Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Canoodling his significant other,
Our man Henry was loathe to discover:
The **** had run dry,
But rather than cry,
He decided to go get the butter.
© 2015  J.J.W. Coyle
K Balachandran Sep 2012
Allured by the witchcraft of your auburn curls,
hit by the corners of those swift piscine eyes,
submitted to your canoodling with my secret desires;
the last straw was your pouty, luscious, ruby lips!
Brent Kincaid Apr 2018
Let’s canoodle, let’s spoon.

Let’s cuddle, let’s squeeze.
It has been too long in between
So, let us do this now, please.

I want to lie down next to you
And feel your heart beat close.
To match the rhythm with mine
And then enjoy it as it slows
And matches with the cadence
Of the heart inside my chest.
Of all the moments in my life
This is the one I love best.

I admit that I’m distracted today
That’s the idea I’ve been noodling.
Having fun with you all alone;
Doing some serious canoodling.
It s a better idea than hiking
Or washing the car or cooking.
We just turn on some cool music
And both of us get to canoodling.

Doing simple math for us,
Like one and one make two.
Means I am one number
And of course, so are you.
We can add up some others
Like one well planed meal.
Later it may seem like a dream
But, I assure you, it will be real.

Let’s canoodle, let’s spoon.

Let’s cuddle, let’s squeeze.
It has been too long in between
So, let us do this now, please.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
K Balachandran Aug 2017
Rapidly the girl speaks  in convoluted riddles,

Seems like  bent to push him in to a puddle,

Intrigued he sets out tightly tying his girdle,

Being the type who always wants to be in the saddle.

Wanted to unravel the true intent, concealed,

He did go about it in right earnest, the next moment.

Watching her blue eyes for any sign of betrayal.

One serious doubt, persisted all the while.

Which one of them is naive here, him or her?

He could sense she poking fun of him, now and then.

In some way, does it to him send, a clue, clear?

Now, he gets it, in a flash, who is at fault here.

The moon shine, abruptly wanes , can't last for ever.

Coming from under the shadows, the sun shines brighter.

"Ay, there is the rub" he heard him tell himself!

When they, the duo swooned were already busy canoodling!
AC  Sep 2013
Puff of Smoke
AC Sep 2013
It's as if a photograph is the most valuable thing one can own;
That sepia tone, that time and date stamp,
What a friend,
What an ode to memories of a time long past,
A year ago today it went- ****!- Just. Like. That.
And just like that, you're back there with all your fears and trepidations
And slight ponderings on the habits of water snakes and devils' babies.

****! just like that you're brought back to the present,
Wondering about the future;
Will it all work out outside of this moment? Which like that one,
Is so perfect and complete, a puzzle not missing a piece or having a hair out of place,
Here, in this rose garden amongst garbage heaps of relative affluence.

****! you're gone away unto the Future,
A mystical, magical unfamiliar place... because there is not like here,
Where you are so sure of everything, and the complete certainty of infinite possibility
Canoodling with your youth cries out to you in exhilaration
And apathy
For your autumn years;
You know these city streets and ally walls and University halls,
You know these faces and those places and the box
Which you have built yourself out of recycled materials- opinions, quotes, and ideas
You're only borrowing,
Like a sweater with multi-coloured buttons from an old friend that you might just decide to keep,
Or give away to charity
If that happy interlude between lending and returning has long ago expired.

****! Here you are! Right now! This instant!
A vast infinite collection of empty spaces and visited places,  
Held by bonds no tighter than your weakest ties.
And all those times you said you were going to carpe diem,
You let it veni vidi vici you instead.
So, holding this photograph, I ask you now:
In the puff of smoke lit from the flash of the camera,
Is this the way you want to live, or is the meaning of alive simply to die?
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2014
I hear your footsteps on the clouds:
and I waited for you,
but you sliced the skies, and
vanished in a haze of crimson.
I am the insolent waves canoodling the weeds.
I am the rock-resolve that is dissolving
unknown to leaps. I was waiting
for you and I got drunk.
I will be everywhere, mourning in the winds
and lisping in the depths.
Though they said I shouldn't.
The chorus of gulls announces now,
that I lost you, I lost you. A whirl-storm
is rising in the desert. But that is
so far away. Evil is always far away.
I must earn my bread now, though
I am waiting for you. Half-whirl.
Half-whistle. Pestle-pounding my soul
Looking for pebbles in the flour.
http://sineinverse.wordpress.com/2014/11/12/on-loss-and-reconcilization/

— The End —