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Ian Beckett Jul 2015
Regret is the consequential disappointment
That the thrilling transgressive frisson your
Online ****** therapist offered for a number.

On the web no one knows if you are a dog
But the Daily Mail knows if you are a love rat
Their readers will wallow in your misfortune.

Millions have had web fantasies exposed
Sharp onomatopoeic cheating thrills have
Become a fear of secret lives found out.

Their private diversions now public lead
Nervous executives newly emasculated
To realise life is short, shorter than desire.
perspectives on Adult Friend Finder and Ashley Madison website hacks and the motivations of voyeurs and players
zebra Feb 2017
she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of  sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive

satans *** nail

is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse

is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven

slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire

are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over  the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
milk milk milk milk...


what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
         it's the 21st century...
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
Frank Ruland Jan 2015
Oh, Gabrielle Summers,
return to your slumber
You're one Troll
I don't care to define
You are out out control,
and way out of line
Telling girls they should've been aborted
and that they have pig faces
How much crack have you snorted?
Because you're leaving traces
of an ego blown sky high
all over Hello Poetry
You are living a lie--
you words are so paltry
How are you better than the rest?
You write about guys taking dumps on your chest
You write about some ****** ****,
like using fingernails to flick you ****
You say your poetry is "transgressive,"
but you write with no incentive,
other than to create shock and awe
You can ink until your fingers are raw,
but none of that **** can be called art
Some art is ****, but not all **** is smart
Your poetry is just as senseless as ****,
especially your write about the guy who had corn
Then there's the matter of defacing my friends--
telling them they should just abort their children,
then telling them they're not pretty at all
Sweetheart, you certainly have some gall,
because beauty is truly skin deep,
and without your mask, people would weep
upon seeing the filth behind your face
I can say for you, there's no saving grace
Not when you choose to hate the way you do,
or tell people about every guy you *******
There's a reason why people have *** behind closed doors,
and why those who keep it wide open are common ******
Leave Elsa Angelica, Aesha Nisar, and Cat aka Catbird, along with others you're terrorizing alone. Thanks.
Love, Frank
Hailey Randall Aug 2014
You asked me to write more poetry.
"Remember that one you wrote for me when we first started dating?
I read it all the time,
It was so beautiful."
"That was an anomaly,"
I retort.
"I do not write poetry; I get tattoos and haircuts. I stretch my earlobes and dress funny. I buy signs from homeless people; that is my art."
My eloquence is nonexistent,
I do not carry the right kind of pain with me
Nor do I have enough beautiful thoughts
to write good poetry.
The only thing I could spurt out for you
Is only 15 lines long.
A pitiful piece of work.
kenny  Aug 2013
Lusting Galaxies
kenny Aug 2013
She laid there in her galaxy cloak
transcending light and time
***** secrets
whispered in his ear
"I just want to supernova"
So he holds back
until she moans out
a celestial symphony
Her o face vibrato
wire tapping hidden energy
Conducting all the right spots
Orchestrating chemistry
like lusting galaxies
Descending the electric bodies
Straight from the Goddess' machinery
Where souls go to
come back around together
Until we're all light again
Lawrence Hall Mar 2017
Winston Churchill Defies the Nazis

#Intersectionality come together
#As one we are cliché strong privileged
#Patriarchy ethically sourced all options
#Are on the table chilling effect quagmire

#Teutons behaving badly doomsday clock
#Transgressive sustainable Guccifer
#Renewable change the gender binary
#Wiretapped microinequity

#Unity in diversity is strength
#Build bridges not borders no fascists here

                          And let The People say “#Meme”
Byron  May 2013
Byron May 2013
Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,
zebra  Aug 2019
Look Into My Eyes
zebra Aug 2019
dissolute neo transgressive
a fantasy lauded libertine
self mythologizer
writing ugly comments
on corrosive voids like black outs
broken verses sounded out
in mangled staccato
needing rearranged horizons
like olives without pimentos
and skies cobbled from
thatched metal bones
in moonless poems
with no dream life
no naked glimpses
no clawing
not even a drop of blood to whiff
and already cauterized
anemic-scapes of thorn-less rosettes
emptied of black tongued gimps
and tattooed ******

no Lilliputians
swimming in marsh swamps
and no snarling brays

there are mouths to fill
with pounding gristle
and ***** to bleed
like pull apart flake strudel
that squeal rapturously
shedding seas
of gagging exorcisms  

widen your thighs
look into my eyes
Pearson Bolt  May 2016
Pearson Bolt May 2016
i. you are at once absent and present

mourning dew on tobacco leaves
transgressive pleasure simultaneously
deluding and eluding me
i remain an equation incapable
of comprehending infinity

tantalizing fantasies splashed
like water across a stovetop
simmering on contact before evaporating
with my unconscious thoughts
trapped within half-forgotten dreams
restless in unending nightmares

a cosmic drift of psychological
rifts in a psyche sundered by
the fault-line ruptures
of cognitive dissonance earthquakes

there's no stitching up
the severed seams
or recovering the effervescence
of innocence lost in our ascent to a rooftop
to treat with bliss in the midst
of the moon's ambivalence

ii. you are at once absent and present

i thought the stars danced for only us
that you put them in the sky
so i could study nebulae
with the same five senses
i'd use to explore you

the stars looked on
voyeurs surveying
the crush of our bodies
listening to the rush of lust
leaking past flesh flushed
with explicit elixirs

we found the philosopher's stone
became ageless in those moments
drunk on alchemical toxins
poisoning our blood-streams
souring the precious draught  
of friendship we'd cherished
for half a decade

the taste of your alcohol-breath
still taints my tongue
lungs billowing like corpses
pierced by carrion
a larynx choked with regret
while you smoke your cigarettes
incapable of going back
yet returning
ad infinitum

iii. you are at once absent and present

1. physical or intellectual pleasure, delight
2. ****** ecstasy

"To escape hierarchical bonds and thereby come closer to what Cixous calls jouissance, which can be defined as a virtually metaphysical fulfillment of desire that goes far beyond mere satisfaction...It is a fusion of the ******, the mystical, and the political."
- Sandra Gillbert

— The End —