In the United States,
We currently have a President,
Donald Trump,
Who denies that Global Warming,
Caused by carbon emissions
Is a reality.
I guess Americans really don’t want
To give up their cars?
A car
Is a status symbol
And an aphrodisiac.
Feminist assertions aside,
If a dude has a CAR,
And can pick up a chick in his car,
He’s more of a stud….
Supposedly,
Than the dude who doesn’t have a car.
However,
Just as denying Global Warming
Is denial of scientific research,
Having a “slick ride”
Will not ACTUALLY
Improve ones sexual potency.
Why can’t we Americans just admit
That we want more SEX
Instead of buying more cars,
And wasting so much gasoline
By idling our engines with the air-conditioning on
While looking at our gizmos?
This poem was influenced by this sexy photo, "On the open car" by Baro Kim from South Korea.
https://500px.com/photo/4735397/on-the-open-car-by-baro-kim?ctx_page=5&from=user&user_id=541484
Nowadays,
So many people
Strive for perfection
In order to impress
Or please others,
But perfection lies in the IMPERFECTION.
Samsara is Nirvana.
These are Buddhist Artistic aesthetics
This poem was influenced by the photo, Sunny Afternoon, by Chu Tieu in Vietnam on 500px
https://500px.com/photo/264565327/sunny-afternoon-by-chu-tieu?ctx_page=1&from=gallery&galleryPath=27255895&user_id=8935731
Ge Marquez Jun 28
The Ocean waves its greetings to the Shore,
gently tickling the tips of his sand with
her wet fingers

she sighs at the contact
breathing in before heaving back
in sweet repetition
this brazen exchange
HectorBrown Jun 2
She beckoned me. The weak yellow light emphasised her fiery hair and the two large protrusions from her chest. The covers concealed.
Behind us, as we lay, her smooth legs intertwined with mine, water smudged the foliage and shrubbery.
A sigh.
I want you to teach me lessons
That I could never learn in school.
I want you to reveal things to me
That would cause you to be arrested
On our campus.
I am dying
To probe your mind
As well as
The rest of you body.
Please don’t think
The wrong thing
About me.
Sometimes,
Charice would tell her boyfriend,
Charles,
That she was
Feeling sexy,
Take off all her clothes,
And command him
To photographer her
In the most sensual poses
She could imagine,
But,
At other times,
Charice would put on her
Well-worn leather bomber  jacket and sunglasses
And head out on to the streets with her camera
In search of images
Of the downtrodden and the oppressed....
People and places
Which had been left behind
By the forces of gentrification
And "economic progress".
Charice saw no contradiction
Between these two aspects of herself.
They were just different ways
To get  in touch
With the Goddess within.
Martin Narrod Jan 13
The Holy Ones


I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting dicks. I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my dick sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a dick like this in their mouth before. This would be my porn dick. This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of fucking, and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This dick is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this dick. And my own dick getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You fucked me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m fucked up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear
She opened her legs to the Truth
And it engulfed her like a phantom,
Consuming
Every aspect of her being
With the flame
Of passion.
Truth was not the sort of romantic lover
She had dreamed of,
But It was still preferable
To the Impotent Specter
Of Deceit.
Last week, I saw a Mexican Movie called "The Untamed" at the Denver Film Society, and I finally have a better idea of what the real meaning of this Erotic Film actually was
Lucius Furius Aug 2017
Garden Parkway YMCA
Dallas, Texas
22 November 1963

Darling Sophie,

Could it be only two months since I let your fingers slip from my hand as that train departed Voronezh station? I fear that this trip was a great mistake. . . .

The boat sailed from Sevastopol as scheduled. Just two days and we were through the Bosporus/Dardanelles and into the incredibly blue Aegean and the Mediterranean. On September 27 we passed Gibraltar and started the long haul across the Atlantic. The work was not demanding though the ship was quite dirty and not really very pleasant.

We docked at Houston in the state of Texas on October 9. Defecting was surprisingly easy. There was supposed to be work in Dallas so I walked/hitch-hiked here last month. But I have not been able to find any work.

The people here, though friendly, are coarse and brash. The stores overflow with televisions, record players, mink coats, but there are many very poor people here too...

The great American leader, Kennedy, was shot and killed today, driving in his open-topped car along the streets of this very city.

My money is gone; my strength, exhausted. How blithely I left you and Russia behind! I feel my lips brushing the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your nipples swelling. . . . Sophie! May you know great happiness and love! I only ask that in the spring when you visit Krymskaya Pond, that you remember how we knelt there, how I whispered in your ear there, when the air is filled with the scent of its cherry trees that you remember what we felt there. . . .

  Yours, always,    Nickolay
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_055_sophie.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Fascist Art....
The Expression of  Those who have been
Completely disempowered.
Prayers of Those
Who are no longer sure if they believe.
In any sort of a god.
Erotic expressions of Those
Who find it hard to get turned on by anything
Any more.
Political outcries
Of Those
Who feel
That they have completely lost control of their futures.
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