Saturday, May 15, 2010

Your bed is on fire, with Antarctic fire, you're sadly burning for me

Poem by Marc Aupiais (I really enjoyed writing this poem, it is the sort of humour which helps one become chaste)

With passionate something, you’re burning for me

You say you’re hot, it’s not only you, dear beautiful woman,
Your soul is hotter, it’s burning with hell,

You bed, may be burning, burning for me,
But you are crisp in it, dear perfectly tanned woman, a skeleton’s key,

And your best clothes’ you’re wearing, the ones you know I like,
They’re tempting to me,

Yet, the hotter we’d get the closer to hell,

You are quite hot and bothered,
To that, ma’am I attest,

Yet, are you ever hot for God anymore,
You bother him in that tempting short dress,

And you wear make-up for me,
And whatever colour you know I like,

And anything else to ease a transition from dark to night,
But I still want to choose the light, and you are no lady of the night!

And I wonder what we lost that moment,
When first you saw me different,

When first I was not human,
And when you wanted me!

When did you go from wanting to wanton,
Am I nothing to you,

Every man can fall,
Even I can, especially you, dear ma’am,

And yet, I belong to another,
A promise I made, A promise I made,

And I look to you, all dressed in black,
At your eyes, and at your mouth,

All dress up for me,
Not me,
It was never for me,

It was for you, to tempt me into you,
To change my being into something else,

And I look to you, all beautiful, and sublime,
I watch, moved by you, and your moving dress,

And I approach you death, wondering what of me is left,

And this is my light, as I approach you in the night, and as I begin to choose death over light life,
I look to you, your lips are not hers, your hands are not her hands, your hair is not hers,

I have miles to go, and promises to keep,
A promise to her, for all eternity, to be,

Whatever happened, should I be snared, caught or free,
To her my soul, my body belongs,

And should you snare me now, a million times,
I will free myself, and seek not thee,

If I were to fall three times, three times I’d seek her,
For she is mine, and I am hers,

And in my promise, and by humour, by laughing as I turn,
Laughing at what you should whisper in my ear,

I realize what I am missing, and I am hers,
What can you offer me, some infidelity?
What can you give me, anything in whole and truly,

Your panties are in a bunch,
Keep those bunched panties on,

I am not your boy toy,
Nor your someday boy whose your toy

Your panties are in a bunch,
Keep those bunched panties on,

Truly, I am hers, not but hers,
... and hers and hers and hers and hers... hear ma'am bunched panties: alone!