She is intrigue in denim, dressed with just a whisper of leather, which confirmed she wore lace underneath, there's a delicate strength in her voice, a lunacy that sings in her laughter, a tenderness you can read in her smile, lips blushing with the color of wisteria petals, beware, her eyes will eat you whole, there is a sophistication in her simple manner, yet an enigmatic element difficult to discern, there's a double edged darkness in the aura surrounding the elegant hue of her allure, her portrait contains a piece of every woman I've ever loved, as well as every woman I will ever know,
She is intrigue in denim.
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc, A Charlatan's Aphorisms Junk Drawer Poetry
It was far from being a match made in Heaven
More so like a match that ignited the fires in Hell
We took turns playing arsonist
Setting love ablaze
Our memories broken branches used for kindling
Torn from the trees of suspicion
We accepted the fate of the flames we ignited
Lunacy that burned woodlands of our passion.
She said it was okay we were both crazy
We just couldn't be crazy at the same time.
Our madness combined would ignite an inferno
Flames scorching forests of our souls.
Lighting a path to a future of ashes.
The heat from a fire leaving both of us cold.
JSB
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc
I don't know where pieces of me have gone, it seems they just vanish, disappear without even as much as an Abracadabra, orphaned in some barren place where desire goes to die, Sure I've wasted some, threw alot away without regret, I've even given pieces of me to others, but I still have a small amount of what's left of me, I keep it tucked deep in the left pocket of my memory, even though the meager sum of what remains is only equal to the short distance between a smile and laughter, if you ever need a piece of what's left of me, I will give it to you.
JSB
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc .
Fonty was a vegan Vulture.
Other Vultures tried to offer their advice
Told him they were created as carnivores and eating
meat
Is an essential part of their diet.
He stayed true to his commitment to be a vegan
Ate fruit and berries but they never satisfied his appetite
He resulted to stealing stale bread from pigeons
Crows kept him away from the cornfields
He was too weak to put up a fight
The Vulture Committee knew he wouldn't last much longer
Sure enough he died from starvation
The Volt joined together as a Wake and all said a prayer
Then they quickly ate him.
Judge Santiago Burdon
Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc .
Freedom of Thought and the Beast of Burdon.
Echoes of the past
Resonate and reverberate
Within the confines oi ones mind
Like fallen leaves
Swept up in a turbulent breeze
From the forest of our mind
Stirring our emotions
Like temperamental waves
Upon the ocean
Restless perpetual
Humour or intellectual
Storms may rage
Or peace may provale
Like the pleasant tranquil summer
Bejeweld valley and vale
Profound
Where freedom and sanctuary are found
Moods transpire
Out of the misty myer
Some trapped stagnate
In the frozen lake
Other moods make the heart smile
The caged bird set free to fly
For a while
And bring deliverance to ones
Mind heart soul
And wellbeing.
Peter Dome©2019.
What do I say?
On this cherry day
At my own funeral
Where I execute and burry
The Burdon I once carried
Where I let go
Of the life, I’ve faithfully married
Rest in peace woman of excuses
Who endured others abuses
That never demanded an apology
Or handed a lifeline to rescue me
I put you to rest
Ashes to ashes
I bury the lashes
From the wombs of untruth
Sayonara
Beautiful Liar
Femininity…Of the enemy
I bid you goodbye
Au-revoir
You coward
The regret, guilt, and remorse
Has run its course
Bon voyage
Weakened frailties
That reigned champion in the lifelong fight of
Me VS Me
Grim Reaper
you can keeper
She was a stronghold
I never needed her
The sorrow of my soul
I am let you go
So that I can fly
© 2018
Just because I can
Don't mean I should
Or is any good
Is of little use
Or burdon of proof
Leading to a headline breaking top story
On the News at 10
But then again
So aren't the indulgences
Of what passes for news
On the day to day
All consuming want for gossip
That prepositions truth is boring
And the only thing worthy of reporting
Is if another anonymous insignificant reality star
Is planning a fake marriage
Or pregnancy number 5 with spouse number 6
And the Facebook's clicks
Or Twitter followers
With lives so empty
They read while driving
Because nothing is more important
Than sharing senselessness tat
That if we readed back in the cold light of day
Would make anyone have a good long rethink
About the direction life has taken
If this is how one is to spend time
Rather join a convent or a cult
At least they have a point
Because to be both frank and blunt
Wasting time being a sheepish runt
On Social Media
Is about as fulfilling
As salad on an carnivorous diet
Don't buy it
Don't try it
And just maybe it will go away
And reality will forgive us and come back
.
