He with the hard ***, tats, and gruff
Will beguile lonely princesses
With fluffy words for instances
When vibrators aren’t enough

Green mint breath,with a predator’s thirst,her hot steamed plunder,spanked to affection;some candy man love.Her tom-tom palms,such smooth pony thighs;candy requires perfection,ride, boy ride.The monkey house screams,call it a wild girl whisper,her hot scripted words;I believe in love.Candy riders, where’s this going?Going to slaughter,touching her thighs;riding the animal slide.My candy girl,little steamed fluffer,she sweats warm venom;I feel her love.You’re pretty slow, if you still don’t know.It’s called taste of the savage,for ponys and monkeys,a sweet attraction;for candy boy love.She was hired to please,to guard, above the knee.You got it now.It was ‘62 and I was hot.2010 Barry Comer

Along time ago in the land of the Elves
With the Pixies, Gnomes and Sprites
Lived Millicent Mary, a belly button fairy
Adorned in her tutu and tights

Now poor little Millicent
Super cute and innocent
Hadn't been a fluffer very long
When trusted by superiors
Which that alone's mysterious
Only got the purchase order wrong!

Whilst ordering the belly fluff
She found the maths a little tough
And set upon her path to sheer disgrace
Before she'd ordered every hue
She started with the colour blue
And accidentally missed the decimal place

Umbridging the gap

and the platitudes of word-******

     as well as the Encyclopedic pimps of posh

spiced with lingual ice...



          Because I am a simpleton

with a thirst for the Beloved

             and its discriptive meanings, I am

                       scholarly lacking

    Juxtaposing my script to refer

to references Grecian or urn,

                     enflagrante artisan

                            spurts with superlatives and

personified iambics of rhetorical lines

       limned with deep shagrin

              because my verbs are linear

even when my chicken scratch

                          struck midnight a match stick

flame to illuminate

         my poetic fluffer's formulae

              schisms from my own mind's magician hat...

Not to be-little or slight those hands walking

        that yellow the pages

                     with slothly seeking rote

              for meandering bibliographies

a librarian's histology fingers for Captain

Cook / exploration's verbose

           exploitation if at most

                   connecting dots treasured maps

of purposeful / placement for imagery

                         in the textiles

              of poetry's destined and enlightening

       cloak & dagger or a Throw

                        or a goose-down warmth

of Love / to blanket the night away

                           just as would a mother's / tucking in

                from the day's overwhelming

lack of reverances, referenced

             oh how to closely listen   / or live

                        beyond the history

to be in the moment

              comparing and sharing

     our joys and the power of now . . . keep it simple

because I am a simpleton with a thirst

                         with a thirst for the Beloved,

        the Truth of a promise / endowed Tao of Us. . .

we'd play hacky-sack -
I don't know how, but
I'll make it up
and I'll teach them
what to do when
they get papercuts.
And when I make their fluffer ****** for lunch,
I'll leave a note that says
“sweetie”
and they'll throw it out,
and I know they will
I'll **** five hundred trees
but it's all worth it

my devil's vanity wants
the endowment
the wam-bam empowerment
of unscripted, animalistic ***
mean machine / making
satiation at it's best...

red roses are sweet
candlelight, wine, and chocolate-covered
romance,
it's such a treat
to see your gentille side, lover
every chance

you buy gifts in abundance
but all i need -- i can't ask,
the prowess of an artist
you obviously have
yet the prowess of a real man
the brute strength of lust
you only have a quarter of a half

can you vandalize me
with the proficiency of a thief
pleasure me until relief

forces our worlds to shake
dry deserts in our mouths / throat,
soaked in a rough ride's wake

prowess of a true bloke : sweat and caress
pleasure me until i lose all
my breath and consciousness...

can you crave me
everyday / a ******* need
and only a real man can feed
me, increases me, releases me

the prowess of a macho man
a super / man / can
sprinkles it with thrusts
and makes the world
taste good...

red roses are sweet
but hunger is sustained
with only food could
****** treats
frolics on your wood
testerone prone
bites me
ignites me
prowess of a dog on a bone

damage me until i'm gone
my devil's vanity wants

© 2008 Poetic Fluffer

she tips the pool boy!

who arranges the deck chairs, opening the blue umbrellas,
and the kitchen dishwasher, who arranges them Ach so!
for the fussy, **** German-born dishwasher,
the man-who-takes-refuse-to-the-town-dump,
the bed maker, fluffer upper of pillows when up-awakened,
the driver who always has car tissues, and a disposal system,
the exterminator-in-residence, for the necessary cohabitating pests,
the guy who buys the groceries so she may live to see her grandchildren,
but that guy,
who writes her only love poetry,

he just gets the finger,
yes, all ten, a 2X five bonus,
and their associated tips,
whenever
he,
presses SEND,
a new poem,
just for her,
created.

she calls it an even bargain, what she don’t know, I’d do it all for free,
for just a single eyelash winking.

Umbridging the gap,
and the platitudes of word-******
     as well as the Encyclopedic pimps of posh
spiced with lingual ice...
          Because I am a simpleton
with a thirst for the Beloved
             Her discriptives, meanings,
                      Am I / I am / scholarly lacking
    Juxtaposing my script to refer
to references Grecian or urn, an
                     enflagrante artisan
                            spurts with superlatives,
personified iambics of rhetoric, the lines
       limned with deep shagrin

              because my verbs are linear
even when my chicken scratch
                          struck midnight a match stick
flame to illuminate
         my poetic fluffer's formulae,
              schisms from my own mind's magician hat...

Not to be-little or slight those hands walking
        that yellow the pages
                     slothly seeking rote,
              for meandering bibliographies,
librarian's histology / fingers for Captain
Cook or Hook / exploration's verbose
           exploitation if at most
                   connecting dots’ treasured maps
purposeful / placement / the imagery
                         in the textiles
              of poetry's destined enlightenments

       cloak & dagger or a Throw
                        a goose-down warmth
of Love / to blanket the night away
                           just as would a mother's tucking in
                from the day's overwhelming
lack of reverances, referenced,
             oh how to closely listen   / hear
                        beyond the history
beyond the moments end
              comparing and sharing
     our joys power of now . . .
keep it simple

because I am a simpleton with a thirst
                         with a thirst for the Beloved,
        the Truth of an endowed Tao /
Promise of Us. . .
(All gaps and platitudes)