Sometimes I think
A thought
I ought
Not to think.
The devil winks
At me
And whispers, “she
May say
Yes”. To caress
And kiss
Would bring bliss
To me
For a while.
Maybe she
Would confusedly smile,
And say
“I never knew
That you
Felt that way
About me!
I must go!”.
But, maybe
She would stay.
Best to hold
My tongue
For words flung
Carelessly away
May come back
To bite.
But o the delight
Of 1 single night!
But hot fantasy
Is not reality.
So I
Must try
To let it be.
I have chased the chaste
Through nights of delight,
For we can be free
In our secret fantasy.
In my head
I have said
That which I ought
Not to have thought.
And in my dream
It often does seem
That fantasy
Becomes reality.
And in her head
What thoughts of bed
And fantasy
Has she?
For even the chaste
May, in secret fantasy
Relish the chase
And lover’s embrace.
Where she to kiss me
I would think my day
Had not run aimlessly away.
Yet she will survive
When Time’s great scythe
Has struck me dumb.
‘Tis fun
To dream of the Fairy queen
But I shall be cold
Long ere she is old
So why dream my little day
Aimlessly away?
Hot fantasies grow cold
With old
Men
Who obsess on them.
And what
Of hot
Fantasies tried?
The pleasure soon dies.
I fantasise
Over fantasies
That will never be.
A girl’s eyes
May tease.
Or, just possibly, she
Desires to please,
But I,
Can not see.
When fantasies turn
To reality
Often we learn
The meaning of banality
Yet we
Continue to experiment,
Then repent,
Experiment, then repent,
In a dance of monotony
Where He and She
Lose all touch with reality.
Through the Looking glass
We pass
And find
The White Knight
With a mind
Full of madcap schemes
And unhinged dreams.
There the Red and the White Queen
Rule over fools
As mad as the Hatter in Wonderland.
Will Alice take command
Of all, and pass
Back through this cracked looking glass?
If all our dreams could
Be known
Who then would
Throw the first stone?
Alone in our head
We dread
That one day our dreams will be known.
So tell me my friend will
You still
Be the one to throw the first stone?
We strive
To achieve
Our ideal
Fantasy, and grieve
For a girl’s heel
Is a fragile thing.
String
Will fray.
And our play
Looses it shine
For once “mine”
We soon come to see
The pedestrian she,
Who retrieves her socks
As the clock
Mocks
Examining my feet
I find that they are smooth
More or less
Though I must confess
That the odd groove
Leads I know not whither.
Some find eroticism in naked feet,
Their passion grows
At the sight of dainty toes.
Others reel
On seeing a pointy heel.
They themselves lose
In girl and shoes …
What strange objects are feet
That people greet
The sight of these workaday things
With lust or disgust.
I am even told
That some feel neither, and are left cold
By these plates of meat.
K Morris - Poet 