The sweat  from her skin but a creation of passion.
In the rapture of plessure no prisoners taken.
Rage made passion, plessure made the moment.

Inside from the storm the encounter was torment of the best kind.
The bed creaked as a ****** end would only inspire more vivid
desires.

More than *** was a moment of two bodies colliding
on the plessure cast road to release.
Flesh meeting and all false manners cast aside
the primal motives always kick in.

Her body was a shared experience theater for
of a wicked plessure.
Her skin pure in such a jaded since.

Tommorow would the moment be lost in some sort
of awkward  rythm of stillness.
Two stranger's who need reason to meet.

Or would the true self speak above the moral  code.
The drink of life I so wish to drown within tonight.
Naked  thoughts bared scars.

We would venture  back to circles her's would view her
a ***** for knowing happiness.
And mine would yern to only hear of conquest but
see in mirror and dream with deaf ear.

It was a plessure to embrace chaos.
So may we drown togather again.

i have to admit...

Bulgarian prostitutes

are the most responsible
women i've ever known...

condoms? full bodied
latex?

      contraception pills?

cam s videos?

                 my my....
what a ******* rainbow!


so conversation is
the supposedly "new ****"?
ahead of my "time"...

if ever coincidentally,
the ideal escapism /
entrapment...

          twangy twangy...
American accent
like the sound of a Boston banjo...
the ******* to boot,
with it...

              that awkward uncle?
and some teenage girl making a video
blog?
about how difficult it was
to enter a video-convention?
what is, and what isn't, funny?

      i tuned into the drama brigade...
like you might tune into
the current MTV with teenage moms...

she's bloated, and
making extra making
pregnant teen jerking off videos?!
**** me...
               that's about a month
that has just disappeared from
my calendar!

           Murphy, meet dropkick
McMurphy...
     McMurphy,
meet kayleigh McDurmut...
yeah...
that one... balancing
the one legged hop and spew...

personally?
i like watching videos of 14 old girls...
gets me in the mood,
of anticipating fatherhood...
which, given my drinking...
will never materialize...

in terms of ****?
i already overstated the excesses of
condoms...
   and what, could always become,
the Latino **** crisis of
a Cuban post-scriptum...
            personally?
i don't appreciate unnecessary
surprises?
  pro-life or alternatively...
   i don't like surprises...
not those kind of surprises...
        esp. involved in trans-nationalism
******* strap-on tendencies
of adhered to normalizations...
no...
     sorry...
L O V E... doesn't spell out
    vole...
        or whatever variant...
i wouldn't even have cared to object
to sustaining a unit of family,
by invigorating the concept of
Anastasia!
            bribing an orphan to
fake a biological clockwork of...
supposing you weren't mine...
  but my mind, which you have began to
ingest...
      what is this, folly,
this geneticist argument about,
both the act of procreation,
and the necessity of the said act,
with the attached confinement of
pursuing the tag of proclaiming
a continuum of genes?!
      i can't, and i won't figure it out...
**** it...
         sad old "uncle" syndrome...
     but a sigh of relief...
i'm actually looking for pornographic
alternatives...
         it doesn't actually begin or end
within the confines of extremity...
.gif, pictures, fine art...
     14 year old girls making
autobiographical videos...
   and? less *******,
and more... giggling...
               could i have had the tenacity
of becoming, a father!
   my god!

i guess a man will always find
adopting a child, more appealing...
to the consensus of
the anti-thesis of a prodigy...
once he has allowed himself
a chance...
to pet, an animal.

And the scars you  call  sovaneirs that mark your
arms and haunt your dreams.
The canvas tattred at times.
belongs to a tortured artist it seems.

Beatings breed the monster none will ever know.
Cast into the emptyness as a child.
Cries fell apon deaf ears screams in need of a direction
to go.

No photos or memories past do I
tressure.
the outcast understands the truth.
And does reside with the pain of plessure.

