"abutting" poems
Penetrate me tight-fitting and penetrate me pinned down
The lycanthropic creature you ******
This is la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you poke me, ****** moans
And though I squeeze my vaginas
I taste la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you ***** me abutting your *****
I’m inside a hobnobbing alien
A metagalaxy where Venus’ flytraps win a beauty contest
And when you ********* cyclopses moo from upstairs
Heterosexual homophones seem to pervert ***** Adams Glorias
Splash out your cream and gumption to me
And ***** lust loosely wash
La vie en Venus’ flytrap
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 4:06 PM UTC
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Lazy sundays with the sad glow
there’s nothing to be sad about
except that it is all over
of course, my one day off vanished
outside blowing meager paychecks
emerald hillsides topped with leaves
abutting, climbing the city
plunged into histories soon gone
like the cold, gold sun gleaming off
the ribbon of the tarmacked road
we returned to from our escape
peering back through the car’s windshields
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Driving down the blithe boulevard with my heart in the drivers seat and the world at my jaunty forefeet; aquatic nature abutting the equator serving as an anomalous educator and metaphysical communicator
Submerged in a state of angelic maturity; dopamine manumitted upon the sensible observance of internal assurance while living in the fullness of magnetizing, sunlit nourishment.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
In a dream I never sought
unprecedented horrors and thoughts
a scissors with a hint of blood
heavy and surreal sound
the demon within speaks
I exfoliate to my core
The mask of sanity is no more intact
Disturbed and desolate in an unknown labyrinth
Of love, of law and of thoughts
Death is abutting your life
an escape to an aberrant sanctuary
scrupulous circles of luminance lead you further
The past is farce and forgotten
The senile you and your transgressions end
Your dalliance with humanity culminates
Loathe and love exist no more
Reverie is not what I need
restore the thought indeed
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 4:54 AM UTC
On a date which is altogether known
In the billfolds of bankers
And the abutting hearts of lovers,
And thoroughly logged in the appropriate
Depositories under appropriate covers,
An event of some moment occurred.
The boroughs stood stock-still that day.
While bureaus of such things raced.
Reports came in the usual state-
Filed with numbers and subsetting letters
And screened through machines
To assure their congruence.
On the import of this the West has agreed
And suits of several cuts conferred-
Their message: “Not bereft of status
Past but graced by status wholly present,
Marked by Trojan Hector's tragic
Fall we come to budding Rome.”
****** the edifice mark'd the change:
Neighbors bowed in novel commune.
Seers took to foment rapture
And obfuscated pictures lent
Their turn to Hells hereafter.
Evoked again King Pyrrhus' loss.
The brazen poet took to this,
Formed a certain sense, a catch
Collecting parallels- change a liquid:
Afloat the wicked buoys of politic.
Ashore the masses- sheep- insipid.
Abroad the falling, downy snow
To rust the marble shrines of old.
But how keen the poet's blade?
Her wit dulls at the thick:
All the rest were just the same.
Homer and Hesiod, through to Hughes
Seek their crises to be the rare
One-off of guilt and bold reform.
But want for change- a timeless sore.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:31 PM UTC
Grass
Jutting
Head
Butting
The dead
Lie in bastions
Abutting
Fortifications
Of the living
Whilst angels
Sing of blasphemy
And the heavens cry bile
Mans race
To contaminate
Space
Look closely
The esoteric
Genetics
Unseen
In human DNA
Confound
Look back
Behind
Up towards
An odyssey
The collapse of a star
Infinite and
Beyond reach
Obsolete
The existence
It once existed
Thought extinct
Human iris
Cloned galaxies
Clues to origins
Erstwhile taboo
Yet
Twelve thousand dollars
Shat
Upon a woman's chest
In jest
Unjust
While the
Innocent hunger
Pangs of the just
The meek emanates truth
And weeps degradation
Upon the masses
Bathing in its delight
Soothing of its ecstasy
Governments
Capitulate peace
Their pockets weighted of gold
Precipitates hate
Hate of me
Hate
Of you
Entangles the psych
Towards
The precipice of war
Bodies
Upon
Bodies
Buried in forgotten pits
Women wails
Screams of banshees
At the sight of death
Revenge
More death
Consoling
Conspiring
Conjuring
Retribution
Rebellion
Conflict
Bloodshed
Human suffering
Destruction
Suffers conglomerate
Occupation
Destruction
Reconstruction
Reconstructed thought
Confirm into
Neo-Society
A ******* blight
Upon
Humanity
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
still, so still..
a musty odor abutting against my door
percolating from the malodorous appendages of a subordinate
feigning work at this late night hour.
And my frazzled CFL is glistening over
intolerable Latin, scribbled before my eyes for me to devour
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
I’m called Madam Budget Cut, hard-edged Ms. Bludgeon ****
Slashing each piece of the pie.
