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heather leather Nov 2015
he is not heaven. he is not a deep breath of fresh air after being
trapped inside for so long he is suffocation. when his saturated fingers
touch me I am filled with a never ending fire that keeps me
awake until two a.m. and makes me question everything I've
ever believed. he likes to swear up and down on the metal cross
around his neck and pretend he is God when he looks at me.
his kisses are never filled with love they are filled with narcotics
and taste like a bittersweet kind of hatred. he smokes quietly and
slowly inhaling every toxic fume and making clouds
big enough to convince you that they are skies. everything about him
screams shades of cool he is blue he is black his smile is gold
his eyes are grey and he is the color spectrum at its darkest.
he speaks quietly and laughs loudly and cries silently when
he thinks nobody can hear him. I wake up every morning to the
sound of tiny bullets of water scorching his back but he
likes the burn so I do not say a thing. he loves the way I sing
and teases me endlessly and whispers ****** things when
our friends are around because he is an exhibitionist.
I do not know what this is. I do not know who he is.
but at the same time I do not know who I am either,
we are cataclysmic together and wreak havoc wherever we go
but there is something so beautiful about what a disaster
we are together that i do not want to say goodbye.
he is the lover I never have to worry about loving back
and that if nothing else matters

(h.l.)

11.25.15
"oh **** i think i'm falling in love again. someone pass me the *****, this is going to be one helluva year"

colors by halsey
Styles  May 2017
Satisfied
Styles May 2017
silently we basked in our silence
naked we inhaled each others presence
exhausted we lay resting
in the pools of our sweat
the sheets clinching to our tired bodies
dripping wet juices
saturated we are
satisfied
Styles  Jun 2016
Fountain
Styles Jun 2016
I want to dip my tongue,
inside your flavor.
With no waver,
I savor your taste.
With a desires pace,
your liquids turned to paste,
a love potion laced with our grace.
Delicious lips glistening with ours juices.
A cocktail  saturated with your nectar.
Our fountain we await,
satisfaction at a hieghted state.
I greet you with my pleasures
at an amazing pace, our lips embrace
lacerated by my tongue --
I trespass your pearly gates,
where your pleasure awaits,
I await - at the mercy of our warm embrace.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
The world's gone mad but my mind is made up.
Time to let ya'll into the darkroom of my mind,
A place where I'm the referee of a poetic world cup.
This is where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town.
No more radio or TV saturated with all the sad news,
I have got enough breaking news of my very own...
Breaking to me each and every moment as it brews.
Come and meet the hard drive of my creative doom,
That contains my beautiful and liberated mind.
Welcome to my one bright side I call my darkroom,
It's a place that's so special, I reckon it's one of a kind.

You have to know that I always act blind but I see.
In my mind, I can walk stack naked and levitate.
My mind is where I remain totally black and free.
Come join me set my poetic dial and help me activate,
The code that will outshine any power on this earth.
My mind is where I live and where nobody has access,
Here I can run a poetic marathon without taking a breath,
Call it my playground and intellectual fortress.

My mind is deep, a place of absolute calm and refuge,
Somewhere I will always see as the final frontier.
It is dangerous and toxic like a nuclear centrifuge.
In there, I am all alert and vigilant like a soldier.
My mind is a darkroom where I give birth to new ideas.
It is a vessel and place in which I do magic with letters.
It is my holy land of thoughts, my own creative Judea,
Where each idea is sacred and light as bird feathers.

Welcome to the epicenter of my creative mind.
This is where I turn letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind.
Come and see where all words become useful swords.
My mind produces powerful words like some light beams...
Courageous and powerful words for extra motivation.
Spoken Words that will light up people's faded dreams.
Now you know that up in my mind are no limitation,
There exists an enormous capacity of time and space.
Welcome one, welcome all to the darkroom of my mind
Take a seat and be calm, be quiet this is my place
For this here is my personal creative post of command.



www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
@Bassapoet
My mind is the final frontier..the bright side I call my darkroom where I process loose letters into spoken words.
Styles  Jun 2015
Seduction
Styles Jun 2015
With an essence of a  sultry indulgence that will entice
as often as it excites;
       my words seek passage --
                       penetrating your psyche,
                       as they crawl across your thoughts.
                       serenading your mind with
                       lustful passages;
                       littering your innocence
                       with filth --
                       saturated in honesty
                       dripping with vivid insight;
                       conceived through insanity.
                       raging with passion.
Styles  May 2017
Magnetic
Styles May 2017
Disrobing,
her skin glowing
as it glistens in the night
naked to the eye
the most beautiful thing in sight
a deep breathe as she exhales
her beauty is unveiled
anticipation swells
waiting for his embrace
her lips saturated with her taste
his senses sense her scent
enticing his nature tense
magnetized to her flesh
delicate is her touch
to his aching *****
no words left to past
just passionate lips
rush for passion
two bodies attracted
to each others attraction
love making
magic happen
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ******, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-*** of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
Janette  Jan 2013
Saturated
Janette Jan 2013
Eyes soft as silk, mirror moon-fire along the silver cusp of my soul,
Enchantment wanders the opalescence of this dream,
Heartbeat to heartbeat it pulses, drifting down soft, as stolen breath
Along the throat in this trembling garden of body....