And the wicked will always find.
A subject so innocent.
For the weak are always left behind.

Blood apon the hands secrets eat at the soul
like a cancer.
Insanity has no reason.
Questions are asked for which i have no answer.

From chaos ive risen to bury that ghost.
Taken a form of a clown.
trapped within a prison this shell is but
a tempary host.

underneath the laugther it always does exist.
Passed of in conversations
Im fine I always insist.

It's no worry it's only a part time
lessure.
In the emptyness of my darkend soul.
I know the true pain of plessure.

As a canvas of naked beathy I trace every curve loving every moment when her sweet skin is pressed against

mine.

Her moans A music to fill the darkness of a passion filled night.

Kissing lips tasting the sweetness of desire her body the vesssel of my love.

Inside the softness are plessure building her love free as inside her i drive myself

yerning for this moment to never end.


Love is eternal *** is a action that only brings us togather as one.

A storm of emotions and a valley of plessure as we explore are bodys

togather one night of many of a eternal passion.


Her legs around my waist back against the wall bodys apart souls togather.

her plessure my passion sweat laced slumber as togather we came.

as in gentle slumber i brush her hair aside from her neck.

marvle at my angel so sweet within my arms.


As she turns to me looking so deeply beyond all i am not.

And seeing her lover and her friend she takes my inside her

as we make love through the nights plessure casting aside the past and its

pain.


In her eyes I see all that I never knew i could be.

Her eyes that touch my soul and melt the flesh.

Words unspoken her body so perfect as if made for my arms.


This night eternal you've cast over every day.

Julie Elizbeth Robbins.

You know the ocean of my soul and it yerns for you to forever stay.




I could never say everything you are to me Jules.

are road has been long but all I know is that.

you are my passion and the life blood to my soul.

For we know what other's few ever will

love eternal babydoll John.

I'll leave my resolution as she leaves her
tight black dress apon the floor.
In passion of a ***** tinted kiss.
we'll forget the times to follow if only
in are trainwreck splendor.

Two souls thirsting for contact.
Tearing at one another like children unwrapping
gifts from under the tree.

Plessure is a dream togather were caught willing
victims of a lost night and a years end.

As tommorows starts a year's slow decline.
In her eyes I need only a glimpse to recall.
The madness that was in the streets we
stole a nights most simple plessure.

A private partys afterglow is such a bittersweet
tressure we'll recall togather.
In the velvet of a embrace more than skin did connect.
Within thoose eye's the embers of that private
party for a breif moment does reflect.

As traces of reallity plague the return of the following
day.
One kiss tasting of devilish remorse I caught a whisper of love
But in a shallow moments thought just watched it
walk away.

To know more than the plessures  of  a nights  collision.
Twisted is the tangle   in the blindness of passion
it absorbs into the night.

Far beyond actions  and simple passion of a night shared.
The scent of  its plessure makes thoughts subside.
As she does tease the senses we are brought down
to  the ways of children begging for release.

To know passion and embrace the  moment
she will not understand.
Dreamers cannot fathom  its pure reallity.

Laced in love so ****** up from life.
Gentle  are the velvet edges tender as
the surgeons knife.


When it ends maybe tommorow it shall begin.
To feel it's fire only to be tormented by it's cold.

The beauty  of a violent release flustration
in arms of regret does reside.
The sounds of  echo of torments plessure.
The true voice we were so unwilling to admit.

As in the are madness  sanity  is but a glimmer of light.
As held tightley two bodies rest weary.
Cast a jaded view of love of a immortal  
apon this soon  to be forgotten night.

It's like a distant call of a well known ghost.
Change breath's heavy apon the wind.
She yerns to know the other end of rejection.

Two broke souls rich in the passion of a uncertin day.
No money can touch that excitment of  just what comes next.
Sweet mercey  we exist on a favor we cant repay.


