She was All That Jazz, and then some

The onimous ambiance of your eyes,
sharp and sleek,
jazz and the Late Late Show with Tom Snyder.
You could paint this town tender, my darling.
Your skin--cleaner than the cover of Life magazine,
better in black than the man himself.
Is that an Acura, or an Aston?
Don't tell me, just
give me that look you give...
Trust me, I'll be staring,
lost with, within and without you.

Poetically-challenged

Driving through Colorado, lost in the Tumblrverse,
that'll be the opening to my memoirs, believe it.
I should probably continue with that thought, it sounded interesting,
but I can't, because I'm, well,
poetically-challenged.
It comes with the territory, and no,
I'm not going to tell you what that territory is.
Did you know it's Thanksgiving? Probably not, given that
there's little to no timestamp on this kind of thing.
But if you did, well,
then you're a poet
(Did you know???).
A few rules, then:
a dream does not a poem make,
Cherie Currie a happy man make,
dreams about Cherie Currie/I don't give a fuck about poems anymore
and I've always sucked at endings
anyway.

(Untitled)

Why can't I dream? Where's my imagination?
My writings have been reduced to opinions on facts
and facts about opinions.
What happened to the in-betweens?
It seems I no longer dream of what I desire,
just desire to dream.
What does that say of my desires?
Fulfilled? Ha,
I wish.
Am I really to grow old so fast,
or just grow tired?