Mysterious melody
poetry, satire, sensual, woman

Madam Neverhurry’s Mysterious Malady

Madame Neverhurry cousin

of  Gustav Flaubert’s

Mrs Bovary,awoke at past 12

Suffering from a malady

Known as melancholy,

Casts her glance on the

Day’s chore, bored puts

The blinds back on, deciding

To have some high tea,

Summons, mischievous elves

On fire wings impatient

Yells “to get lost and bring

Forth aromatic mint tea with

Hazel nuts three or four”

On first command the elves

Disappeared, conjuring

A mysterious tea in glasses

Of crystal while the Madame

Put powders and billows,

adorning her buffet with

One Exquisite Ostrich feather

competing with the slopes

of Alps, all while thinking of

day’s chores and bitchy gossips

to be done which caviar to

be served with what exotic wine

at customary evening suppers

while discussing a mysterious

malady  possessing modern ladies

known  something as depression

so much work to do all 

in a day, madam fainted

at 1 while still in satin beds

Personal elves hurried worried

Bellowing some wind trying

to revive with peacock

fans, “oh poor madam,

suffering pangs of

melancholy once again”

 

( Dedicated to all my beautiful women who loves to get up past noon)

 

Advertisements
Eyes
Humour, Nature, poetry, satire

Raccoon- Eyes

Giant Mountains can be moved by the

sheer hands of a lone Hercules ,

Mighty rivers can change their course

of centuries out of just one prophecy

Tallest  Amazonian tree can be uprooted by

hammer blows of  tempests of the north

Yet my fellow folks there is one thing

harder than the all, for everything under

the Draculean Sun has been  smeared 

on the dark gaunt raccoon eyes from the

 holiest waters of mighty Ganges,

Zinger herb from the fertile

plateaus of Zanzibar, medicinal secrets 

from the ancient deltas of River Nile… 

Eaten forbidden apples from the gardens

of Eden to have crimson blood flowing

on purplish patches, had pulp of heavenly

Swiss cherries , took elaborate

baths in the silky waters of wines

from the fine regions of Normandy,

had stinky soap carved specially out

humble Mediterranean donkeys milk

enough to conceal  of late nights voyeurs,

even had the kilos of harrowing cheese

made out of one Arabian camel’s milk

but to no avail, all in vain…

My fair ladies and gentleman for when

a young woman in thirties suffers from the 

intense pangs  of Dark-Circles it’s hard

to cure, smooth virgin skins can not hold,

and the blue veins under eyes just

falls apart….

 

( This is my true story, tragic and painful as it sounds)