A old radio and room no bigger than   postage stamp.
***** windows give the best moonlit visions indeed.
Five star dream's I'll take a greezy burger and cold beer
my  hand inbetween her thighs.

Her eye's speak the  direction we shall take.
A devilish grin a twisted snake of plessure
leading to a old bed's dusty retreat.

But millions can't taste this moment.
Inside her plessure I grasp a key turned towards
the locked vessel to which she does give.

My nights are rich in splendor.
And  a endless river  in thought.

i steal glances from you..
and you steal glances from her..
and it's a cycle i'm torturing myself to.

The room was packed in a kinda vacant almost like my mind way.
People posting words most spelled right most all  deep with big words which I really didnt understand.
Dam you kindergarden why didnt I pay more attention !

I was deep in some sort of cult meeting.
I belive people in that third world country called Canada people
call it a poetry reading.
You here to share your work sir?

the woman asked in a strange way unlike most women she didnt seem to be armed with anything but thoose dam tassers were getting smaller and smaller everyday but hey it isnt how big your tasser is it's how
you use it right girls?
Im know im not right.

The grand dragon or queen and owner of the cult approached the mic with a lingering want in his eyes
he gripped the mic firmly in his hands and from the way he handled the mic i could tell this was a man who enjoyed holding a mic in his hands hmmm must be playing for the other team like Green Bay Packers.
But enough about the man for who's name I cant mention or i'll be thrown in the princeple's office yet again.
And no man should have to face that *** dungeon by themself or at least without being paid first.


Hello poet's welcome to are open mic night he said in a very manish like Justin Bieber tone.
Oh baby but enough with the forplay children.

One by one the group said there verses covering many subjects most which were about fairy tales
like love and men who put down the seat after taking a **** duh who ever does that!?
And as these hampsters went through there woe's and tales of  lakes and long walks on the beach many had to question on such a deep level.

What the **** was ******* up semi insane ****** with a heart of gold like myself doing the **** here?
Im kidding im not a ****** I never charge.

And now fellow poets id like to welcome a very special guest.
Please give a warm poetry welcome to notorious black sheep of the site
one word can only describe him the man the mith the ******* who's so long winded he'll
put you into a coma Gonzo.


Without wasting time to speak utter nonsense in a utter crap style
Drew how we miss you.
I stood befor the group.

The silence a strange sister indeed many looked and i could tell what they thought
Whos this long winded *******.
Okay that kinda hurt.

I took a nice long breath of air in looked to the cult leader handed him my drink .
And began.

Poetry what can I say about it ?
Why did I ever start writting?
You may belive it was to voice the inner struggels of daily torment to give art to chaos.
Yes indeed.
Ahh **** folks im kidding i just did it to  make chicks think i was deep and its the only sport ive played where being a drunk is just a added plessure

Hey we can express are pain or just party are little drunken arses off
Me I only drink twice a week.
Weekdays and weekends.

Sure I could have come here been serious uptight never cracked a joke or mispelled anything cause i was having a few social bottles of whiskey with a like garnish of acid but what fun would that be?

Look everyone needs to laugh and every class needs clown just like every town its *****.
And every village its mispelling  idiot!
A voice said interupting my epic speech theres always a smart *** somewhere
but hey that was a good one ******.

Mr Gonzo is there any advice you can give us to make this write any longer?
Why yes young little hampster.
Always carry plenty  of cash for the strippers write more about drinking and *******.
And most of all Stay Crazy


Oh yeah and if your parents like your writing  it probaly *****.

And from the hushed voices i could tell i had touched the young minds but not in a weird avoid uncle Charlie and his nonexistant candy bar in the pocket kinda way.

It was more like uhh what the **** is he on and I hope insanity isnt catching cause i was
sitting next to that perve kinda way.

And so like a mad hatter or a kinda weird guy dressed like one at a all you can eat buffet
I was off.
And as I  put the pinto to the wind I herd the   applause
As that person for which we do not name said.
And finally that twisted freak Gonzo has left the building

Frozen was the ground warm was the flesh.
A total whiteout.
Yet not a single curve was missed through
such thin mesh.

