The Lax of Stasis

Days of undulating amorous advances,

Years of an impish peppy fervour,

Lengths of night of vigil resistance,

Lear in the tones of unsaid lust.

Cracks in the shine of a familiar reflection,

Grubs of satiating a hungry ego,

Spurts of loathing a selfless stature,

Bounce of a petty shapeless failure.

Cries of an angry bitter doodle,

Rise of a phantom's dark hackle,

Drowns of a hefty hulk in peril,

Craning necks of eager elves.

Tied up in the swirl of a familiar whirl,

Fine with all the belches of evil,

Thine has the part, part of the whole,

Twirls the hair in nonchalant wonder.

Ends the age of partial slumber,

Mend the wall as the fort of mettle,

Shows the tenor of pap and pliancy,

Go on, must the show.

Monday is My Day!

With the tune-in radio playing "Off the Wall" by MJ, I brew a fresh cuppa. Whether it was the weather calling it quits with the sun at the arrival of clouds in all its fluffiness and deception or the smell of beany goodness - the wind across the balcony seemed pleasingly enchanting to a summer display of cloudy playfulness. Pale and white, the clouds hardly made a promise of downpour.

With hardly a docket in mind, I wistfully hold a kindle edition of "The Edible Woman". Sunday is a bitch when it passes by. My pensive thoughts screeched to a halt with the turning around of my thoughts. If life was a perpetual vacation, with a lack of superintendence - would I have this love-hate relationship with a Sunday (a premature monday blue in its ways)? My work week is dearer to me than is a momentary fling with leisure. I crossly disagree with all the nature boys - nothing pushes you closer to nature than having yourself drowned in urbanly devoir.

What is a vacation without first working up a voracity for it? Monday is my day, in all my ebullience.