – But if she don’t realise, I ain’t gonna tell her ! You have to be close up to see it in action, And more when she smiles and less when she frowns. A wonderf’ly random and quirky attraction – Who says the best noses are sported by clowns ?
“Watching you daydream is like watching flowers bloom in real time.”
– Russell McLondon
When your eyes unhook their gaze, Slipping back in time by seconds, When your thoughts roam out to graze, Something not-remembered beckons. You are taken through by where-knows what ? It’s all so ev’ryday except for when it’s not – Just like random numbers, only with less plot.
And your smile is sort-of-just – And never meant for those who see it. And your breath is held in trust – Softly, slowly, then you free it. Waiting for your day to recommence, You’re floating off beyond the realm of making sense – Just like in the movies, only less intense.
A siren may serenade – softly she sings, A banshee may let-out a climactic wail, An angel may hug with her feathery wings, A mermaid may wrap with her muscular tail, A harpy may shriek with her passionate lungs, A centaur may whinny her amorous cry, A gorgon may kiss with her two-dozen tongues, A faun-maid may stroke with her flocculent thigh.
But humans, ah, humans, the uppermost rungs, The strangest of lovers of all you could try.
I wonder how we might have met, If I were not so shy and wet – We may indeed have had a blast ! Ah well, the moment passed. I was so young, I was so green, I didn’t dwell on might-have-been – The moment came, but then was gone, And I was moving on.
I wonder what we might have thought, If I had not adventure sought – But on came life, so bright and fast, And so the moment passed. I was so young, so seventeen, I had no time for might-have-been – The cygnet must become the swan, And soon be flying on.
I wonder if we might have laughed, If I were not so brash and daft – I set my lot before the mast, And thus the moment passed. I was so young, I was so lean, I longed for now, not might-have-been – My time had come to take the conn, And I was sailing on.
I wonder if we might have sighed, If only I were not a-stride – But all the world was deep and vast, And so the moment passed. I was so young, I was so keen, With time enough for might-have-been – I searched for Zeus and Prester John, Forever moving on.
I wonder what we might have found, If I were not so onward-bound – But dice were thrown and dye was cast, And so the moment passed. I was so young and so serene, And put off thought of might-have-been – So many sights to gaze upon Meant I was moving on.
I wonder what we might have said, If only I had stayed instead ? We may have loved as beau and lass, Or let the moment pass. We were so young, my almost-queen, So nearly and so might-have-been – The chances danced, the summer shone, But life was moving on.
The number one is many things: The first, the last, a third of three, But never red or cold or soft to me.
And as for feelings Monday brings Like boredom, stress and starting new, It’s never musk or Mendelssohn or blue.
My numbers do not stretch in strings That always and precisely wind In fixed meanders hanging in my mind.
And yet, for you each letters sings As glad or cautious, salt or sweet. To you, my view of life is incomplete.
How am I to love you back ? My thoughts are elementalized, My triggers compartmentalized, And never transcendental accidentalized. And you with yours all out-of-whack With P’s as quartz and Q’s as jet In ways I’ll never really get When white is white, and only black is black.
I must admit, it kills me When I think of how I’m blind To the wiring of your mind, And the way your neurons spill and slide. But then again, it thrills me When I think of how my touch Can bring about so much besides, With all your senses catching rides.
I love the way you love to put Your limbs to work on your behalf, And use the top side of each foot To gently stroke your other calf. I love the way you interlace your toes So absently, But best of all, I love how no-one knows But you and me.
I love the way you stretch and pull Your sleeves, to burrow hands within So all that shows beyond the wool Are fingertips where cuffs begin. I love the way you flex and click your thumbs, And use the other eight for drums – I love the way your body uses stealth To exercise all by itself.
I love the way you use your eyes To stare and stare and never see, Until they catch you by surprise By darting off quite suddenly. I love the way they love to smoothly glide And sometimes fly – But best of all, I love the way they hide When feeling shy.
I love the way you purse your lip, And chuck your tongue, and breathe out slow – And always lodge an apple pip Within your teeth, and never know. I love the way that ev’rytime you smile, It has to build itself a while. It’s not your body that I most approve, But it’s the way you make it move.
I happened upon her by chancery lane, A greenford-eyed angel was riding my train. She stood like a monument, no poplar tart, She’s shoreditch to snaresbrook my hammersmith heart.
Her body’s a temple, all saints can’t compare, So redbridge her lips and so blackwall her hair. Her beauties are out of my gallions reach – They pinner my tongue, which cockfosters my speech.
A wapping-great loughton’s west acton the fool – He’s epping and barking, but she’s morden cool. She’ll ruislip his grasp with her fairlop display, And mudchute him down as she bounds green away.
I see her each mornington crescent alone, Her marble arch skin is like cream leytonstone. This queensway of smiling’s from upney above – I cyprus with wonder and kilburn with love.
Have you met Miss Jones ? She’s a jet-blond, beige-eyed, Sugar-gliding rising-tide – Mapping out her zones On the side.
She’s sharp-blinking, slow-drinking, Silver, gold, and copper-zincing. Marrow in her bones – Miss Jones.
She knows her diphthongs from her phones, She knows her murmurs from her moans, She knows her rods and cones, Does Jones.
She’s a spark-plug head-drug, Neither-one-nor-other shrug – Calling in her loans For a hug.
She’s self-mocking, breath-shocking, Braces, belt, and double-locking – Tuning-up the drones… So Jones !
How best to describe her ? You must just go out and learn – Best not to entribe her, But to vibe her and imbibe her – You’ll know her when you jibe her, Come your turn.
Have you met Miss Jones ? She’s a one-take earthquake, Dreamy girl who’s wide awake Raisoning her scones On the make.
She’s sharp-booking, slow-cooking, Never where the rest are looking – Ev’ryone condones Miss Jones.
She knows her supines from her prones, She knows her growlings from her groans, She knows her Wrens and Soanes, Does Jones.
She’s a snake-hiss l’il sis, Turning blisters into bliss, Trading all she owns For a kiss.
She’s sharp-rooting, slow-booting, Always with her head computing – Wits is what she hones… So Jones !
How best to convey her ? You must just go out and learn – Best not to survey her, But purvey her and array her – You’ll know her when you play her, Come your turn.
Have you met Miss Jones ? She’s an odd-socks re-tox, Big ring in a little box – Sorting out the stones From the rocks.
She knows her witches from her crones, She knows her yuppies from her Sloanes, She knows her unbeknowns, Does Jones.
She’s a tactile last-mile, Drifting in and out of style – She’s giving up her thrones For a smile.
She’s sharp-nailing, slow-sailing, Always with the wind prevailing – Supercoiling clones… So Jones !
How best to assess her ? You must just go out and learn – Best not second-bless her, Or your guess’ll be the lesser – You’ll know how to address her, Come your turn.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
The day that she left me All cliches ran true, And words like avow And bereft and eschewing Were bringing their heft As their moment was due. But I’m over them now, And I’ve things to be doing.
The day that she left me, All tears ran stains That nothing could hide, Not the beards of druids. But now I’m more deft At controlling my drains, And so no salt is dried By the theft of my fluids.
Musical AI version generated by Suno.com – find more of them over here.
