i don't want an angel
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
i don't want an angel
an ethereal Material Girl
with something of an angle
wispy if not lispy
and wearing eyeshadow a little too blue
full of feathery words
that drop in clumps
across the mattress
in the afterglow . . .
and i don't want a Holy Mary
Mother of God
with her tightly-crossed legs
and a faraway look
in her eyes . . .
and i don't want a silver-screen goddess
with platinum hair
and a taste for diamonds
who always seems ready
for a John, Bobby, or Teddy
but who inevitably
and regrettably drowns
in a bubble bath of unkindness
that she unwittingly drew for herself . . .
and i don't want a princess promiscuous
who races from her boring life
in the fast lanes of Paris or Pakistan
and barters her once royal pussy
for a little leftover notoriety
until her hopelessness explodes
her lifelessness falters
and like a Slinky in a fashionable black dress
she ends crashing down the stairs
just before the winds of gossip unwind
and blow away maybe 50 birthdays or more
and though some might eulogize her
with the twisted metal frame
of a silly Candle In The Wind metaphor
the sad truth is
you can't blow out a candle
that was never really lit . . .
and i don't want an I Got You Babe
neither Bono or Ono
with her fingers of glue
that stick to my prick
while she closes the shutters
around my life . . .
and i don't want a Fat Bottomed Girl
with her diva disregard
and her sense of self-importance
that drags me along
like a Basset hound on a leash
in the fart lane of her
cross-stepping runway walk . . .
and i don't want a Joan Jett Blackheart
some self-indulgent maid
dressed in robes of the darkest night
whose self-loathing
taints the world with
a poison that infects
everything around her . . .
and i don't want a 10
or even an 8 or a 5
if attraction is calculation
then just think what that says
about masturbation . . .
and i don't want a sad-eyed Sister of Mercy
who remembers the war
and the wounds she nursed
with snowy-white sulfanilamide
or the erections she betrayed
with doses of saltpetre
repeatedly whispering
The Lord is my Shepherd
as she led desperate men like thirsty horses
to an empty trough
and expected them to drink . . .
and i don't want a femme-fatale
a Clytemnestra, Cleopatra or Messalina
a Delilah, Jezebel or Salome
a Mata Hari dancing for me
in the other room
calling to me in a too-manly voice
that begs me to surrender
the secrets of my passion
so that all that is me
might become only hers . . .
and i don't want a pubescent Lolita
with bright red lips
pursed over an even brighter red lollipop
as if to show me
how adept she is at the art of fellated sucking
posturing her every exaggerated pop and smack
into a four-way foreplay
relentlessly appealing to an inevitable unpeeling
of so fresh a forbidden fruit
that once tasted
sours in an instant . . .
and i don't want a fairytale casualty
a Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White
with her oh-so-immaculate complexion
her trilling voice
and a perfect lift to her B-cup breasts
all doomed it seems
to a suspiciously daunting magic charm
that sends her into some kind of paroxysm
ending in a deep and unyielding coma
that only a prince's kiss can undo
for i'm certainly no such enchanted prince
and kiss her if i might
i'm certain she would never awaken
even if i slipped her the tongue . . .
but most of all
most of all
yes, after all is said and done
i don't want to be alone
and so i am waiting
as patiently and honestly as i can
for you ...
an ethereal Material Girl
with something of an angle
wispy if not lispy
and wearing eyeshadow a little too blue
full of feathery words
that drop in clumps
across the mattress
in the afterglow . . .
and i don't want a Holy Mary
Mother of God
with her tightly-crossed legs
and a faraway look
in her eyes . . .
and i don't want a silver-screen goddess
with platinum hair
and a taste for diamonds
who always seems ready
for a John, Bobby, or Teddy
but who inevitably
and regrettably drowns
in a bubble bath of unkindness
that she unwittingly drew for herself . . .
and i don't want a princess promiscuous
who races from her boring life
in the fast lanes of Paris or Pakistan
and barters her once royal pussy
for a little leftover notoriety
until her hopelessness explodes
her lifelessness falters
and like a Slinky in a fashionable black dress
she ends crashing down the stairs
just before the winds of gossip unwind
and blow away maybe 50 birthdays or more
and though some might eulogize her
with the twisted metal frame
of a silly Candle In The Wind metaphor
the sad truth is
you can't blow out a candle
that was never really lit . . .
and i don't want an I Got You Babe
neither Bono or Ono
with her fingers of glue
that stick to my prick
while she closes the shutters
around my life . . .
and i don't want a Fat Bottomed Girl
with her diva disregard
and her sense of self-importance
that drags me along
like a Basset hound on a leash
in the fart lane of her
cross-stepping runway walk . . .
and i don't want a Joan Jett Blackheart
some self-indulgent maid
dressed in robes of the darkest night
whose self-loathing
taints the world with
a poison that infects
everything around her . . .
