her sharpened cheekbone
cutting the blustering wind
majestically
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
We had heard of the Queen of Merryland for weeks and weeks.
Everyone wanted to see her, our imagination in high rising peaks.
She came in with an entourage, and we stopped being excited.
She looked persnickety, pinched, angry cheekbones highlighted.
How can she be the Queen of Merryland? My friend swiftly asked me.
Look at her standoffish-ness, which frankly, any dumbbell can see.
I have one idea, I said, it is the one I think which you will have to agree.
She was born into it, the daughter of a King who was not at all merry.
I may not have a Hollywood body
Or Hollywood hair
A Hollywood smile
Or a Hollywood stare.
I may not have Hollywood lips
Or be Hollywood thin
Or have Hollywood cheekbones
And Hollywood skin.
I may not have a Hollywood house
Or a Hollywood garden
A Hollywood room
Or a Hollywood fountain.
Hollywood friends
Or Hollywood parents
Hollywood money
Or a Hollywood Terrance.
The yellow neon sign casted a glow upon his chiselled cheekbones as the bustling sounds of a city that never slept droned on.
He carried his troubles with him, like a worn out cloak, weighing him down in his every step. His mind was entwined in a thorny thicket.
He has been haunted and bewildered since his introduction to her in a smoky speakeasy.
She was a siren shadow amongst strangers of the night, whispering his name in the breeze, intoxicating his psyche with a tempestuous flame.
She entangled him in a perilous dance, playing a game of chance.
Their encounters were like unbridled wildfires. She captivated him, consuming his soul with her potent allure. He felt engulfed, delicate as a feather in a storm, swept away by her force.
However he was a moth enticed by a relentless flame, she incinerated his dreams and made him feel hopeless. In the end, he succumbed to the hounds of disassociated reality.
His story concluded in tragedy, leaving his loved ones cries to echo through the empty streets of a heartless city.
As he sat unaccompanied I saw no ring on his finger
Trouble in paradise perhaps
Lines at the edges of his eyes which still sparkled
the same brilliant blue as before
his cheekbones a bit more prominent than previously
his chin somewhat sharper
the baby face faded
replaced by a rather wizened visage
but equally enthralling
His enchanting smile remained unchanged
though it felt forced for the crowd and the cameras
Much can happen in only a year
A mask may slip revealing pretense
another's true motivations made clear
which might explain the unadorned digit
he was making no effort to hide from view
Maybe he knew
I’d notice
Teenage acne scarring
put an end
to your sojourn
your eyes as beautiful as dawn
glacial cheekbones
the shifting sands
of frozen time relieved
to the demure of wisdom
now realised
Weak and tired I fall on rough cobbled stones.
Blood oozed down my face across my cheekbones.
My knees are bruised and pain spreads from my brain,
The wooden bar hurt my back again.
Man must learn as I accept my bad fall.
The time must come for you to confess all.
I fall but sinless I still bear your sins,
Get up, repent and a new life begins.
Still, I suffer as lashes hit my back,
For soldiers hate and like a wolfish pack
They just wish me to arrive up on the hill
Whilst Pharisaic zealots curse me ill.
Yet I speak not one sole word nor complain.
I suffer pain and pray all are not in vain.
Sturdy hands roughly urge and lift me up.
Gives me my cross, and I drink my bitter cup.
I came to save humanity from hell,
That I might see you all in Heaven dwell.
Haltingly I trudge on the cobbled rocks,
Die on a cross. O happy paradox.
I hope by the time I’m 80
I’d have written a million notes to you
Pieces I’d read to myself in secret
And feel the passion fan my youth to flames
Septuagenarian
I hope to your features, I’m no alien
I hope your body still yells my name
I hope your fire never stops coursing my veins
Even at sixty
Still kiss me as you did at sixteen
And that you caress my wrinkles
Like you did my cheekbones.
And at fifty
I hope you keep singing me serenades
Your breath on my face
As you contort into complex shapes
May we be together at forty
With three kids off to college
While we dread the silence
We had claimed we missed
I hope to love you even more at thirty
Through midlife crisis and our growing family
To fulfil your cravings
While you cradle my babies
And as we swear the oath in the dusk of your twenties
In your father’s tiny lawn, where he swears you were conceived
I hope you can clearly see
That I’m nothing if you don’t love me.
Her fine jaw and high cheekbones.
Surrounded by blue eye's,
that match the cloudless sky.
The long graceful neck it all rests upon.
Her black as cole hair reflects the sun.
My one good eye meets hers as the other,
imagines her breasts are as pears.
Her stomach is as flat as the valley floor.
Her hips are magnificence.
The green silk dress hides nothing.
Twisting around are sculpted calves.
And in speaking her values are as mine.
The black high healed shoes few could wear.
Unlike the rest, she is.
I got a belly full of whiskey
I got a puffed up liver and puffed up feathers too
I got a drum to dance to
I got owl in my spirit and i fly when i want to
I got rebel in my soul just like my grand-daddy do
I got a prayer to the Creator that i chant to
I got the high cheekbones and a nose like my dead ones do
Im living in a world that aint right, it aint mine
I hold my hands to the sky and i put my face in the earth
I ask my dead ones what i should do
I pour some whiskey on the ground for them too
I wont forget even if the world wants me to
-e.g.
i see her there staring
out past the kitchen window
with daisy print curtains
partly obscuring the sky
her eyes daunting amid the sunlight
shining deeply upon the beauty inside
i address her while undressing her in my mind
i stroke her cheekbones
and lay kisses upon her neck
so soft, smooth, supple and truly divine
caressing her demure deity
that's begging to unwind
the wind wraps her body
exhaling persuasions of mind
fingers frolic engraving wonderment
enhanced to the pressure inside
we disentangle
lost in a moment
forgetting time that has slipped us by
To wander in drab gloomy streets.
Sleepy eyes, red cold nose,
darkened cheekbones,
a rumbling stomach.
A nightmare condensed,
no way out.
How many tears must he shed?
High on a building a large bird sat,
black as dusk, eyes searching for prey.
Was it a hawk or a crow?
His eyes could barely see,
but he could smell
the coffee being prepared,
the toast being burned.
All in vain, the bird was better than him.
He swallowed his pride
and slowly trudged
towards a day shelter.
At least there he could eat.
Then back again
in the dark streets
where he could hide
from the foreshadowing of death.
She is night star beautiful
strawberry blond curls
illuminating royal cheekbones
hazel (eye)d
conversationalist supreme
bikini fit
the crown jewel on Mr. Deans
list
Lunchtime, she chose her seat carefully
her cherub face bathed in half shadow
in a strange three-quarter pose
like a nude model sitting for a con
artist
Forever single
the pretty girl with the glass eye
was lonelier than a night star...
i suppose
Moonlight! Scattered in her hair,
A divine moment!
In which I want to whisper the sea,
indecent, sweets wishes,
I don't know if the pine scent will bother you, my love
Because time runs an accelerating rhythm.
Heart rate, fingertip rhythm, sensitivity of the cheekbones.
Maybe we could try,
something new
Carried by the moon's changes,
sail away, in a scream, well-aligned
Thoughts, love, movements, unity of our souls
And bodies.
Lola,
I don't know if the pine scent will bother you, my love
And the crunching of dry twigs, my fantasies
About us?
come!
For something to exist, it must be created.
Let's create our perseverance,
in time
Our tenderness,
because time will remember us.
By that!
I love you
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