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 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
My tired eyes meet yours
Straining in the dim lighting
Sipping the drink you bought me
Through the thin straw
Sweetness tatooed on my lips
I gently lick it away

Your voice is brash
But mine is almost somber
I play the part well
Of the innocent rabbit
And you're the sly fox
Looking to devour me

Suddenly I'm in your den
Sitting on your mattress
Watching reruns we've both seen
You say loosen up
And touch my thigh
Sending pulses between my legs

Your tongue dives in my mouth
Exploring every crevice
Like a cartographer
You reach up my dress
Looking for the ocean
Your tongue tastes of sea salt

Your face between my thighs
Telling a story I've never heard
Your tongue is a paint brush
Skillfully scribbling caligraphy
I cry out in a foreign language
That feels so familiar

Every inch of my body
Quivers with joy
But there is no love here
And I wonder
If I'm really the innocent one
Or if I devour hearts as well
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
Amber S
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
Amber S
trail my fingers along my thighs.
nothing like the graze of your
honeyed tongue.
dig my nails into my skin.
doesn't compare to your fervent teeth
on my collarbone.
whisper your name into the dark.
if only your storm sea eyes
could look at me.
and dazzle me.
and drown me.
and devour.
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
Secret Garden
Its amazing how much I chose to expose
Put our lives center stage on a spot-light pedestal
Read allowed every stanza that I'd never really heard
Understood the real message,
Not just a mixture of words

As every line flowed right back through me,
I realized your words have more of a meaning
In the time line of my life,
no matter how fleeting,
The thought of you is as easy as unconsciously breathing
Forever's just word with an ever changing meaning
And after everything is said and done,
I'm still stuck here singing...
Write me a song,
Sing it louder then before
Devour my passion
Then show yourself the door

It never was enough,
no matter how much baggage I tried to give up
You were starting battles while I was ending wars
But do not confuse a warm welcome, for an always open door

I have spent a lot time where I am,
whether you know I have or not,
I wasn't willing to give up my land
I was refusing to sell my lot,
But the lot that I was trapped in,
Was borrowed from the start
So when they took it from me,
I found a home inside my heart
I worked hard for the family
that I would die for today,
"We can't pick ones we started with,"
but we can pick the ones who stay

Write me a song,
Sing it louder then before,
Devour my passion
Then show yourself the door
Complications have me lost in a mental whirl-wind
Never have I felt more lost,
Then when you've felt more certain
I'm curious to know my love,
If you've thought about it much,
Did you ever stop to question,
Have you always pictured us?

I've read what you have written,
About everyone else it seems,
I wonder if you still like to write
Anything about me

Write me a song
Sing it louder then before
Devour my passion
Then show yourself the door
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
fill me with your flavor
let your sweetness
take residence in my mouth
treat your essence
like a fragrance
and wear you out
make you my delicacy
and bare your fruits
delicately until our pleasures amount
releasing your pure juices
like a faucet they
spew out
 Oct 2021 Lady Bird
Bronx Peach
365Nectar #60  Devour Me        
Fri. November 22, 2013  9:18 P.M.

Devour me...

A provocative passionate pouring
of pillaging and plundering...
A pleasing prowling
of a piercing plunderer...
A lovely, limp nymph
laid upon a sizzling alter...
Awakening all the senses
a choking of lust
unleashes exhilarating

envelops you...

Effortlessly evoking ethereal...
a sinister seduction
seductively seduces
and hungry hips
breakdance with hysterical
Stimulating a surreal surge of a sweet seeping...


For you to chisel
an unimaginable devouring...

S slow steady climb to the summit
of the ultimate ******...
Time... a tool to employ flamboyantly...


Expose my conquered heart
that leaks
of streams
of cream
of succulent sensation...

Expose my tamed moistness
that whispery whines
as you build a legacy
of torturous licking....


Slithering in spicy spirals
of stirring screams
from stormy shivers
of steamy anticipation
of your redefining touch...

drowning in the sticky sensation
of all that is us...
A tender luscious love liquefying flesh
and penetrating souls...

We blend in blazing bliss
tapping taboo for titillating thrills
you rock a rowdy ravishing
inside me...

