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Objectified manifest's dimensional delineations are totally tangential to trajectory extant.  Infinite possibility's exponentially extemporaneous eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology's perfectible ontology.  It's sheer omnificent ubiquity.   Manumission's vicarious recalcitrance to epistemological entelechy's maieutic had an exogamous homogeny with spatiotemporal telemetry's exigence.  The basic fecundity of cosmic continuum's radix repartee's mesomerism becomes corporeally preternatural's impetus intrigue to intuitional intrepid. 
       Livid lucid lambent loquacious emanations that presage synergy's retrospectively retroactive to nuance fulgurous fulham's fulcrum.  Cognizance categorical imperative's cognitive, clairaudience clairvoyance, omniscient omnipotent omnipresence.  Unary's unbridled aorist actuator ethology's entelechy.  Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities to demagoguery.  Hegira to Xanadu ne plus ultra exodus.  Elan Vital's apotheosis.  Hectic duty deontological probity.  Noumenal sentience's irrefragably inevitable semantics.  Pandemically phatic futurity fatidics to kitsch kithe.  Chicanery dynamism's fealty! 

I'm sorry Melan but I don't believe that we must lose track of our corporeal being's identity to experience the true essence of love.  We should enhance each other's  cognizance constituency.
Written in response to Melancholy of innocence's poem of the same name.
Dacotah Ashes Mar 16
to you, I am categorically a conquest
a notch to your belt, a benchmark to measure against
to you, I am metaphorically an object
to be played with, to be gazed upon
never seen as whole, never seen as real
only parts and pieces for your pleasure
Sure, I'll dance for you, I'll stand still for you
but you can't make stay in a cage
Sure, I'll *******
but you can't make me love you
on being used and objectified
Zywa Jun 2023
My lawyer comes in

with a very thick folder --

and I lie in it.
Novel "Letselschade" ("Personal injury", 2022, Vonne van der Meer)

Collection "After the festivities"
Emily Oct 2022
If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.
Elle Aug 2022
Look at him through fluttering eyelashes
Be docile
Be his doll
Sweet, supple, submissive

Tell him of his brilliance
Tell him he's the only one
Let your thoughts become his words
His words, his brilliance
Not yours

What is his will be valued
You will be valued
For being his
Not yours

Speak up but not over him
Your thoughts are his words
His words his brilliance
Stay sweet, supple, submissive
His, not yours

You speak too much
Your lips are not meant to be used
Unless for him
and his pleasure
His, not yours

You think too much of your pain
Destitution of recognition
Unless it be in empathy of his pain
Yours will have no value
His, not yours

You spoke over him, not up
Your words are not valued
unless they become his brilliance
His, not yours

You are becoming autonomous
Remember who you are
Fluttering eyelashes
Supple body
Never your own
Only his
His, not yours
Zywa Sep 2021
Slap, slap, the stickers

instantly turn my body --

into an object.
Hospital--- For Maria Godschalk #129 --- Collection "On living on"
Dinara Tengri Feb 2021
My hair is not a raven's wing,
A wave of black, a river whose
treacherous shores
you long to explore.

My ******* are no doves: soft and fluttering;
No Promised Land of milk and honey:
there is no one to welcome you home.

My stomach is not a valley of wonders
leading to a treasure so many men
have died for.

My eyes are not slanted windows to some
ancient Eastern wisdom; no obsidian pools
that many great warriors have drowned in.

My features are not exotic
My skin is not silken
My soul is not unknowable
My mind is not inscrutable
And my body is not your muse.
Maybe I'm the dark brown eyes you stare into
The ones you see your reflection in

Maybe I'm the hand combing through your jet black hair
Or the voice in the wind on an empty rooftop bar

Maybe I'm the brain you treat lesser than yours
Or the body in the room that tells you that you're not alone

Maybe I'm the throbbing **** you leave red Mac lipstick stains on
Or the stern screams that remind you of your father

Maybe I'm the lips touching your left cheek
Or the fingers that fix your nose ring

Who am I if not for all the times I've been cheated on?
Why should I be more than a pincushion
For all the times your dad didn't tell you he loved you?
Who would I be to all of you if I weren't
barely a brain,
a ****,
and lips
Who am I if not a string of traumas
Walking my way through a path paved with eggshells and broken glass?
Who am I?
I'm back. For now.
Kevin Castro Dec 2019
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.

(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.

but in thirty seconds
i crash.

i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.

i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.

and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****.

Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.

my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.

these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
(ekphrastic poem for Eshu by agnes arellano)
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