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Old Pantaloons, a Chiasmus
by Michael R. Burch

Old pantaloons are soft and white,
prudent days, imprudent nights
when fingers slip through drawers to feel
that which they long most to steal.

Old ***** loons are soft and white,
prudent days, imprudent nights
when fingers slip through drawers to steal
that which they long most to feel.

Keywords/Tags: chiasmus, pantaloons, *****, loons, *******, pun, wordplay, underwear, fetish, lingerie, pervert, perverts, *******
Mikey Kania Mar 24
in a void of air and space
music floats and keeps us safe
you need to listen

fo real and fo shizzle: listen
it's 3:45 everybody bossed up
dough fetish fantasies

the suzuki in a jakuzzi
keeps my mind busy
(keeps my mind busy)

how can you enter the next stage?
it's fo real like tizzops cage
the barrel of a golden gauge

look into my face: a rat race
never ending being fast paced
today is my last day but i will

remain
Today is a good day.
Adrian Dec 2019
You know I love this, you do as well
We all love the feeling of the dripping blood
I know this feeling brings us closer to hell,
But I cannot live through this emotion flood
I need it to stay alive and sane.
The feeling is good too, it’s bliss
I love all the self inflicted pain
I want more, everyday, without miss.
You may think I’m out of line, I’m crazy
But i know you love it too
You are a *****, you’re lazy
I deal with that **** everyday, and so do you.
We need our emotion vents to let out the crud.
Why not again use our own blood
so I’ve figured it out. The even numbered poems are me, while the odd numbered poems are... also me. But the odd numbered ones are by the ****** up me, the one that wants me to die and hurt myself.
Zoey Trope Nov 2019
Careful as you unlace
The delicate ribbons of leather
Separating my skin from your lips
'Lincoln Park After Dark' is the shade
Of dark that fills your hungry mouth
The lips I know and love
Feel even better on the most hidden part of my body
Take your time
With each lick
And keep your hunger for me
Until I kiss you good night
Lou Nov 2019
Taste is 5 letters long and
I'm feeling all 5 senses on my tongue

Your refreshing lips
Your porcelain smooth fetish of my aches harbors
Your calls echoing and waving into the bay between my ports
The sight up to the sunlight blossoming flowers in your rolled eyes.
The blues and white foam breathing into me.

I want you how you want me.

In between gasping for truth.

Blitzing language and foreign words only your body can understand with my mouth.
your disgusting lust,
makes you touch,
your nauseating desire,
doesn't care who it is,
or sometimes what it is,
obsession, mania?
whatever your reason be,
**** will never be acceptable.
Sharon Talbot Jan 2019
Perhaps his duality would always be
Irreconcilable,
For had he not been made this way
by genetic chance?
A hulking man with gardener's shirt
and biker's leather pants?
He might speed along a coastal highway,
Wind in his greasy hair,
Unchopped Harley shivering,
Eyes watering from the wind,
or was it because of sheer depth of soul?
As he peeled along, avoiding fatal curves,
Did his thoughts of roses blooming
keep him from launching himself
into the fog?
Were the droplets on his face,
full of salt from the sea,
the same as those he saw
in the morning dew on his flowers?
He was a not a Hunter Thompson,
who might return home to drink and write
reams of rage against the foul Effendi,
who beset him at night
after descending from their mansions.
Yet he too needed respite and beauty,
an Owl Farm in his mind,
Or a hotel on Sunset Boulevard,
Safe under the canopy, among the palms,
His security, not a typewriter
but a garden of perfect roses
that he would tend and breed,
Keeping beauty alive to feed
His hidden desire for peace and order.
Like an old man in the country,
The “rose rustler”he played
Lived in a little house,
His unassuming paradise,
with a cat, as secretive as him,
a lone goldfish in a bowl,
who looked out each day on
manicured paths and brick walls,
worthy of any English manor,
with acres of flowers,
dozens of colors...
but every single one a rose.
This whole thing sprang out of a title from a photo site, combined with an excellent book I read, "Freak Kingdom", by Timothy Denevi, about Hunter Thompson's "Ten years of fighting against American Fascism". If you read this, it would help to listen to Elvis Costello's "Brilliant Mistake" simultaneously!
Deidre Lockyer Jan 2019
Honey tastes slow, glowing like amber
Trapping touch in a heady crush of warm
Nestling between my ******* where sweat pools, delicate
Dipping fingers into pots, swirling, lingering
Licking the syrupy sweetness
Craving the rose scented dark and the musk

You, above me like summer
Creating me from the flesh of your hands
Describe me with your kisses, unwrap me with whispers
Suspend the rules of us between my lips
Breathe your will into words that glint with
Consequence, etching heat into flesh
Charge the oxygen around us with sweet almostpain
That draws out my ghosts, blood over flames
Leading the Moon out into the depths, into the crevasse
Wallowing in my softest curves as you
Follow me down to the forest bed and
Claim my world as your Fetish

And if I open to your insistence, slowly unlaced
Kiss me in obscenity until I speak in tongues
Silence me with your sternest hand of fire on flesh
Bring my bruises to boil beneath your gaze while l,
Shyly revealed by your voice,
Try to cover my eggshells and hush my moans

You, beneath me like summer
The seed will grow where l place my kisses
Divining water from your ancient well
Suckling the slick pomegranate flesh
Until the star on your forehead is burning
Shudderfall down into night, into my storm
Collide in me, where the clouds are heavy with rain and lust
Leading the Moon down into the depths, into the crevasse
Melding desire with Fate as you
Meet me down on the forest floor and
Claim my love as your Fetish

Wrap my body in silken cords that sing of you
Handfast beyond gesture
My flesh, your manifesto
Fetish
Sketcher Dec 2018
She said the song was charming,
She had said the boy was cute,
She said I was easy to talk to,
Because I usually remained mute.

She said she liked the biting,
Teeth sunk right into her hips,
She said the blood really turned her on,
But I much rather preferred her lips.

She had a decent boyfriend,
But his love wasn't enough,
She ****** and ****** **** out in the woods,
She was a ***** that preferred this stuff.

At one point I wanted her,
All of her just to myself,
Now I'll avoid her and stay away,
Until she decides to fix herself.

Or should I stay and help her?
I am not sure what to do,
I'll stick around to cure her sickness,
Hopefully I won't catch her flue.
Stay and help or leave and ignore?
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