There were beautiful women. But there was Jenny.
There were women men go to war for, but there was Jenny. A dame to kill for.
There were women who were beautiful rebels. Then there was Jenny. The fucking queen of the Danes.
Some women were pieces of art. She is a modern day Mona Lisa. A woman you can’t stop touching else she might disappear into thin air with the flick of a wand.
I loved her.
All of her. Her freaky mind. Her dark tan skin and her taller than Janus height. She is a goddess.
Jenny. A woman,
To whom beauty, and smart brains,
We strapped and laced together like a soldier’s boots,
She, is everything.
Sublime. Pure. Like the strokes of Vincent Van Gogh’s brush against canvas.
Wet, like yellow paint on Van Gogh’s gut. Jenny.
Is a drug, I pull on, inhale, swallow the smoke,
Rather than cough out,
And fuck getting cancer,
Cos each time I awake, I dream of nothing, save my death between her legs,
A little bit of paradise,
Locked and tucked away,
In the nothingness of beauty. She,
isn’t a hopeless pursuit, no.
she. Jenny, is my everything,.
Jenny, is the first thought,
That is washed away by morning tea,
The first thought,
At the tip of my fingers as I peel off the clothes tangling a banana,
The first glory, upon heaven’s gate!
She, is an indigo necklace,
In a discoloured world.
A, stick figure,
In a world of Knights Round-a-table.
She is love, pure,
And in the morning warmth.
And the cold dew, upon the farmers feet,
As he winnows the first harvest.
She isn’t one in a million, no, she’s a million girls in one,
Everything I love. Everything I want.
Her sweet soft hands, Her meat moist lips, Jenny. Love.
You ever looked qt a girl, whose beauty is a miracle?
Yeah, she feels that way. In every way. Baby,
Talk to me…
She isn’t just beautiful, she’s beyond it,
The lyric in every poem, the soul in every story,
The melting clock in Italian art. Jenny.
The meeting place of heaven and here. Jenny.
Her voice, pure as spring water.
She, is, a dame, you kill for.