Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Ten cents on the dollar?
follow me
for more updates.
a soul history is like the caligraphy of dunes
the psyche toiling its dark materials
sketching shadows from imagination
the cabaret of desire contemplating all the wonderful trivial terrible beings you can be. a wave in my mind you are
between the visible and invisible man the wisdom of the shamans

I walk on streets, I see things, I touch hands suffering from imagination deficit disorder. sometimes I have thoughts in reverse
but I cage my heart in this shrine of memory while
I am looking for you dawn by dawn, bird by bird
He was the sexiest and most treasured connection
That made me sweat like no other
When he flexed his oiled-up muscles
When he smoked and showed me
The mind-blowing magic of his dopeness

When he stroked his meaty pole
When he rubbed his massive nuts
Had them bouncing
And blowing my mind
He made me float more than ever
With his two hand stroking

Gave me a ******* fever
Had me loving the hell out of his thugness
The way he opened his lean legs
Pulled me into his dreamy dimension
Of unprecedented masculinity

Had me so drunk on his *** gun
Drooling, drifting in deep, thrilling trances
Caressing my jiggling melons
Squeezing my nips the more he played
With his big, long snake

I fantasized a thousand times and more
About his extraordinarily splashy attractiveness
He had me so far gone on his **** rod
His big ***** were so **** edible
His ****, manly backside was badass

He was everything that gave me
The hottest hard-ons
Made me surrender to his sensual space
Made my man ***** we
Super-sizzling thoughts of him
Crowded my brain
Visualizing him stretching my walls
Reaching into the depths of me

******* my ****
Making me his *****
And as I watched him
I was so lost in his remarkably
Enthralling awesomeness
Took in his seductive grunts
As he nutted everywhere
Beneath these
satin sheets,
my memory
flutters like
little birds on
indigo nights.

Folded wings
rest in my
mind's eye.
Fingers itch with
visions,
Delta of Venus,
orchids in bloom,
wet with the
sticky dew.

I grip my
virility
and begin
a slow
waltz...
It feels so
good.
Check out my you tube channel, where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QM7lwC25XYo
The moments, the Big moments
drape or twist.  I am veined.
The philodendronas years

Lead me

     here

to you.  The loud years of
babies are simple maths.

Legs and arms no longer

     wrap.

Their smooth hands patted me.

I was a queen once, in the
Nile river.  I woke up here
to mental words.

I am happy in my way
Cynara.

I send you, love, 100 years
     Of gratitude.


Caroline Shank
1.26.2024


*In my fashion”


Caroline Shank
1.26.2024
In my kitchen
your place
is at the table
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                           The Confusions of Being Human

                    To live life to the end is not a childish task

               -Pasternak, “Hamlet” (one of the Zhivago poems)

What do you do when you find yourself standing
Or maybe sitting, or kicked back with a cigarette
Among the smoking wreckage of institutions
The institutions that framed our actions and thoughts

Existentialism is inadequate
After all, we did not create ourselves
Each of us is an outward-looking I
A dependent center of reactions

But the unities upon which we depended
Have failed and collapsed upon themselves
Leaving us alone and stunned on an ashen plain
Alone and stunned and sorting out the pieces

And we can only sort them, not create them
For we are not God
                                               This is all a mystery
Next page