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.
Louise May 2017
You sang hymns of solitude across my shoulders,
uttered summer sonnets down my stomach,
whispered your prayers between my thighs,
all in a language I have yet to translate or remember.
All of it sounds in between the foreign and familiar.
You screamed of ballads of adoration
hungrily against my neck,
confessed your long-hidden elegies on my bare chest,
moaned your blues inside my dry, anticipating mouth.
All of it rings and buzzes and resonates throughout my body.
My body which no longer belongs to me.
And this is the very comedy of our sweet, sudden parting.
But I shall turn over and dance for you this time,
and promise to never stop playing my favorite song for me while I'm at it
Louise May 2017
I dream of wearing the perfect red dress,
skin-tight but easy to take off,
the fabrics light yet hard enough for
men to take their eyes away from.
And did you know that I love how your name rhymes well with death?
If my skin would bleed or sweat out rhymes,
it might as well be to the sound of your name.
My guts shall dance to your liking,
watch my blood flow like the wine
you've been gulping.
Do as you please, but please never go easy.
My body is made for the opposite.
Now excuse me, while I go and search for the
perfect
red
dress.
Ennovy May 2017
I empty my mind in you
I whisper my sorrow in your ear,
make you think it's poetry

Written words in pain yet plain
You would like to know but no
In protest with truth you are
You accept lies from others,
put them in your gigantic mason jar

I can't condone myself
for the things I said
But emotions don't hang well with me
Yet you still want more of my sensuality

Lusting without trust
No feelings here that are similar to love
But still, you stay and worship me at night
You want to get inside my head
I don't like that idea let's just go to bed
Sometimes, I prefer to dwell my own Fantasy World.
My attempts to Save the World aren't always appreciated,
But it's hard for me to resist a Woman's Beauty.
Dwelling on  Fantasies does not address the World's problems.
But it is a way of Praising God.
Louise Mar 2017
All those homilies are works of comedy;
the only sound you'll ever need to hear are my moans and soft cries, praying for more.
I would need no altar to make you kneel,
just the sight of my bare back would send those sinful lips of yours into overkill.
And, please, put that bible away,
we'll have our very own erotica written by the time we're done anyway,
or perhaps until the sun becomes astray from the unforgiving light and day.
So come on now, make the saints envious
with all the unkind things you'll do to my equally unkind body,
bet those cunning hands could make a skeptic curious.
Forget about your god when all he ever does is make you beg.
you know the only place you'll ever find salvation is right between my legs.

Your hot breath against my neck, amen.
Louise Feb 2017
My favorite poem is your hands on my neck.
I know you need my lips all over you,
baby we'll keep it in check.
What about you?
You see I don't write love poems on paper,
I write them on the sheets.
Enough of all these, just show me
where your bedroom is.
What about you?
What is your favorite poem?
I hope it's your hands on my neck.
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