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How do we define a peace land?
And where is the home, craving to return?
Listen, what did the birds and trees say?

The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain
A single bound will take us there
It is our first homeland where we were born free.

Seagull migrates well,
Pine tree wouldn't move
Look, they reunion in one home garden

They imagine that all their 
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.

Where we learnt justice at our mother's knee
return is easy, we just have to dare
The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain

In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
Dedicate to a double festival in China 2020-- Chinese national holiday as well as Mid-Autumn Festival
Simon Jul 21
Tasting pleasure is not my fault for one reason, and one reason...ONLY...! I am ecstasy itself! Ecstasy that is not within my own choice to choose from. I merely tether my own choice towards the pleasure I hope to tether towards my ecstasy as tasting it with pride. That's why I tend to fail sometimes when knowing it's my fault for who I am... But fail (all the same) to see through the lies of my very delusions tell me so, simply! I'm a failure to my own structural design! As I'm also a failure to my own choices among the same decision-making my actions enforce. As I'm not going to lie about such things, but... I don't truly want to taste the pleasures my own inner "ecstasy" demons want from me! They want to mutually **** me dry! Only for myself to last long enough by the hand that want's to be free of them...ALL! I want them to stay and torment me for the pleasure of such tastes! I want to devour my own inner "ecstasy" demons...for I HATE what I've become. (Triggering forevermore something I could NEVER control!) Not to mention the torment I pose upon myself and those very demons! I want respect where respect can't (ever again) be given, when I've eaten myself up long ago! This simple passage is a given guilt upon the makings of an apology that I could come to grips about getting it out there into the BIG BAD open world! Who would come to appreciate my suffering (first and foremost)? A curse that will spread like wildfire! Where in time...the whole world could forgive me for what I've done to myself, and to others. Since what this passage reeks of, is the after-effect of the incident that is clearly behind the scenes doing GOD KNOWS WHAT!
Curses define pleasures, whilst curses than redefine those very pleasures like an epidemic!
PS... I hope such conclusions force you to realize what's become of you?!
Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)


“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“

Leonard Cohen
                                 <>

aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet  
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying

but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover

obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves

lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched

It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms

for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?

anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,

                           why?
neth jones May 3
Thirsty Things First
I know you're hurting
  punting through The Pleasure Heap
tough talk of The Ween
whilst keening still
   panting after the next explosion
  the next ***** exploration
the next intoxication
        preening before -
                      -  your darting eye
    the next liberty toward your oblivion
The Endeavors of Lips
by Michael R. Burch

How sweet the endeavors of lips—to speak
of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak
in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak:
for there is no illusion like love ...

Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days,
for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways
that curled to the towers of Yesterdays
where She braided illusions of love ...

"O, let down your hair!"—we might call and call,
to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ...
but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl
like a spidery illusion. For love ...

was never as real as that first kiss seemed
when we read by the flashlight and dreamed.

Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Eclectic Muse (Canada). Keywords/Tags: Childhood, children, bed, bedtime, story, flashlight, kiss, goodnight, dreams, pleasures, lips, fantasy, illusion
Sillo Anderson Dec 2019
The many souls I've mated with
Has left a craving I long to chase
It's many pleasures has made me shallow
Pleading with faith to give me comfort.

And with little hope of hiding from efforts
My deeds make wild my bill of life
And to no avail have I question my despairs
While sins I commit in open fields.

My worth as a woman has decline
By presumptuous acts and desires  
But the shape of a future, fits perfectly within my dreams
And it's existence becomes profound in my eyes
Allowing I,
To want more of sins I shouldn't crave.
so many pleasures, yet this,
the chiefest!

it is the cellular sensation, a momentary
swiping the real stroking of gentle grazing,
the finger-tracing painting of another’s
softest places

this is what I will ever miss
this is what I will   eye  mist

when the eyes, arms and all the rest
age beyond, functioning justa at the “barely” test,
as long my forefinger, tho crooked and bent,
can draw lines upon the cheeks of my beloveds,
the lover sleeping beside, so relaxed, eyes closed,
the children, whose skins elasticity is living electricity,
even the warped, veined, roughened dying skin
of those yet glowing-gasping for the tactile worship,



I will desire to live
my first poem.
JS CARIE Sep 2019
Do you recall that moment we shared?

that became a scopic sweep to outspread coast

tattooing a pinnacle on the crest face of time...

Even before that,

when those pages turned
after placing a bookmark
in the “All Embracing”

when rapids cascaded rapidly
in a vital rushing
where once,
no water ran
but now,
a waterfall endures to keep gushing

as you stood in the line for lost post
Rotating between guest and host
Tracking down this package
By return to my side
Pleasure delaying the unwrapping
Sliding into it’s contents
as promptitude ensued  

Immediately following
by this ones own hand,
the rising of your shirt
An advance to mount
lay parallel to your reclining position

Revealing this willing
More like pleading, how it sounded
In exchange for a soft euphoric injection
Evolving into sweat trading
All encompassed by
Engaged Ravaging
c Aug 2019
what intense feelings
we have for beauty
lust jealousy deceit
they all wange strongly
in the hearts of the weak
very few times does
the human brain
collect its thoughts
beyond the physical
and perhaps that is our
greatest folly.
To never truly love
beyond what our eyes can see
to never truly love
what our hearts
concede.
For if not intellect
what can sustain such an emotion
for physicality of plight
can only endure for so long.
And yet the remembrance of
youthful wit lasts
in our brains
much longer than a
fashioned glance ever could
remain in our hearts.
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