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onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
sometime before sunrise,
when the morn world is
still a dusky daylight, unclassified blue, me slip-slide out
of the communal bed,  where I have been up all night,
draw-drafting poems for manufacture, sale, & gift wrapping,
to await the sunrise, the sunrise, in the famous sunroom,
in a vainglorious attempt to salvage forty winks, full knowing,
that even if I'm successful, the risen eye poking rays of
one the most glorious sights which we earthlings
have been privileged and entrusted,
the sun coming with a clarification of life renewal,
will stab me into consciousness

there I lay with eyes closed, either noisy napping dreaming
like baby wendy, gurgling or emitting contentment noises,
or perfectly still, having slipped a fiver to some tenors,
to entertain me while I slide lie still on the composing continuum

the sun round seven
is maximus glorious and cannot be
looked upon by the audience in direct prayer askance,
so my eyes closed in pleasured servitude, me,
my lumpen proletariat rubenesque carcass corps is

bath burnished in sun glow so warm, so living,
that the warming words are causing a major traffic jam
in the ventricle where the love poems are formed and stored,
but fervency disguised by an unmoving, close lidded human shape

shortly after seven,
the slip soft padding feet of her rumbling noisily,
knowing where to look for him from
much practice, beginning her experimentation to determine
if me-he still among the breathing, or gone to poem heaven

since she aware, the poet in his possess, a
Masters Degree in Pretend Sleeping, must eventually
take drastic measures including kissing my keppy,
then climbing aboard my fetal incongruently angled body
with no warning other than a grunting of deep satisfaction, when,
with all her modest weight in a single swoop, intended to fell,
causing me to emit a volcanic exclamation of

you're killing me*

satisfied, nah, more sated, with a sense of
feminist goddess power ranger satisfaction,
she prepares coffee, grinding the beans, just in case,
I return to my sleep fakery status,
literally, a literary impossibility, as now
the compelling transfusing heat from sun and coffee
impel me to write this pas de deux ballet down in words, a/k/a,
only a love poem

8:32am
p.s. not only a true story,  repeated each week from June thru September,
I have signed confessions frim the serial killer.
I'm sorry but I just don't like you in that way.
Yes, I know you'd work like a Pole,
mortgage your soul,
shovel **** in cold bitter
as a Borderline love lyric
for me and my baby girl.
I know you'd keep the vampires from the door,
man up to the big bad wolf,
fling yourself full square
into the fangful furnace of a dragon
to buy my baby girl and I precious seconds.
I know you'd be our sacrificial
human bridge on a sinking ship,
subdue your sweat reflex
so we wouldn't slip.
I know'd you'd be a doormat,
I know you'd be a hard nut,
I know you'd hunt and gather,
I know you'd beg and borrow.
And I know

you'd listen to my every childhood fear,
that everything I've ever suffered
would move you to a poet's tears,
then you'd hunt down my abusers,
every last one, and give them a taste
of backstreet Cockney justice
in a lockup garage.
I know

you'd pull yourself together forever,
renounce the sauce, the juice, the tabs, the gear,
all that diehard dieeasy despair at the bottom
of the battered heart of you.
And, mummified in nicotine patches,
buddy up to all mankind, be a crusader without rest
for a world that might even begin to be a beacon
of anything good enough to guide my baby girl
to eternal safety, just that I might enjoy peace
of mind whilst I live and after I die. I know

you'd go everywhere I've ever wanted to see,
anywhere I've ever wanted to be, no matter
how hard people are for you. I know

you'd become the world's foremost scholar
of the Karma Sutra, a
supple sinewy spidery suitor,
that my ******* would be the pinkest pearl
in the least seedy, most respectful
*** museum ever opened.
And that you would be its
Gollumesque curator, attentive
to an extreme, lickpolishing it even after you're spent.
so it ruddily radiates in evermore
innermore ******* strobe,
hard light of my sensuality in forever-1st-time-like
rush and flush of perfect play gentle and rough.
You would be my Gollum but with a better bottom,
in a crotchless deepsea diversuit were that my kink.
In bed, my Drop Dead Fred, my disgusting best friend.
Postcoitally, we'd strip down
to our inner children,  you would remind me
laughter is the ****** of the child.  
I know

