"bareback" poems
Paper thin top soil
Cracks seep through
Red dirt.
Bloodless gashes
Simmering summer soil
Baked turf.
Rolled gold haze
Aches as the
Country stretches its skin-
Near breaks
******** teeth
Tight white itches
Red earth fit-
To burst in a
Dark cloud of dust,
Choking soft as to soak
The moisture fresh
From your lungs.
Blinding blue sky
Set for worship
On a tall horizon
Too far, too high
For common souls-
To float on a
Breath of sweet dry air,
Eternal journey to sunset
Small piece of a dream
To chase a grey cloud
From sky to west.
Where subterranean
Creeks used to slip by
Rise in a slope of land
Where water once carved
Its roam
Now the winds sweep
All traces away
Back toward the sea,
And fair beyond
The aching dry eyes
Of the sons of
This red earth,
A mist lies awake
And prays for rain.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
He is rougher then being dumped
from the saddle of a bay mare,
but perhaps she shouldn’t be riding
******** past vineyards of red rusted vines.
And if she is on fire then she should probably roll
or climb into a hot tub on ***** Thursday
and put out the flame ignited by the thought
of hoping to God his parents can’t hear her.
She had always wanted to know what it felt like
to slaughter someone. So when he placed his palms
on the arch of her back and massacred her lips,
I imagined her smashing his skull against a brick wall.
And when she is in the bathroom washing him off
her hands, with a published poet in the next stall
she shouldn’t yell **** you, I’m not a flower
and start listing off the ten rules to **** ***
Because no matter how many times she uses him
as her own personal merry go round or slams
back beer after beer, he will never die in a coffin
so that she can say he is already dead and
buried.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
The posters said tomorrow
At eleven on the dot
The Mishkin Brothers Circus
Would be here ....on this spot
There would be no carnival or midway
Just one tent and three rings
And all of the excitement
That a good old circus brings
There would be elephants and lions
Trapeze artists overhead
Dancing dogs and ponies
And zebras painted red
Clowns of all description
Answering to just one man
In the center of the circle
Was Mishkin brother....Dan
He'd run the show for twenty years
Gone from town to town to town
In one day they would get set up
And in two, they'd tear it down
One day to show the locals
The circus still was an event
With magic, form the Barnum Days
All housed inside one tent
The sideshow barkers and their geeks
Were not with this fine group
Dan Mishkin had assembled
Only the finest circus troup
From Russia he had jugglers
Knife throwers, just the best
******** riders from Decatur
Along with all the rest
Fourteen trucks and trailers
Pulled into town the night before
Breaking ground once they arrived
Working right through until four
Just old time entertainment
No travelling gypsy band was this
It was the Mishkin Brothers Circus
It was something not to miss
The show was started promptly
At twelve o'clock, like the sign said
A parade of all the players
And the zebras painted red
Two shows and it was over
The whole routine began anew
The field was once more empty
Gone was the Mishkin rolling zoo
A year from now, we'd see the signs
And we'd all go to the tent
To see the Mishkin Brothers Circus
The best money ever spent
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
I am no expert,
no expert at all
But when I am compelled
to write a poem
the compulsion comes
from a pure wish
to distil a thought,
to communicate,
to ride language ********
across the open spaces
of my brain
But you would lasso me,
corral me,
shut the barn doors on me
and the lowing, braying herd
for some self appointed *****
to cast judgement
So that the best possible outcome
is that I step on the faces of others
on my way to institutionalised,
establishment-approved freedom
Well,
**** you
and the horse
you wish you could have ridden in on.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
[Sidra of the Stars]
a goddess has awakened
eyes slowly open
penetrating...
light reflects off the irises
(recessive blue alleles on chromosome 15)
my name is Sidra
and I will not be diverted.
-
I stand under sol
I stand under the earth's satellite
I stand in the vale.
-
look upon my feet
the fine lines of support
and strength of design
golden light showers
my long legs
strong and graceful
gaze upon my curves...
silky
ample
hypnotic
look at my golden arms
that comfort babes
dig into the earth
and create abstractions
hands and fingers of elegance
given to me by my grandmother
nails to claw and hands to hold
look at my long neck
draped in silver metal and black glass
falling between my *******
hips compliment the
curve of my spine and
the upward tilt of my chin
my hair is a golden light
shining over hoops of silver
and diamond studs
crystal pierces my nose
lips soft and full
eyes lined in black, never faltering
-
this goddess is aware
conscious
enlightened
eager.
-
I will not abide
silence
undeserved
because you lack the courage
to face me.
I will not abide
deception
manipulation
or syrupy black selfishness.
I will not abide
injustice
mockery
or ultimatums.
I will not abide
misrepresentation
vagueness
or weakness.
-
I am Sidra
of
the stars
of
the sky
of
the night
-
I move swiftly in the night
eyes bright
a creator
a lover
a muse
thoughts align
images swirl
pen to paper
my body moves
sensuous and confident
music booms
lips curve upwards
-
the day descends with
distractions pulling awareness
into waves of concentration
tiny fragments of
thoughts and ideas
begin to build
for later contemplation
-
I know the minds of men.
I will not be diverted.
My power has been revealed.
I will protect the unprotected
**And I will stand
Made of stars
And unleash Hell.**
-
I will reign terror on your ego
and bring the sword down
on your garishness.
Naked and ******** on my warhorse
I will strike you down with silver spear
and you will pay for your misdeeds.
In all my thundering beauty
with nothing but logic and art
I will slam you to the wall
and declare you a fool.
-
I am Sidra of the Stars
I stand in the vale
I will not be diverted.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
"Gladly lost in the depths of you"
What depths?
How am I lost?
I'm lost in a puddle.
I'm standing ankle deep in fluff; in disappointment.
Some days, I wish things were different
Some days, I wish we were two of a kind
Some days..
But I fear loving someone just like me would be terrible.
We would be a twister; a ball of flames-- so destructive, that we would burn everyone in our wake.
We would break every bed, and smash every hope and dream our parents' had for us.
We would scream and yell and decimate each other to the brink of permanent dislocation, but never over the cliff.
My, what a cliff that would be..
We would break every bone in our bodies violently explaining how "right" one of us was, but only proving how fatally stubborn we really are.
We would ride the waves of life ********
We would shoot up the night, and drink up the tragedies like a drunk fresh out of a failed rehab stint, as they roll over us like rock crushers-- hair of the dog that bit you; it's good for poetry, they say.
Never a dull moment for us
Never a craving
Never a quiet moment
Never left wanting more
Never a deeper sadness than what we create together
But perhaps it's a mistake wanting more than you
Perhaps you're keeping me from destruction
Perhaps your holding me back is a blessing
Perhaps I need you more than my heart realizes
Perhaps it's better this way
Perhaps I don't need to ever fall in love with someone like me
Lord knows I can't seem to love myself
What makes me think I would love my true other half?
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
Spin spin Sally, spin spin,
Right into damnation, right into Sin.
Topsy-turvy Sally, topsy-turvy in the din.
Let the black wolf in, Sally
Let the carnal win,
Let the madness in, Sally
Remember with a grin;
''Stay thin, think gin.''
And give release Sally.
Fire bullets through the tins
Ride ******** through the wind
**** your karma,
**** your kin,
Spin spin Sally,
Spin, spin.
Topsy-turvy Sally,
Topsy-turvy in the din.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
There's this feeling of irrepressible despair that I can no longer keep inside.
I need to know where you are, and where you've been, why do you hide?
I'm sitting here wondering why I told you to go.
Why I pushed you away, why we said no.
I see you through a screen full of lies and deception.
Depression's setting in, like screams of infections.
You were my protection, for the longest, the one I leaned on,
but by the selection of my words, you broke away clean, gone.
The pain I feel is surreal, I can't explain nor can I deal,
You were something of a thrill,
I needed you then, I need you still,
You're the only thing in life that ever seemed real,
but now I'm back to dreaming,
killing my mind to conceal.
Thoughts bleeding, mind breaching.
Heavy breathing.
Now all apart of my past,
I trap it all in a mask I wear,
my voice raspy,
I tear the wrist, bombing my heart,
Fear passed me.
Blood and bone, ******** on my own.
I found my home and another,
who loves me more than my mother,
I love you but I love her more and furthermore,
she's glorious, I'm never bored,
Notorious, but not a bore,
losing her I can't afford, so sorry baby here's the door...
Leave me be.
Can't you see?
Your memory is killing me.