But still I the budget gut, both guns and butter cut,
Balance the budget or die!
I’ve a tax for tobacco, and (pols think I’m whacko),
I’m slashing their projects with knives.
No ribbons for cutting, no grants for abutting
Old properties owned by their wives.
I’ve cross-the-board fixes, I’ve “no ways” and “nixes”,
I’ve silly assumptions and worse.
I consolidate functions, ignore court injunctions
Protecting the power of the purse.
I’ve early-out options, I propose late adoptions
Of programs designed by the Feds.
I close institutions, slow down restitutions,
And limit the number of beds.
I fire those who sign up
The thousands who line up
For Medicaid, welfare and such.
I’ve April surprises, with merit pay prizes
For staff who don’t argue too much.
So go with my uppercut,
Knock out the sludge, and gut,
Budgets should never be shy.
So we’ll cut, snip and suture,
Then look toward the future,
And pray that the patient won’t die!
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).
Age of exploration
ushered cruel fate
against “red” men living
in bliss by agents
patch of eden north
o Mason Dixon line
latitude: 39.64839
longitude: -75.95591 alee
perchance designed
by divine providence
with dyslexic humorous bents
Cecil county Maryland
lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
pocked imprimatur marked
meteorological dents
thru inundation of
oceanographic propensities
melding coastline like Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,
that body of water
abutting like natural fence
first witnessed by captain
John Smith in 1608
mistaking himself tong tied
in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
with Susquehannas hence,
offered tobacco sticks to natives
while recovering
from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
which twist on actual
historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
and replete with more
than interspersed nonsense
and incorporates tract situated
in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,
who emigrated with nary a pence
“taming” shrew like “noble savages”
plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
which timber built cabins with vents.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Then we learn to crawl through the ramble and sprawl, if we were tadpoles perhaps we might wriggle a bit,
but we're not
We scrabble and screech in order to reach whatever is it that we need and we feed at the fast foods, watching the naked and **** being destroyed and it's us that we see.
If we walk we don't talk with our heads in a phone watching memes on the screen and the bigger the better, easy to letter your life if you like, A equals 5 equals a bee in the hive, but we're making no honey just plenty of green crispy banknotes and it's funny because you can't eat money, but it keeps us alive, us being the bee in the hive.
And through all of this, the tramping, campaigning and cutting, adjusting, abutting it's easy to see why we crawl,
why we sprawl on the sofa and think so far so good.
I wonder if I'd feel as I would if I could grasp every corner of life, fold it into a square, put it somewhere and forget it.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
They were born two months apart.
Their houses shared a common wall.
Abutting romance.
You might say.
Naked, at age one, they shared a kiddie pool.
Grandparents still have the picture (giggle).
Joined at the hip.
So to speak.
Just the houses. Lives moved on, separately.
Some don’t; she died a teenager.
Lives diverge.
Lives end
Wish him the best, truly.
His life should be as beautiful as he is.
May he remember the sum
Of the good times.
Where he has been.
And what he has accomplished.
Let him remember that the best is yet to come.
But let him not forget her.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
A fire in the fall
A sunset in the summer
A sweater during winter
A vine that grew but never flowered
A tree that died but carried on
A seed that took just before the frost
the green of stone inside the earth
the white of bone beneath moist dirt
the blue that dyes the skin of a religion
their taste for seed toasted in the sun
their taste of herb bursting undone
their taste rests just there, on the tip of my tongue
your words were both, butter and the knife
your touch was like heat directly abutting ice
your love was like chaise lounge nirvana, lazy in the afternoon
enlightenment of some deeper kind
desires extending beyond all my given time
knowledge i knew but since long forgot
a fire in the fall
like butter abutting my blade
like ice before the melt
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
yes
i have help
each month
some years the tree man comes
i fiddle every day. lifting logs. i may
get stronger.
it is abutting a church
yard
( thanks to paul brookes for the prompt)
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
"Ardor yet torment are so abutting in tactility of amass,
Yet the latter is so very arduous,
Love can be like the flower that will not bloom,
Yet carries the love you had to others hidden in the dark,
We must thank the love we had may shed the aroma,
May the love once had may survive dimly within our souls,
The incandescent that rises from ground to your cilium,
Your alluring artistry protoplasm your prose your aroma,
That of a love that once cared yet left your palate in torment,
When your love and beauty gave exigent to my heart and soul,
As does the sea give oxygen to its living things to live,
Of my heart to my noumenon maybe I can live without you,
One day a new love I shall affix a diadem in my lonesome dynasty,
What sorrow did I not express to you was my sorrow immersed,
From crest to surge I still canticle your name as I wonder,
You were the long stem floret that comminuted my soul,"
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC