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Crisp summer breeze tickle wreaths of May blooms
Yellow flats traipse blocks where blue ocean looms
Serene waves greet shore's walls in fervent kiss
Moon's afterglow brush the scene in pure bliss

Fine sand witness time like dateless heirlooms
Brine's musk basks nightfall in coastal perfumes
Woven foams' calm poise in fond reminisce
With each cycle's ending, they go amiss

Red heels graze concrete in sultry whispers
As the salt-rimmed glass plays in my fingers
Gotcha!—my hapless victim for tonight

Caught my breath, it only faintly lingers
In front I stand, a door with four ciphers
"Aphrodite, save me" begins the plight
Day 6 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Wrote a sonnet again for the first time in years. Pleased with how it turned out.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
flocks penetrated his barrier
to inspect his rot
when it sank down
beneath the salt
lowly
in the slowing dark,

>° °<

called him back with sirens
and suggestion,
danced in vibrant twisters
to entice him
before he could drown,

>° °<

fled from each cavern
in shock,
begged for his spreading mane
to weave in,

>° °<

fed on the youth
spinning around him,
spat jets at his limbs,

>° °<

held hope out just for him,
but there was nothing to be saved

° °

from the abyssal plain.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
On a street near Don Juan
In Boca Chica's bay
Nightly music and drums unwind
To a proclavity of dismay

Little seashells aplenty
For every pious gaze
Unripen beauty so varied
Habitual buyers unfaze

Rising tension of devout sinners
Smoke and coffee breach the air
A salted heart in a mink's coat
"Toma dos ahora" ; take a pair

In Boca Chica's bay, seashells aplenty
Little seashells: its sells, it sells
May your Interpretation guide you.
JA Perkins Jun 2019
A baby cries for his mother.
His mother hears him cry -
looks for love from another
promise of a passer-by..

She says "no love from the haters"
but what she really means
is that her people no longer cater
to her schemes and childish dreams..

Just an addict without a name
with nothing left to live for
claiming loyalty to the game,
but it's not a game anymore -
the players have all turned
from bad to worse - empty hulls
consumed inside of fires burned -
desires churn inside their busy skulls..
Buyer's terms - they hire her
taking turns until her needle's dull
passed the point of no return
before she even drew a second pull.

Now the baby doesn't cry
Someone has taken her place.
Just another cold goodbye
to cut more lines in her face.

Posting photos just for compliments
from hungry souls too quick
to heat the coals of her cold confidence
But yeah, that's a really nice pic.  

There's an understanding between 'em
as she welcomes her guest
from "nah, I haven't seen him"
to "girl, you know you're the best"
Has her right where he wants her -
bitten by invisible bugs and fear
and a memory that often haunts her
when she looks in the mirror.

The baby's happy now..
Doesn't know what he's missing
She swears she'll see him somehow
to anyone who will listen.
Addiction and the likes of which.
I Suppose May 2019
As i walk through the streets
I see a plethora
Of unsavory women
Savoring the stares of
Serpent like savages in their
Silk ties and suede shoes.
As i stare in silence
I sit in solitude
And slowly think
On why these sultry seducers
Sully their bodies to satisfy the snakes.

I walk through the city
Alone, free.
In a bigger cage
Than i once thought.
The women have their eyes on me
I feel them, and they feel me
But what they feel is not love
Or care
Or passion
Its meekness
I am not a man to them
Just a mere morsel
A wealthy fruit for the picking.

The women do not interest me
Nor do i despise them.
But the thick fog
Of cigatette smoke
Painting the air
With silhouettes
Of the courtesans of a bigone era
And the ghosts of those who
By choice
Consorted with them
Instead of their loved ones
Haunt over me
Like a puppeteer
Trying desperately to regain control
Over Pinocchio.

I do not despise this place
I just wish i could convince Roxanne
To turn off that red light.
My trip here has been wild
Brent Kincaid Apr 2019
I guess I’m a different sort
A kind of jiggle-free ******;
When the fun turns to money
I always choose to go.
I have no beef with prostitutes,
Some are great at having fun.
It’s just when it comes to me
I’d rather see than be one.