Where will the circus fall,
leaving giraffes homeless,
as pitched tents get pitched
and sideshow freaks
become the norm,
guessing someone’s weight
who doesn’t care
When the sun sets
tablecloth desires
on a silverware runway
with dishes made of gold
and wine glasses half full
are spilled in sad regrets
Will I walk alone
on a cobblestone road,
counting windows without shades
laced with flat screen televisions
tuned to the wrong channel,
reruns in Technicolor
Broadcasting seeded visions
in open fields of tall grass
when Eric Burdon sang
and cherry trees once stood
producing the fruit
of a past I no longer
want to see
Where will the circus fall,
where will I fall
I have walk through the tunnel of life
burned down the kingdom of burdon and strife
seen through the eyes of GOD
and yet my heart still hurts inside
I have walk upon the river of shame
in my mine I am the only one to blame
In my life of abandonment only and angry person was born
For them to believe that all evil is gone
Is for their souls to walk with the unborn
I have glanced at the future and saw only but pain
men minds are empty so hard for them to sustain
money and gold their is no gain
fires only the smell of propane
This that I see OH GOD it's so real to me
It's harder then a knife this thing i speak of is life
time and time again life was gone again
not naturally but by men
war upon wars they seem to have no end
peace and love come back again
the people have fed the world a pain
how long do we thank it will sustain
i put my heart and soul into this
will they stop and listen to the abiss
the world is coming to and
now later and again...
Enter the holy city. The light upon the hill. Live faith. Reject pity. Eat no more than your fill. Learn from the misunderstood. Teach those, by words and deed. Holding to that which is good. Or rejecting good replaced by evil seed. The temptress. Lithia, the controling demon, now outcast. Roams to decieve, then molest. Tell me Lithia, are you rolling? Do you think it will last? Battle worn, now may I rest? Hair so light, ever shining. Lithia flows like a stream. Her eyes so bright. No silver lining. Tell me are you just a dream. Laugh like a jester. Steal my heart like a thief. A boil now to fester. Real, my heart ripped out by your teeth. Lithia, how you possess me? You enter my every thought.Lithia, why molest me? I, your beast of burdon. I have been bought. Bought and sold by Lithia.
"There is a house in New Orleans,
They call it "Cafe One"
And it's been the home of
Many a cinnabun,
And God knows I don't want another one,
My father was a baker,
Baked many a blueberry pie,
My mother was a coffee freak,
And I know not why....
Now the only thing a baker needs,
Is an apron, an oven, and a paste gun,
To spend his time in the kitchen heat,
I know it can't be fun
He's got one spatula in the dough bowl,
And an oven mitt on the other one,
He bakes his Pillsbury Dough Boys,
And it's hotter than the sun...
There is a cafe in New Orleans,
They call it "Cafe One",
And God knows, I'm sick as hell,
Of every Cinnabun,
I think I ate a ton."
With apologies to Eric Burdon and the Animals.
Only he will remain
With or without a song in his heart
He wakes up humming the tune of treason
Bitter, like the taste of the drugs that remain from the night before,
he walks a long road only to find himself at home
Can the night life be more than just a burdon?
Living like vampires, we makeout in shadows and feed off the moonlight.
Sometimes he stares at the posters on his walls
He looks for the meaning of what he can't even imagine
(Pill 1)
The sound of his heartbeat begins to play louder
(Pill2-3)
The world as he knew it is fluttering by softly
(Pill 4-6)
The music from the radio has become a voice in his head
(Pill 7)
He's falling asleep as the sun begins to rise
hating the way he breathes and the tears in his eyes
What if this is where the ground and he sky meet?
Is there a challenge in the clouds that only birds know about?
Trees don't grow from nothing,
they have start with something...
...and he wishes he meant as much as the seed.
No, Shar, I'd never heard of it, but I will, i looked it up, and it's got a great rating.
Sounds good! Thanks!! My friend John S. is a horror buff of the first ranking. He
was even on the peripheral edges of some things. Was working with Joe Spinell
when he died (Joe) from a tooth infection complicated with heavy cocaine use.
Freddy, 'Ol boy- for you I'm sure the words would be "I'm just a boy whose
detentions were good!..... And, when you med Davy Jones, was that at his
locker? Do you really like Burdon? Have his Mickey Most series?? Regards, tom
Thanks for your comments.....I love the Animals...even met Eric Burdon twice....
As for the Monkees, I'm afraid Joe has already decreed that I am to wear a soiled
rat- suit. So how about I come up with "Take the Last Grain to Rathole?' Or
House of the Rousing Rodents? Or We Gotta Get Into That Place? Or "I'm a
Rodent Deceiver!" Please advise. tom
I wish you could feel
What I feel
I wish you could see
What I can see
I wish you knew
what it is like to be me
I wish you knew my pain
That does not belong to me
I wish you could catch the tears
That flow from these eyes everyday
I wish you had my heart
Then You could feel how it hurts
When you look people in the face
And see what they are worth
I wish you had the gifts
That I was blessed with
That curses me everyday
I wish you had the answers
Upon which I was gave such a Burdon
I wish you knew the things people hide
Behind their fake happy smiles
I wish you could feel
their pain they do not show
Deep down they all cry out
But most make not a sound
By Joshua Lloyd
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