At ease, I am calm,
Agreed I'm angry and I'm,
not really stable,
Turnt tables,
Look at me now,
Oh, you aren't able...
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******** on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
Lots of ladies there may be, but I haven't had that many
My **** is always active, and I think I would have any
In the past I could have been, just a bit too picky
The art of wanking I did try, but that left my pants all sticky
Some nice **** I would love, or an **** or three
The fairer *** is preferable, cos there's nothing strange about me
It really doesn't seem that fare, when there are many slags
And lots of ugly fat ****** that say they all want shags
But I can not locate any, I wish there was a way
That I could find a nice gal, and not someone that is gay
Nothing against the Lezzers, I'm just not that way inclined
But I'm fed up with wanking, and I don't want to go blind
I would ***** an old gal, with a big fat rounded ****
A squeezable amount of flesh, inside an **** ****
Big fat ****** are welcome, who want it up their bucket
I would like **** your **** and I'd really love to **** it
An **** I could really try, if only the girls would
******* lots of ***** ***** that could be quite good
A large obese girl I would **** with lots of rolls of fat
I'd stuff my **** inside there **** cos there's nothing wrong with that
Ideal worlds would be good, if you could **** the girls you like
But I will settle for a ***** or a well used ridden bike
Even in a ******** they could be a real good ****
If pussy's are full of ***** I'd still **** your *** filled bag
Maybe I could find an old gal who is a real life *****
I would just think so what, and **** her well used *****
After I have loosened up, her tight old ******* hole
I could have a tighter **** with her **** upon my pole
******** the ladies ******** this is always such a dream
Arses will be filled up, and the cat would get the cream
If you want to get ****** and you find any of this thrilling
Get your ***** and arseholes out, ready for a creamy filling
Come on all you fat slags, I'd like to see you naked
And even you wrinkly old bags, to me nothing is sacred
Your ***** cats are required, and your arses are inclined
Fat slags and old bags are still quite hard to find
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
Make haste upon the wind of your questions
Purge that glimmer of trust
Flattery, will get you nowhere fast
Once I confirm, you are not
One of us
Take a safari on the icing of your own cake
Then cut me a slice or two
You can get overly sentimental, if you like
While I have your cake
And eat it too
Shut off the valve to your bleeding heart
No pity is needed here
I ride ******** on all my trials
Been roughing it
For years
Go ahead and apply your salve to all those wounds
You have been rubbing all that salt in
I wear a shield of aiming intention
That I call my tough
Thick skin
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
My buddies shared stories
When they wanted protection
But the ******** fanatics’
Decisions were static
Used all possible ploys
To manipulate guys
Into blowing their loads
In their pink little holes
These girls might be crazy
They may well be *****
For all we know
They might want a baby
Regardless of risk
My guys fell for their tricks
When one ruse failed
The girls went down their list
They said not to worry
*** and ***** are clean
When they ****** the next day
It burned like lit gasoline
They turned up the heat
Seduction was key
Till all they could think
Was with the head between their legs
It won’t feel as good
Sensitivity reduced
You won’t stay hard
And I won’t stay wet and squirt jets
You should accept my request
I thought we were cool
If you just trusted me…
Be carefree like a hippie baby!
Emotional blackmail
I’ll get mad if you insist
To protect your *****
Resistance is futile *****
They said if we must
Let ME wrap it up
I’ll secretly poke holes
Or slip off before you explode
She’ll have no *** at all
Or she’ll force you down
And stay on top
Making you drop the ****** to the ground
She says she’s on the pill
When she’s definitely not
Even if you pull out
There’s still ***** in your pre-cum, no doubt
Either she’ll give you disease
Or steal your seed for a baby
None of that is love
So wear a glove bubba
At the end of the story
They said don’t stick your **** in crazy
She might get too attached
You’ll wake up with your **** and ***** detached
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 10:50 AM UTC
she sits - eyes darting side to side,
eating the atmosphere, chewing carefully,
rosebud mouth moist, lips open a space,
hands fidgeting in her shallow concaved lap ..
woman leans forward to stroke wayward
tendril from wide forehead - a sign of excellence
to some just that, to others smart phrenology;
tendril defies maternal meaning to spring
like a diver from top board thrill
to fall once more upon laughing brow,
how young child loves the tickling touch
she never receives from mother -
she who urges piano practice, eight to ten,
dancing lessons, eleven to one,
geography, history and Latin tutelage
with woman ancient her and morbid more,
afternoon alternate curriculum and oboe,
catechism, times-tables, spellings parroted..