and i don't want a 10
or even an 8 or a 5
if attraction is calculation
then just think what that says
about masturbation . . .
and i don't want a sad-eyed Sister of Mercy
who remembers the war
and the wounds she nursed
with snowy-white sulfanilamide
or the erections she betrayed
with doses of saltpetre
repeatedly whispering
The Lord is my Shepherd
as she led desperate men like thirsty horses
to an empty trough
and expected them to drink . . .
and i don't want a femme-fatale
a Clytemnestra, Cleopatra or Messalina
a Delilah, Jezebel or Salome
a Mata Hari dancing for me
in the other room
calling to me in a too-manly voice
that begs me to surrender
the secrets of my passion
so that all that is me
might become only hers . . .
and i don't want a pubescent Lolita
with bright red lips
pursed over an even brighter red lollipop
as if to show me
how adept she is at the art of fellated sucking
posturing her every exaggerated pop and smack
into a four-way foreplay
relentlessly appealing to an inevitable unpeeling
of so fresh a forbidden fruit
that once tasted
sours in an instant . . .
and i don't want a fairytale casualty
a Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White
with her oh-so-immaculate complexion
her trilling voice
and a perfect lift to her B-cup breasts
all doomed it seems
to a suspiciously daunting magic charm
that sends her into some kind of paroxysm
ending in a deep and unyielding coma
that only a prince's kiss can undo
for i'm certainly no such enchanted prince
and kiss her if i might
i'm certain she would never awaken
even if i slipped her the tongue . . .
but most of all
most of all
yes, after all is said and done
i don't want to be alone
and so i am waiting
as patiently and honestly as i can
for you ...
© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
Perhaps what you need is a devil in a blue dress ...
ReplyDeleteHaha ... no ... I've had my share of devils ...
DeleteI've taken an unscientific poll of my friends, who are about my age, and we've come to the unmitigated consensus that the women today, even the ones who are our own ages, are MUCH less feminine than women once were.
ReplyDeleteIn fact, the younger women of today, especially--the tattooed, pierced, multi-colored dread-locked ones, who are even more foul-mouthed than any of our male friends ever were--have about as much sex appeal as the drug dealer's pit bull down the street.
Perhaps, it's just generational. On second thought, I'm sure it is. When I was younger, I took it for granted that a woman's innate nature was to be the demure civilizing sex, whose purview in this world was to keep civilized society civil.
It's not that we men didn't understand that women behaved one way publicly and another way privately and sexually, but there was something about having that standard of lady-like behavior in public, which made women overall more attractive somehow. Of course, feminism fought against such "sexist" differing standards between men's and women's public behavior, and perhaps many ordinary women, too, sought to break free of the pressure of these stereotypical roles. However, in hindsight, I believe it was much to the peril of both sexes to have women's roles change in this respect.
... just one of the things I lament about the passing of the way things once were.
~Manfred
Yes, well I blame feminism for a host of problems in the modern age. Sadly, we can't turm back the clock and save women from themselves.
DeleteThere is so much I want to say about the feminist movement being blamed for where women are today. First of all, poppycock!
DeleteI grew up during a time when men treated women with respect - something that seems to be lacking these days. I grew up during a time when a gentleman would hold the car door for a lady; they would hold a chair while she was seated at a table; and, they would stand up when a lady entered the room. I grew up attending formal balls and cotillions; good table manners were a must; and, vulgarity wasn't acceptable - so forth and so on.
During the 60's and early 70's, things changed. Men became vulgar, and young women were called prudes if they didn't "put out" on the first or second date. It was not an easy time to be a young woman.
Forget equal pay. I recall being told that a man needed a higher salary and raise because he had a family support. I also recall, during an interview, being asked if I had a boyfriend or if I planned to get married soon. The company didn't want to invest in a young woman who might get pregnant within a year or so.
Men became less than polite and more like selfish, self-center brats. It's no wonder the feminist movement was started. For the record, I never participated simply because I continued to believe that gentlemen still existed. There were a few back then, and there are a few, today.
As for being a lady in public, a good cook in the kitchen, and a slut in the bedroom, that was a bill of goods sold to women by men.
~smile~ ... and somewhere in between, lies the balance.
DeleteI have to agree with Manfred. Deep down I am an old fashioned girl and it is amazing how many people today think being a lady with morals is something to be ashamed of!
ReplyDeletebut .. a lady in public, a master chef n the kitchen and a siren in the bedroom ... it's the only recipe I know ~smile~
Ah, the perfect mixture ... ;o}
DeleteMr James, good to see you still wielding your poetic wit and charm! If you have managed to take a turn with all of those ladies it's a wonder you still have the strength to lift a pen.. or finger in this case.. to keyboard! I'll not be able to think of slinkies in quite the same way. :)
ReplyDelete"I'll not be able to think of slinkies in quite the same way"
DeleteHaha ... yes, I love that image ... ;o}