I am usually flat broke
Not a dollar to my name.
It’s almost like saving up
Has never been my game.
I know I could maybe do well
By snuggling someone wealthy,
But I know people who did that
And it never worked out healthy.

I guess I’m a different sort
A kind of jiggle-free ******;
When the fun turns to money
I always choose to go.
I have no beef with prostitutes,
Some are great at having fun.
It’s just when it comes to me
I’d rather see than be one.

I’d much rather just play around
And see what happens then.
I don’t plan and I don’t demand,
I don’t insist we do it all again.
I might be gone when you wake
Off to have new adventures.
I don’t care if my wandering ways
Are looked upon with abject censure.

I say it up front, so no heartbreak,
I tell you please don’t to marry me.
I pay my own way and sleep where I wish.
I don’t need anyone to carry me.
If you see me down the road a ways
And I’m behaving some other way instead;
Not the jiggle-free ******, I am normally
Then bury me, it means I’m dead

I guess I’m a different sort
A kind of jiggle-free ******;
When the fun turns to money
I always choose to go.
I have no beef with prostitutes,
Some are great at having fun.
It’s just when it comes to me
I’d rather see than be one.

Brent Kincaid
4/28/2019
Lucas Hilliard Apr 2019
I’ll go to Milwaukee.
With a friend, I’ll stay.
I’ll take their mother’s car key.
Not at noon, of course, but at the end of the day.
I’ll park behind the dumpster.
A skimpy outfit, I shall wear.
I’ll cake my face so my lips look plumper.
I’ll catch a trick, “Take me anywhere.”
He won’t know what’s in my black clutch.
A knife and duct tape. I’ll wear a pair of silk gloves.
I know what I’m doing! Don’t you dare judge!
I’ll probably pity him; he only wanted some artificial love.
I’ll put on a show.
Make it seem like I want him.
It’s just an act! I would never stoop that low.
If only he knew his night would end up grim.
We’ll race into the hotel room, both of us eager.
“Can you get me a glass of water, please?”
He’ll stumble into the kitchen. I bet he’s a drinker.
I’ll stand hidden by the door; away from what he sees.
When he walks past, I’ll pull out the knife.
He’ll never see it coming.
I’ll sever his spine. For now, he can have his life.
He doesn’t deserve any form of numbing.
To a chair, he’ll be taped.
“Why are you doing this? Who the **** are you?”
I’ll tell him I’m a demon, just human-shaped.
“I’m wondering why I’m doing this, too.”
I’ll tear open his gut.
He’ll try to scream, but the tape will cover it up.
I’ll slice his heart, lungs; I don’t care what!
When I deal that final swipe, his end will be abrupt.
No fingerprints in his car or in the room.
And I made sure to wear my friend’s wig.
It’s sad to think that this was his tomb.
But, seriously, this was quite the gig.
Purcy Flaherty Oct 2018
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****,
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****,
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.

She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Another old poem
The inspiration from William and Don G
Khoi-San Mar 2019
The moon speaks in glyphs
on the faces of young girls,
where miracles tear
at their souls,
rescue is nigh and
ignorance is bliss.
in the dead end of the red carpet
selling flowers hustling for gold.
Prostitution
These are all kids caught up in the crossfire of circumstances some rarely make it out OK!
Aa Harvey Mar 2019
Girl Next Door


There’s a girl who lives next door to me;
I see her every day.
She could be a model or a beauty Queen,
But she never looks my way.


She walks up and down the same old street,
With this look upon her face,
That tells me something is not quite right;
But what it is, I just couldn’t say.


All I know is, she is popular,
Because every day she gets into a different car.
Some say she used to be a talented actress,
She came here to become a star.


I wish I could give her the compassion she lacks.
They say all she knows is how to lie on her back;
But I can see in her something so hidden.
A beauty so stunning, it’s my little secret.


They call her a *****; I call her an angel.
They use her all day; her life is in danger.
But still every day she stands on her corner;
No love in her eyes, no love from her mother.
No hope left inside, she’s dead to the world,
As I walk past her again, the girl next door.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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