whimsicalworks

Bitty Batty Betty grows hair on her belly because she eats too many lice, she toasts 'em she stews 'em she pickles and she roasts 'em to Bitty Batty Betty, they taste very nice! In a belfry she lives with a wizard named Fizzz and a fat black cat called Hazel, they all get along sing silly billy songs to a man in the moon made of cheese. In the cold light of day when kiddies do play Bitty Batty Betty goes walking the streets, if there's nits on them heads alive or half dead she'll be over to squeeze 'em all out! Bitty Batty Betty is kind she won't terrify, but her nails are dirty and gross, so let Mummy n

Newly bathed and smelling sweet from warm vanilla, he nuzzled at her breast fine wispy hair falling upon a downy crown of innocence, 'til a curl of contentment played softly upon his full lips. He slept soundly like a peaceful angel, heirloom swaddled in ivory silk and dressed in his mickey mouse gro with mitts of baby blue that covered tiny plump digits, so perfectly pink. She gathered him up and cradled him tenderly within her nook, rocking him to and fro to grandmother's gentle lullaby and kissing his little button nose squashed amidst chubby cheeks of blushed rose. She mused. God, had g

Now listen 'ere me lurvers tis zummit ye should know if yur lurking fur zum fun ye aint got far to go. Cos 'ere in zunny Deb'n, the pixies come and play when yur drinkin' Scrumpy Zider and rolling in the 'aay! It may be surfers paradise to those within the know, 'Ocean's Fest' is zummer's best a festival to sow.. Seeds of grokel friendship of course, Naughty! Anyhow, as I be saying to those, that there them are intrested, the 'ills are the greenest ye will find and the countryzide, it be 'Dev-ine'. I can 'arrtily recommend our delicious cream teas tho' nothing beats 'Hockings' ice-creams with clotted cream,

You tell me poetry is for fools! For people who are ill at ease with unfulfilled aims and squandered dreams. Please continue, however. Do tell me - undiluted insights and breathtaking ascertains from the bottom of a jar. For the night is yet to yawn and this bar will run dry of your rum tales far quicker than the might in my pen. AMY whimsicalworks

We can be nothing more than friends, she said. Please take the wheel and let us coast along in this fine summer sunshine and silently pretend we are anything, but. He kissed her forehead softly sweeping curls of uncertainties behind her ears, where she could not see or hear them. How he longed for winter's glacier cloak to crack the tension and keep them close as it had in '87 when skating on thin ice had such innocent connotations. They had danced to Bolero flying high in life - both dizzy on love. This was not the grand finale either had planned, but their mirrored minds continued to dance in sensual symet

The clink of café cutlery clashed cheaply, ringing out against raucous laughter, heartily regaled with show-stopping applause. She felt strangely secure invisible even, amongst the tea-time banter. Oblivious to her own notoriety at home for once with anonymity, the delights of which made intent to her sensibilities, long since denied and shamelessly forgotten about. She was starting to enjoy herself despite feeling unencumbered almost relaxed, in the ambience of being, a nobody. It had been a while since she had felt so good. The waiter seemed to understand, as he winked flirtaciously from under his full

She spread her words thick rolling them up in a rug of black treacle   to unfold somewhere within his tangled soul and leaving him her sticky aftertaste like bitter syrup, fearing him to tread where once they had lain - two lovers in love, threading life's desires together on a beautiful tapestry woven of pure silken dreams. So why did he stay now that she had broken him? A.M.Young (Please respect copyright)

Like leaded weights his hooded eyes bore down upon darkened shadows, curtaining a grief which contained no bounds, reason or logic he felt helpless. Apathy had taken its grip, but this time its refusal begged not, to be shaken. Copyright - AMY whimsicalworks

Thomas brought scotch this evening, a whiff of late afternoon scandal still clinging cherry red to his proud collar starched ripe, ready for attention. How did, the guy do it? The more he questioned the whys, the wherefores, the more inexplicable the whole scenario became. The chess board unfolded between them, like it had done every Thursday evening since their days at Uni when they vied each other for intellectual supremacy. How things had changed since those days. Now they were poles apart in chosen occupations, monetary ambitions, happiness, family, well-being. He congratulated himself – Ok he shouldn

The most beautiful mannequins you will surely find are the living dolls dressed in A-Line white. They stand prim and perky puckered, well preened coiffured, enhanced a stately 34D! Their smiles entice smack all Hollywood bright and before you know it one has got you within her sights! She makes a bee-line escorts you to peruse her stalls whispering girly opens up, her fragrant drawers. You listen most politely to the spiel she invents eyes cast downwards, to lessen intent. Her mission in life? Is to sweet spell you, you are powerless to resist this Cosmetic Gu-ru. And oh, how she can fawn and how she

She wore him like winter - dull pants and socks, jacket spun like sleet - cold as a cistern. Jacket buttons - dull beatitudes mumbled by homeless ashes and those too lost to breathe. And she shook him off - dropped him to the floor; all his shadows sighing with his weight, collapsing in upon her.

She wants to gently peel herself back, fade like Venice in May - rose and azure, saffron in the water that only laps when spoken to; that lingers rich on the tongue - sweet like too much wine or the sun cresting, early summer. She wants to feel the pale grief that comes from knowing too many secrets or sensing too much magic trembling in the clustering vines, the wanton whispers lingering just above the horizon. That glistering web setting over her limbs like September on fire.

A thin castle scratching the landscape, stately home of old blood and tufted chairs. Portraits gone astray and dog's dusty carcass guarding the halls. Empty museums, bones in the foyer welcoming me to not touch paintings or vases from some unknown dynasty - one mummy watching. Botanical splendor - a smashed greenhouse window sucking the sunlight by my feet; wing tipped begonia and angels in the dust rattle clay pots, their dusky red fingers poking holes in the slipstream.

I painted you with cotton and rain, sacred and profane ink - pebbles lingering under my tongue in tangled harmony. Every time you left, the canvas rattled with indigo and sage. Uneven strokes like gossamer, lifting high up your dress until the sky became only a mirage.