I whisper wet whimpers
and beg for bitten breast...
Our wrestling hips
hug, *****, and groan a hungry growling...
Pounded into saturated submission
I linger in lubricating dreams
for you-

devour me.
Your fingertips
Heal me…
Just that soft touch to my face
When my tears stream down my face
Defining that my whole world
Had a hurricane
And that no sunny days
Are approaching
Just the rain
And the wind
And that bad vibe

But you can heal me…
Your fingertips
Have that soft touch
That mends my heart together
Without plasters but with magic
It’s touch turns my hair
Into fine wool
And my skin into soft silk
My eyes then become
Your favourite colour,
And all the rags become riches
And all the tears become
Nourishing water that heals
Only because of your touch

Please heal me
With your fingertips
That lay a soft touch on my body
Just caress the scars
And let them turn to brave soldiers
On my skin that fight back
To whatever tries to hurt me
I don’t want that depression
I don’t want that hurt

I just want your soft touch
I want your fingertips to heal me
I want them to spin my heart into gold
Just like the miller’s daughter with straw
In Rumpelstiltskin
Can you do that?
My back is brutally beaten
With twigs that have thorns
And bullets always pierce
Through my body
But knives constantly stab
Through my heart
Just stabbing
And stabbing
And stabbing
I need that to stop!
My back is hurting
And my body is numbing
But my heart no longer has
Oxygenated blood in it
Will you be able to touch it?
Will you be able to put
Your hand through my chest
And just touch my heart
With your soft bare hands
That feel like cotton candy
Not because it’s healing is sweet
But because it’s healing is gentle

Fact is
That your fingertips heal
They have a soft touch
So soft that they can turn
My heart amnesiac
I need to forget,
But I only need you
And your soft touch
To help me…
My body helpless as desire seems to consume

My bed so lonely without you

As steaming hot passion burns uncontrollably free

My lips are moistened with my feverish tongue

As inside my hearts flaming desires are definitely ripened

My breast bare as the night chill gives them a rush

I begin to moan but try hard to keep it hush

Tenderly my fingers dribble down my bare breast

To delicate places my fingers slowly come to a rest

I circle my ****** as a chill flows through

Inside of me a passion burns so deep with thoughts of you

As sweat begins to build upon my body so warm

I linger on to places that even more feelings can dwell

Down to my stomach my fingers seem to glide

Down to that spot where my passion seems to hide

A hot burning desire, I feel the flames flowing so free

As my fingers dip into the deeper depths of me

So wet and flaming the power of my desire

Inside this spot is the total passion of my extreme desire

My mind trapped in thoughts of you beside me

As , I begin to moan with excitement, 

The faster my fingers seem to go

A deep sigh a ****** purr a deep emotion breaking free

Sounds of rapture wanting to erupt, 

And open up to this total ecstasy

A burning desire inside my body so deep

So much hot passion that I moan

Unable for silence to keep

Thoughts of you consume my soul and my heart

As this burning desire within me comes forth to depart

I let go of myself and seem to float high above

As emotions inside me remind me of your sweet body

My bed empty where in my mind you lay

Upon my body a burning desire, I can't keep away

Oh tonight, I may dream and feel this
pleasure so true

But tomorrow my **** man

I will give all this desire to you and only you

A burning desire inside we both shall feel

As tonight may be just a fantasy

For tomorrow it will be so real

© Jennifer L DeLong 5/7/17
Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are ***** scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.
 Nov 2020 Lady Bird
Everyone talks about passion as if they know her.
But passion is my closest friend.
Passion is the fire that burns behind her eyes, the cigarette perishing between her lips.
Passion is the way my mouth feels against her chest, the breathy moan as my fingers grab her hips
Everyone says she is intense, but all I can think is how much there’s left to learn
Because passion knows what it feels like to burn out.
She lights fires in dangerous places and has more scorch marks than she has friends
Shes so calm and gentle yet never condescends
Passion is convalescence, her voice heals more than it bites
She holds my hand in the day time and holds me tighter in the nights.
Passion is pulling her closer at 1am because she smells like hope.
And nobody talks about hope as if they know her.
Passion is manipulated, overlooked and exploited
Everyone talks about passion as if they know her.
But nobody talks about passion as if they deserve her.
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