11-26-2010, 11:56 AM
brought this one from the practice thread for a little mild critique, feel free to rip away 
Today's Colour Is?
The African marigolds splashed the garden marmalade bright
matching the sweltering smile of a darker sun;
not that light coloured sun that dazzles, but the one that make a body drip
like honey over cornflakes, thick and viscous.
The colour of their flowery heads matched that of my lazy cat reclining in the shade
Whose fir resembled a glowing lava flow.
As devious as his animated counterpart Marmaduke:
He was resting after snatching an unobservant koi from the pond.
Between stretches, His belly, swollen with fish
lay like a small water balloon. The mottled carcass of the dead
swam among what granddad called his “Papaver orientale”
“Their oriental poppies “ I’d tell him. He’d smile at my words
light his meerschaum and tell me; “get fucked”
The once fire topped twins played tea party on a tartan blanket.
Hours, years in the sun (six) had tempered their burning hair
dulled the flames to a lighter ember, that matched their freckled faces.
They chatted like old ladies while offering each other crumpets and cake
Soon they’d explode into the irate Irish vixens they were, with expletives
learned from an ageing grouch of a grandfather
who took great pleasure in hearing them curse.
Today's Colour Is?
The African marigolds splashed the garden marmalade bright
matching the sweltering smile of a darker sun;
not that light coloured sun that dazzles, but the one that make a body drip
like honey over cornflakes, thick and viscous.
The colour of their flowery heads matched that of my lazy cat reclining in the shade
Whose fir resembled a glowing lava flow.
As devious as his animated counterpart Marmaduke:
He was resting after snatching an unobservant koi from the pond.
Between stretches, His belly, swollen with fish
lay like a small water balloon. The mottled carcass of the dead
swam among what granddad called his “Papaver orientale”
“Their oriental poppies “ I’d tell him. He’d smile at my words
light his meerschaum and tell me; “get fucked”
The once fire topped twins played tea party on a tartan blanket.
Hours, years in the sun (six) had tempered their burning hair
dulled the flames to a lighter ember, that matched their freckled faces.
They chatted like old ladies while offering each other crumpets and cake
Soon they’d explode into the irate Irish vixens they were, with expletives
learned from an ageing grouch of a grandfather
who took great pleasure in hearing them curse.