to you my ******* would always be the perfect *******,
however the autumn of the female form might fall,
that you'd squeeze them thru out the night from fitful
fear my glories won't be there *** morning. Or clasp
my little finger in your sleep like an instinctively
worshipful newborn. And
however stout and selfaccepting and Rubenesque
in domestic bliss I become, due to everyday Valentine's
pralines and your fussing, lifeextending homecooked
meals, I know you'll still stay trim, get down the gym,
splash on some aftershave, put on a nice shirt,
in case I desert you for the next Jackthelad. I know

there'd be so many trails of rosepetals to our boudoir,
so many silken rosepetals on the silk bedsheets
you'd be in hock to Harrods for, that the hooverbag
would be like a florist's returning from holiday.
I know

that when you're ancient as Mummra and his spirits of evil,
you'd spend a pharaoh's ransom on ******
just to make me still feel attractive, run
your arthritic fingers with difficulty thru my blue rinse.
And if I know anything,

it's that you'd write me a poem everyday,
illustrate like a whitehot monk
all the fantasias for children I've ever
idly imagined a fulfilling moneyspinner.
I'd be a Gala to your Dali
without all the twisted ****. I know

we'd be the Broadland Brangelina,
that if it ever came to it, one phonecall
after twenty years and you'd fly to me
like an angel from back in the day,
adopt my Accrington Stanley
football team of other men's kids
and lead them up the leagues. I know

you'd lie for me, die for me,
change for me, stop being strange for me.
I know

you'd lie for my baby girl, die for my baby girl,
change for my baby girl, stop being strange for my
baby girl. But

I'm sorry, I don't know what to say,
I just don't like you in that way.
Sarina Sep 2013
I wanted more than anything
to wash your mouth out with soap and rot
your teeth so no girl
would ever want to kiss you but me.

Told her things in ***** words you thought
you taught me,
but you weren't my first

tongue,
blood, use for a bandage.

-

I wanted to say I had swallowed pills
that hurt more than you.

-

I wanted to adopt lilies
as my little sisters to help them grow with
my tears -

something has
to get fertilized (has to be real).

-

I wanted to believe in fairness, that I'd
done something wrong

wrapped my lips
around the base too hard
you are what I needed so much, perhaps
it put an ache in more than just
my heart.

-

I wanted it to have been loneliness
not desire

(that is why I let someone's father put his
fingers in my mouth
and napped in lingerie his wife
never wore, and his daughter, aged

one year farther along
than me, heard us

me being his good girl, and
her understanding why she never was.)

yet you were not lonely
just painting a still life of two girls
with rubenesque thighs
you had hoped would last forever.

-

I did not want to be saved.
Frank A. Herrera Apr 2010
An old friend asked for my company
To visit a friend across the Utah Nevada line
We walked into "The Turkey Ranch"
About a dozen "Rubenesque" shaped lady's
Lined up near the Bar
They came in all flavors
(According to the sign)
Chocolate, Vanilla, Herry Berry, No cherry
"Hey Handsome - Buy a lady a drink"
I ordered a whiskey on ice
She had -  "What he's drinking"
Twenty bucks for my shot of whiskey
And her shot of Tea
(It went on my buddy's Tab)
My buddy and his friend went to her room
In the back
They were gone for an Hour
(Good thing he had a Tab)
I noticed he had a limp when they came out
As we walked out into the bright afternoon light
I asked him - "Why you limping Pete?"
"Ahh - She bit me on the cheek to remind me
"We have a date next week"
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.

Published by Erosha, The Eclectic Muse, Muse Apprentice Guild, Nisqually Delta Review, Erbacce, Poetry Life & Times and Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: warming, pearls, necklace, *******, belly, rotund, Rubens, Rubenesque, ****, painting, art, bath, bathing, seductive, sensuous, baroque, full-figured
Wk kortas Jan 2017
It would be inaccurate, indeed downright unfair,
To label her as a convenience,
Certainly no matter of being any port in a storm;
She fell into that category of handsome women,
Tending more to the Rubenesque than the runway,
And those occasions where an evening with the gang
Fragmented into a somewhat unmatched set
Were more in line with settling into a familiar harbor,
Bereft of the intoxicating hazards of shoals and sand bars, perhaps,
But comfortable with a certain steadfastness about it,
A pleasant haven from the riptides, undertows,
And various entanglements of the open water.

