When the door to my writing chamber gasps shut and the almost imperceptible sigh of a rose petal falls on my desk, I know that my muse is present.
Brandi L. BatesTag: writing
When I'm drunk with feeling and nature is drinking from my lips and we reflect each other in our atmospheres, then my words come effortlessly and my fingers go into labor...day or night.
Brandi L. BatesTag: writing
You and those shot-glass eyes, deep swirling pools of 80-proof firewater, with the depth and profundity of Saturn’s spinning pulsars…
Brandi L. BatesTag: love poetry women shakespeare brandi-bates
All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.
Brandi L. BatesTag: love girls poetry women beauty food brandi-bates
I will Basquiat the canvas of your body like a Broadway Junction wall…and Gordon Parks you for those dark midnights when your scent fades.
Brandi L. BatesTag: love poetry new-york urban brandi-bates basquiat gordon-parks
We've developed algorithms for orgasms, broken it down to a science, I spell out equations on the small of your back, your kisses, the most beautiful calculus I've ever studied. You do fractions and long handed division up my thighs, balance equations between my legs...even my sharp clefts and C-notes can't match our depths...
Brandi L. BatesTag: love
David’s mouth dripped open slowly. He stood with his heels dug into my carpet, a dashed hope, a broken dream. No amount of money could top the priceless look that gathered on his face like an unmade bed. His eyebrows crumpled and furrowed like disheveled sheets. His lips curled into an acidic smirk. Confusion and shock collided in the cornea of his dilated pupils. He was a B.B. King song, personified. His entire body sang the blues.
Brandi L. BatesHe was miles past middle age with a gut that housed ample good meals. A patch of silver hair formed a trail from his forehead to the crown of his head where it dead ended with male pattern baldness. A sea of family photos took up residence on his desk. He sat back in a high-back leather swivel chair. Steepled hands. Robert Last Boots in Cognac Cordovan. Blue collar city worker with prestigious white collar dreams.
Brandi L. BatesTag: writing
Lowkey punchdrunk off this Sangria-sweet love and all it’s prodigious trappings…
Brandi L. BatesTag: humor love sex drugs alcohol
Unapologetically smitten with thunderstorms...the thought of rough sex beneath an acid washed moon and hydrated stars...
Brandi L. BatesTag: love sex jk-rowling james-patterson new-moon brandi-bates thunderstorms
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