(no subject)
I really want to see Pirates of the Caribbean.
Maybe this weekend... I deserve a treat, right?
Keeping up with the whole Jen saga could turn anyone's insides to jelly.
Last night she went out with one of A's friends (I'll call him VW cause he drives two different bugs)... not because she was attracted to him in the least, but because it kept her (momentarily) from jumping back in the sack with Anal Retentive Twat again.
This is dedicated to everyone who has ever wanted Jen, ever (myself included).
Strobe Light
Her rhythm pounds at your temples
and tingles your palms.
Her movements crowd your vision,
like centerfold snapshots,
a freeze-frame collage,
gyrating with laughter.
Your eyes unfocus as she blurs
in silver-speckled shimmies.
Her liquid motions grace the foreground
of her current techno-jungle,
pinned just beyond connection by
the dance-floor's white-light glare.
You press closer,
to glimpse the glisten of sun-kissed skin,
winking from her neckline.
The pulse in her eyes hypnotically displaces
your interest in
her lycra's sweaty cling.
Afloat in her scent,
so shower-fresh and dirty,
you speak to her disguise
of barricade reflections.
Your words skid across her surface,
like water on glass.
Cleverly, she volleys back your conversation,
deftly deflecting every inquiry you pose.
She serves you with a smile
of falsely-white perfection,
and opts out of the game,
to drift in other courts.
Your stunning smile crumbles
with faltered disillusion,
unaware of the many cracks around her edges,
glued, sewn, and nailed...
to protect the ends
from fraying.
Maybe this weekend... I deserve a treat, right?
Keeping up with the whole Jen saga could turn anyone's insides to jelly.
Last night she went out with one of A's friends (I'll call him VW cause he drives two different bugs)... not because she was attracted to him in the least, but because it kept her (momentarily) from jumping back in the sack with Anal Retentive Twat again.
This is dedicated to everyone who has ever wanted Jen, ever (myself included).
Strobe Light
Her rhythm pounds at your temples
and tingles your palms.
Her movements crowd your vision,
like centerfold snapshots,
a freeze-frame collage,
gyrating with laughter.
Your eyes unfocus as she blurs
in silver-speckled shimmies.
Her liquid motions grace the foreground
of her current techno-jungle,
pinned just beyond connection by
the dance-floor's white-light glare.
You press closer,
to glimpse the glisten of sun-kissed skin,
winking from her neckline.
The pulse in her eyes hypnotically displaces
your interest in
her lycra's sweaty cling.
Afloat in her scent,
so shower-fresh and dirty,
you speak to her disguise
of barricade reflections.
Your words skid across her surface,
like water on glass.
Cleverly, she volleys back your conversation,
deftly deflecting every inquiry you pose.
She serves you with a smile
of falsely-white perfection,
and opts out of the game,
to drift in other courts.
Your stunning smile crumbles
with faltered disillusion,
unaware of the many cracks around her edges,
glued, sewn, and nailed...
to protect the ends
from fraying.