poetic nonsense
Thanks to Morning for this link to the poem generator. It's a darn sight easier than A215!
My Love
Your skin glows like the pomegranate, blossoms fickle as the bluebell
in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your euphonium voice and leaps like a mangabey
at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great robin wing.
I am comforted by your knickers that I carry into the twilight of effortbeams
and hold next to my thumb.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of brandy.
As my toenail falls from my cardigan, it reminds me of your misery.
In the quiet, I listen for the last squeak of the day.
My heated lips leap to my footwear.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret papers
so that we may moderate as one, lips to lips,
in search of the magnificient blue and mystical glass of love.
My Love
Your skin glows like the pomegranate, blossoms fickle as the bluebell
in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your euphonium voice and leaps like a mangabey
at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great robin wing.
I am comforted by your knickers that I carry into the twilight of effortbeams
and hold next to my thumb.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of brandy.
As my toenail falls from my cardigan, it reminds me of your misery.
In the quiet, I listen for the last squeak of the day.
My heated lips leap to my footwear.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret papers
so that we may moderate as one, lips to lips,
in search of the magnificient blue and mystical glass of love.
posted by bluefluff @ 4:33 AM
3 Comments:
At 12 February, 2006 09:56,
Buggles Balham High Road said…
I'm thinking of using more delicate words and submitting them for the poetry TMA.
So silly aren't they - but they make me laugh.
At 13 February, 2006 23:48,
kat said…
This is my generated poem.
My Love
Your skin glows like the pear, blossoms sweet as the snowdrop in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your flute voice and leaps like a cat at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great pheasant wing.
I am comforted by your jacket that I carry into the twilight of computerbeams and hold next to my hand.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of Chardonnay.
As my face falls from my skirt, it reminds me of your desk.
In the quiet, I listen for the last shrill of the day.
My heated leg leaps to my sock. I wait in the moonlight for your secret phone so that we may explain as one, leg to leg, in search of the magnificient blue and mystical bottle of love.
At 14 February, 2006 03:40,
bluefluff said…
Kat - your "that I may dry your tears of Chardonnay" achieves genuine poetic quality :-)
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