She spoke frozen in the moment
to every word she said.
So cold was the night.
Warm was the bed.

Deep within  passion written with
with a kiss.
Warmth cannot be ignored.
Even on a snow covered night like this.

Snow drifts slowley as i view
the moon's light illuminate your
silhouette as across the room you slowley walk.
Confessions in the key of plessure
with such gentle pillow talk.

Ice cicles  and love bites.
Memories etched deeply within are hearts.
From these lovesick nights.

And as snow does melt.
We will not question every little word said.
Just cheerish the moments.
When cold was the night.
And warm was the bed.

Fond memories caught within a sound swirl like smoke rings
in my mind.
Dancing in the shadows of a empty floor.

Closed we are in thoughts times of past need to return.
She questions my words but I answer so very true.
Were actors in the play so overdue to end.

Bottles reflect a glimmer of a feeling I can no longer pretend.
the record skips only to repeat again.
The windows show another broken try,
Forclose the madness happiness for sale if you understand the lie.

I found it a chore not a plessure to speak.
Were togather in misery told to create yet persecuted
in the whim of another.

Broken are the  bounds I found nothing to hold true.
The butcher  takes the pen the writer has only to breath
to create.
Fight but what of the battle and its failure to end?

The storm has started
But ive gone inside a viewer to the insanity I refuse to play.
Sometimes you have to wipe the slate clean to start new.

The sound tells of a place I no longer wish to recall.

Bottles in brown bags clutter along the fence.
the citys inner chambers call to me even now.
The human relics the walking forgotten beaten by life.

The gutters tressures collect the remains
of another misspent night.
The air smells  of treachery a tinge of regret.

Why she huants my  heart a flawless escape.
we can leave but we take that moments sealed  plessure.
Silk encounters hash pavment of a empty embrace.

The old fool who's birthday he relives
only in hope for change.
I celebrate the ignored embracethe strange.

I wonder do young lovers dreams sail
out into that skyline eternal and free.
Or crash into reallitys rocks.
Leaving them jaded and bitter as me?

The bottle the lips you know better
than the once warm flesh.
Would she reconize the monster.
Or see the sad and helpless mess.

Apon the steps a bottle between perfect strangers and new
best friends.
Passed thoughts lost moments.
A busy streetlight on a empty road.

The hopeless and the charmed exist ina strange harmony
of the citys strange and beautiful tune.

I wonder will I ever know you again?
The angel with demonic lust.
Dreams are a blessing the curse is
only to pretend.

Farwell midnight hello darkness
dusk and sunsets of a yerning heart.
Apon that bench by the the water.
Watching the paper lanterns glow.
As in lost souls they so peacefully depart.

Back roads like my image seem destined for only past reflection for ive burnt the image within the depths
of a dirrty song and a broken soul.
Track marks warm feeling can you embrace my day eternal and gather my sense for just one more write.
Can i hold it togather just for one more night?
Im sorry i cant speak within these confines lets give madness a manic spin in a shallow crowd.

As a dim lit room the wine will flow sangria's fire can you replace that which I no longer control?
It used to be freedom now it only is a action like some trained monkey or circus animal i know the routine but never do i thrive as once i did befor.

As for passion it's as dead as my voice that echos within this tomb.
Do you know what it is to die twice.?
I never did thirst for the norm and now im overwhelmed by rejection it's so very hard to run on junkies leg's.
Page I can only spoil your plessure for the well has went dry leaving only a fool with a tin cup to die of thirst beside you.

Another summers play ive passed more thoughts unwritten to a audience of stars .
When words dont connect there simply empty call's apon the wind.
But a fools  yerning is but a role and this play has been cast for another.

I hope you understand that which makes me only question in a paranoid late night haze.
The nightwatch no longer my own time has come for me to step aside.