It was an aneurysm that took her, the type of thing
We’d associated with grandparents, aged aunts,
Corpulent colleagues of our fathers.
What’s more, it turned she was staunchly and stubbornly Lutheran,
Regular to the point of obsession in her attendance at services
(We’d no way of knowing such a thing, of course,
The notion of staying overnight at her place
To rise from last night’s sheets at mid-morning
And share a table for omelettes and awkward chit-chat
Being both curious and curiosity)
So we arrayed ourselves in stiff collars,
Accompanied by ties we’d hoped to be suitable,
As the whole affair had us a bit off balance,
And we were only able to restore our equilibrium at the end,
Just in time to attempt to bounce pebbles onto her coffin lid
In what he hoped was some witticism in Morse code.
faretheewellindotsanddashes
Mary Jul 2012
Nothing but hands and feet escape the ****.
where bodies are ****** in,
limbs are free of this pagan romanticism.

He would destroy it all:
The mucus pearls and thickening **** of tassels,
the mounting of cymbals through temples.
he would cast aside his wide-eyed diamonds
to **** the ripe flesh of the girls at his mercy.
He has time to hear their wails and harden his heart
to watch the contortion: a circus of sorts.
His rubenesque pony riders and acrobats
twirl fitfully to their deaths among the common throw pillows
and marble foot paths.


Reclining in zeal and pink lips,
the silken king.
Terry Collett Sep 2016
As I rode up
to Milka's parents' farmhouse
on my bike,
Milka's mother
was by the back door
shaking out a carpet.

I left my bike
against a fence,
and walked towards
the back door,
watching her
standing there
hands gripping the carpet
and shaking determinedly,
as she shook the carpet
her whole body moved,
and I took note
of her motherly *******
bulging and swaying.

She turned when she
heard me coming
over the stony path.

Hello, Benny,
she said,
you're here early,
Milka's not up yet,
but still come in
and have coffee or tea
and maybe toast.

I smiled and said:
that'll be nice,
and I followed her in
as she carried
the carpet back
indoors again
and took it into
the lounge where
it had come from.

Take a seat,
she said,
I’ll get us a drink
and some toast.

So I sat down
in a chair by the table
in the kitchen,
and she busied herself
getting down mugs
from a cupboard
and putting slices of bread
under the grill.

What are you having?
She asked me
tea or coffee?

Tea please,
I said,
watching her
slightly plumpish body
move before me.

She put tea
into a teapot
and put the kettle
onto the stove.

She turned and said:
what are you
and Milka doing
this fine Saturday?

Going to show her
the place I used
to go fishing,
I said.

Fishing? Milka?
didn't know she
was into fishing?
He mother said smiling.

She's not,
I said,
but the spot is beautiful,
and we could sit
by the pond
and watch the wildlife,
and maybe take
some sandwiches
and drinks of pop
and have a sort of picnic.

O that sounds good,
Milka's mother said.

I said nothing
about anything else
we may get up to
if the weather held
and it stayed dry.

She turned and made
the tea and watched
the bread under the grill.

I watched her
move about
taking in her
motherly *******
her Rubenesque figure.

Just then
Milka came down
the stairs
and into the kitchen
in her dressing gown
and her hair
in a mess.

You're here early,
she said to me,
make me some toast
and a coffee
please, Mum,
she asked her mother,
and sat down
next to me.

You could at least
have washed
and got dressed
first Milka,
her mother said
looking at her frowning.

Didn't know
Benny was here,
Milka said.

Well he is,
her mother said,
so get yourself decent.

Milka sighed
and raised her
eyes heavenward,
and stomped
off upstairs.

That girl,
Milka's mother said,
just as well
her father's
not here or he'd
give her coming down
to breakfast like that,
just as well he's
up on the farm.

She poured me
a mug of tea
and two slices of toast
and butter,
and sat down
opposite me
and said:
you've a handful
there, Benny,
not an easy one
to motivate
into action.

No I guess not,
I said,
keeping the image
of Milka and me
in her bed
******* away
inside my head.
A boy and his girlfriend's mother in 1964.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
You were older than I was:
nineteen years older, old
enough to be my mother

not my lover, but you were,
each part of you, that dyed
blonde hair, Rubenesque

figure, blue eyes, **** voice,
and us making out either
in your lounge on the blue

sofa or in your double bed
with moonlight pouring in
on us. You liked the bottle

of wine or scotch I brought,
the Mahler 1st or 5th, small
talk, the big talk. You were

the seduced of my youth
and it was fine, it was an
education of one to one,

a kiss and never tell or tell,
but not with whom or where.
I sailed you through Seven

Seas, climbed your mountain
peaks, surveyed your valleys
of dark and love and lust.

You rest now, in God's peace,
I hope and I trust.

— The End —