Whispers of hunger, penetrate soft folds of midnight’s caress upon
Velvet’s pout, a taste of honeyed tease, searing spoon-fed ecstasy,
Brushed new, upon warm whispers,
In the wet of US....




A moist fragrance of sighs, unleashed, capturing blossoms swelling, under moon-spill,
Urgent fingertips dance delicately across shadowed yearn;
Undressed, beguiled, stirred sweet, behind naked eyes,
Where lavender ache beckons....




Satin pleasures unbutton heaven in the breath of swollen whispers, and
The breeze of destiny lays tangled in sheets, touching, teasing
The shores of prismatic submission;
Spooning wet, the wild of embers scorching need, prompting the meld of *****, as
Seduction fuses and passion licks unholy wet, cocooned in silk spill...





His melting shadow arches, quivers the canopy of my offering,
Roller-coasted beneath his lip-ride, where fire bleeds my skin, and I am lathed upon the parched desert of his tongue;
Where crimson visions seep, thrusting, deep the lilac of petals, and
Hungry hands trace the rhythm of trembles,beyond the swallowed screams....





Darkened eyes watch, as I burn the ****** slipped from his tongue;
My trembling, hips glisten, trailing whispers, slowly swallowing hidden breath,
Drowning him in an oasis of silken desire, where dewdrops of my rain trickle from the corners of his smile,
Orchid nectar sliding between two tongues, saturated, tasted beyond the press of lips...................
She clings to midnight.....dangling from crescent moon’s breath......so that he may reach high, and bring her to him in untainted absolution..............loving her pure, immaculate.....into the bleeding gleam of dawn.......J
karen dannette Jan 2015
Luscious lips
Burning flesh, insatiable
Soaked in your essence
intertwined, love so brutal.

Fascinated with the rythym
Your libido keeping time
My pelvis is throbbing for only you
Your body is truly sublime.

The feeling of bliss
Saturated with our body fluids, merged as one
On the red satin sheets,  we lay naked
On my mind,  in my heart,  blinded by the sun.

Torchered by divine lust
Kept satisfied in your essence, grateful
Irrisistable lips forever probing
Heart so full of love,  forever faithful.
Lust
Tom Leveille  Jun 2014
seance
Tom Leveille Jun 2014
while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty

*you know
i never echoed until you died
Lou  Jul 2017
4
Lou Jul 2017
4
At the Zoo

Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs

Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.

The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-  
show us some skin!

Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence  

Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell

The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about

Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction  
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free

At the Zoo,

The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Written on the 4th of July.
Melody Nov 2012
apex of the witching hour;
it beckons to me with sly allure.
pummeled fists, hard kernels of truth
silently relish whimsical patterns
birthed by this intensifying pressure

anxiously await the threshold
to this lonely portal, shrouded mysteries
echo as if from far away

tiny shifting shapes, pulsating colors
take on a life of their own
content in obscurity

urgent voices of the bubbling creek
are slowly being drowned by soft, yet
intensifying sighs of the flowers
until all is saturated
with eerie overlapping melodies
heightened but for a brief moment

silence settles over the wood, glaring in the midst
of everything that could have been
even as the doors to this parallel universe
shut cruelly once again.
©MW
Britt Nichole Jan 2015
How tired we are
Always taking hot salt baths,
thinking that they'll heal our gaping wounds.
Then we cry because we hurt like hell and are naive enough to ask the faucet why it would do such a thing. It wasn't even the faucet.
How is it that we don't ever feel clean unless we are burning?
Our minds are saturated in switched blame but I'm also saturated in my own hot air.
Let's hum.
Stand naked in puddles of rain water and ask God why you've caught cold feet, why you're running away from feeling something.
Don't **** the passion, just watch it live sadly and then die. You die, not the passion. Someone else will catch it and since it's awfully contagious they'll give it to someone else too. Passion Plague.
I'm nifty with words.
Be nifty with hands.
Bend me over and fold me in until you're inhaling sticky sweat and loose hairs.
I have penny slots and other slots that are empty waiting. You've got the parts so you know what they are waiting for.
I do too, but I'll be ***** to make you ***** if I have to.
Pop off can tops and keep them between your front teeth as I dance around the empty ashtray in our hotel room. The sheets are cold like your rain water feet and thin like self restraint, but I'll still tease.
Let's make sin worth burying and call it the Boogie Monster anyway.

— The End —