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Louise Jan 22
What's the use of my hand,
if your skin is not under its touch?
What good is my skin,
if yours is not under its heat?

What's the use of my lips,
if yours are not locked with it?
What's the use of my eyes,
if yours are not looking at them?

What's the use of my body heat,
if it's not overlapping with yours?
What good is my body,
if yours is not over it every hour?

What's the use of your body,
if mine is not on top of it?
If it's not me you're sharing the heat with?
If I am not carressing it?
If I am not the one beside it?
What good is it,
if you never really knew what good is?
You would never know what good is
until I show you and give it.

Let's study anatomy. All night long.
Styles Nov 2023
As she stands there,
In nothing but her underwear, g-string
Breathing heavy

leaning her head against the cold tile.
Water is raining over her body, the soap suds slow rubs against her body

Fighting her own,
These urges,
relentlessly. The pressure building is tremendous
Thoughts of pleasure --  overwhelming

The warmth of his breath,
Make her ******* *****
Shivering so hard her hands trampled
down her spin, between her thighs,
His hands are on her hips
But his hands are inside her mind
Louise Nov 2023
My heart has had enough
My mind had its final run
But my body
Oh god, my body,
My poor body...
It remains unsullied, untouched

Years have passed
and the past have yearned,
spells were cast
and lessons are learned.
Still, my body remains hungry
It remains still, and it's still at rest
Still, it's been at rest painfully
I remain unfed, receiving only less
And it wants to run, climb and fly
it wants to bleed, shed and cry

My body;
not only does it ask me for more,
but it demands the most.
It asks me to tour down the earth's core,
commands me to find what's lost.

The exhaustion
The falling
The soreness
The failing
The bouts of pain
The flying...

Everything my heart has fought with,
everything my mind has battled with,
my body wants every taste,
craves every punch and hit.
It craves some kind of feigned balance,
it craves a round of some dangerous dance

Yet I wait
I wait for nature to grant me the green light.
I wait for the stars to lull me into the night.
I wait for the trees to give me some reason.
I wait for the moon to pull me into seasons.

Oh it's for sure a delicate time.

For me and you both.
I am dangerously insatiable.
Louise Oct 2023
You can kneel to pray,
before you commit one more sin
as you do every hour and everyday.
You can pray to avoid the calls of sin,
before you take on a bigger atrocity,
throwing both law and faith down the bin.
But rules are meant to be bent,
just like my body against the table,
or across the vastness of your bed.
But I am the revolution, your new law,
and you would learn the best way
that without me, you're as good as lost.
Well, this is my first (semi) erotica in a long while!
Michael R Burch Mar 2023
****** Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-

Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch

Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.

by Michael R. Burch

Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...

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.

Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch

at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found **** on the cover
of some patronizing lover.

In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.

First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch

I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.

Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

are not for excesses!

Less Heroic Couplets: *** Hex
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).

Published by ****** of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online
and Poem Today

by Michael R. Burch

Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your *******’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like *******—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.

Originally published by Erosha

by Michael R. Burch

“It is lonely to be born.” – Dannie Abse, “The Second Coming”

It is lonely to be born
between the intimate ears of corn . . .
the sunlit, flooded, shellshocked rows.

The scarecrow flutters, listens, knows . . .
Pale butterflies in staggering flight
ascend the gauntlet winds and light
before the scything harvester.

The winsome buds of cornflowers
prepare themselves to be airborne,
and it is lonely to be shorn,
decapitate, of eager life
so early in love’s blinding maze
of silks and tassels, goldened days
when life’s renewed, gone underground.

Sad confidante of worm and mound,
how little stands to be regained
of what is left.
A tiny cleft
now marks your birth, your reddening
among the amber waves. O, sing!

Another waits to be reborn
among bent thistle, down and thorn.
A hoofprint’s cleft, a ram’s curved horn
curled inward, turned against the heart,
a spoor like infamy. Depart.

You came too late, the signs are clear:
whose world this is, now watches, near.
There is no ****** for the heart.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

by Michael R. Burch

For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,

But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her ******* and hair
are mine alone.

Let the wildflowers moan.

If Love Were Infinite
by Michael R. Burch

If love were infinite, how I would pity
our lives, which through long years’ exactitude
might seem a pleasant blur—one interlude
without prequel or sequel—wanly pretty,
the gentlest flame the heart might bring to bear
to tepid hearts too sure of love to flare.

If love were infinite, why would I linger
caressing your fine hair, lost in the thought
each auburn strand must shrivel with this finger,
and so in thrall to time be gently brought
to final realization: love, amazing,
must leave us ash for all our fiery blazing.

If flesh’s heat once led me straight to you,
love’s arrow’s burning mark must pierce me through.

Plastic Art or Night Stand
by Michael R. Burch

Disclaimer: This is a poem about artificial poetry, not love dolls! The victim is the Muse.

We never questioned why “love” seemed less real
the more we touched her, and forgot her face.
Absorbed in molestation’s sticky feel,
we failed to see her staring into space,
her doll-like features frozen in a smile.
She held us in her marionette’s embrace,
her plastic flesh grown wet and slick and vile.
We groaned to feel our urgent fingers trace
her undemanding body. All the while,
she lay and gaily bore her brief disgrace.
We loved her echoed passion’s squeaky air,
her tongueless kisses’ artificial taste,
the way she matched, then raised our reckless pace,
the heart that seemed to pound, but was not there.

She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch

She was very pretty, in the usual way
for perhaps a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.

At sixteen, she had a daughter.
She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.

She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.
Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.

She was hardly pretty another day.
Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.
She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.

Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.

Cold Snap Coin Flip
by Michael R. Burch

Rise and shine,
The world is mine!
Let’s get ahead!

Or ...

Back to bed,
Old sleepyhead,
Dull and supine.

Song Cycle
by Michael R. Burch

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

Nay, the future is looking glummer.
Sing us a song of Summer!

Too late, there’s a pall over all;
sing us a song of Fall!

Desist, since the icicles splinter;
sing us a song of Winter!

Sing us a song of seasons—
of April’s and May’s gay greetings;
let Winter release her sting.
Sing us a song of Spring!

The Unregal Beagle vs. The Voracious Eagle
by Michael R. Burch

I’d rather see an eagle
than a beagle
because they’re so **** regal.

But when it’s time to wiggle
and to giggle,
I’d rather embrace an angel
than an evil.

And when it’s time to share the same small space,
I’d much rather have a beagle lick my face!


Over(t) Simplification
by Michael R. Burch

“Keep it simple, stupid.”

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful,
or comforting, or horrifying. Move
the reader, and the world will not reprove
the idiosyncrasies of too few lines,
too many syllables, or offbeat beats.

It only matters that *she
taps her feet
or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces,
or sits bemused—a child—as images
of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then ...
they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen.

A sonnet is not simple, but the rule
is simply this: let poems be beautiful.
Styles Jan 2023
Walking past your bedroom, I hear faint whispers of deep breathing. The sounds grew louder, as I approached the room. I put my ear to the door and heard panting. Accidently, it starts to push further open, revealing her, across the room lying on the bed naked, with both of your hands between your legs, playing…
let me know in the comments if you want a part 3
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