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William Marr Feb 2019
With a soft moist tongue
you set up a sensuous trap
waiting for careless little me
to drop in

and be shocked
at the discovery
that I am such
a tasty prey
William Marr Feb 2019
buzzing
in a sweltering
evening marsh
a swarm of mosquitoes
vexed and unsettled
waits
for a cool swoosh
from a toad
Arthur Vaso Mar 2017
They were like two peas in a pod
Holding hands
Exchanging tongues
Being prissy and laughing at those
Who long before saw their act
Though those two queers, they don’t see at all
They are midgets, and little, and erectly small
With puffed up chests
Stroking hens of the Cornish variety
All of them dregs of a social society


Slum lords and criminal minds
Under the sheets where no one sees
Which one is giving the other the shaft
**** and span they use after, oh so daft
One erotically whispered to the other
A Pain in the ***
As they kissed over their biblical wine glass
Seeking solace in each others arms
Licking their wounds with grammars charm


Grown men, committing sin after sin
Then blaming others for saying
God wants you to begin
Acting like men
And not emancipated boys
Stop diddling and twiddling
Leave alone your petite toys

One day Jehovah will make clear
Belittle others is worse than Queer
Little queens swallowing their own vile
While Ladies and Gentleman laugh
At the ****** and the Clown
In their lingerie and gown

God decried, let those two drown
Even Lucifer laughed under his frown
In life it is said, what you reap you sow, this poem is an example of that adage. Tommy and Rubina dating? Yikes I need to toss my cookies.
Appreciation is showed for the marching band by how many horns are honked while cars drive by on the nearby road
Or almost stepping on small baby Toads on the walk to your car
In the middle of the night
Sleep deprived
It's okay, we wouldn't want it any other way
Hank Helman Aug 2015
I know her intimately and not at all,
Her fragrance infiltrates, chases me,
A whiff off the tips of my fingers,
The smell of her is hunger,
It makes me wont to wolf and devour,
Her flush on the flat of my tongue,
Her angel whisper,
Our quiet choir a pleasure,
A harmony,
A crescendo until we seed and mute.
Between us,
Our damp swap,
A no man’s land,
A moist design,
The map of lust.
The art of love is always,
In its stains.
Anastasia Webb Jul 2014
They creep me out.
Those sticky-out veins in your neck,
the way they stretch like pythons’ tongues
as if they’re going to snap –
they’ll snap.
Like elastic,
they’ll snap
(just the thought …)

They creep me out,
the fact that they’re so FLESHY
and for some reason,
remind me of goats’ beards
and stringy turkey necks
(I don’t know, but,
just the thought …)

They creep me out.
I’ve got the weird feeling that
they could be snipped away by silver scissors
like loose threads.
They’ll snap.
Like elastic.
They’ll snap.
Stretching,
Stretching
(just the thought …)

— The End —