when night calls child to sleep,
she curls her softness into a knot, tight
and unforgiving, ******** tears from
sea blue eyes so they weep 'pon Egyptian
cotton sheets to dilute the ***** drips of
progidy’s day by day nightmare..
child needs, child yearns for what she
does not know, kettle drum heart throbbing..
longs to run in meadows mossy bright,
longs to see dirt under sweetheart nails;
in dreams she rides ponies ********
and soars sky, dances clouds, kisses moon..
but then, morning vivid with sane insanity
she wakes in an open cage, in a different room..
rebelled, she did, small fragile six year old;
today, today, today her mind is empty,
hands fluttering butterflies, eyes bright, innocence
faded, but laughing..laughing..laughing, free.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.
I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******** with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months
than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
mothers come inside the club w/ their kids to rock;
writing & painting don't matter here;
turning deep w/ skin like stone
the small Russian hearts wet & perfect,
getting busy w/ strangers w/ strange accents;
mothers of Russian origin wearing ********
t-shirts that show off their back tattoos;
leaving the state-soul dancing,
looking prettily at the water by the
window
[eating blonde modern society]
her lips at best running into his smoking arms;
walking on ***** legs filled w/ blind virgins,
sure, found unconscious on the floor
in her year at French dream school w/ her books;
brought home to her brother waiting to **** her
**** caring friends; speaking
freely but wrong; their lives brown secret
met stupid [ ] Gina who wrote graffiti all over
the cool painting;
***** is a genius, he asked for her brain
to smell his story a long
time ago at her birth, her mother
died; [it was a guy's
ode to yellow married music]
drinking at the evil club &
falling for her,
[watching & eating,
mankind turning to
silver, in walked Christ
talking of his origin to the mirror;
reading her flesh, she started getting
****** up in the house
& tore off her *******
like a Latina, [straight up ** (no connection)]
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
guiding
blank page muses
and muses riding ********
horses with iron honey legs
they combust in liquid
and finger themselves
in darkroom thighs
fluorescent ***
in the eaves of heaven
i wanna drip off your fingers
and
onto your belly
and
rollerskate into
your ****
and
tattoo your
lips shut
with sewn butterflies to the skyfields
the
skygrass
and
skykisses
and
name myself after your
blank spaces
and the forest fire days
of august new years
no one talks about you anymore
but i still
wonder the
way the salt
wonders about the tears
and the dark about
the midnight
if that really was
you
a valley out of the winding
sheets
and into the golden haired
hands of a long ago love
well practiced with incision
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
She rises at dawn, chilled
by the lost embrace
of her sleeping pills, brushes
summer's blown ashes
with the shuffle of footsteps
on old stone floors.
She thaws her hands
around a coffee cup,
sits at her desk,
******** Ariel arrowed from
yesterday's tide hoof-printing
ocean waves jetting barnacles
telephone wires a man's black boot
routing them through
cold English mornings,
a gold Sheaffer pen.
Words seep
across the page,
trail toxins of grief.
Light edges
between churchyard yews,
fingertips the curtains.
A thumb's worth
of breast-milk
stains her nightgown.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
My Home....
The shield I had over my emotions was broke,
I turned around, consumed by fear of losing control over the last threads.
But,
He pulled me into his arms and hugged me close.
The intoxicating smell of him lingered in my mind,
I immediately relaxed in those strong arms.
The melodies rhythm of his heart was cherry on the top,
and I felt drifting away.
"Feeling better now, my Lil' fighter," He asked.
His voice was just above a whisper,
but that baritone voice sent a shiver to my spine.
I looked into his eyes,
His hypnotic gaze held my own.
His hands touched my ******** and I instantly felt butterflies swirling around my stomach.
He smiled, bemused by mischievous acts of his own and my reaction.
He came closer and joined his forehead to mine and said
"I always with you, no matter what."
That moment I knew, I found it,
My Home!
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
Loving someone just like me was terrible.
We were a twister; a ball of flames-- so destructive, that we burnt everyone in our wake.
I'm so sorry.
We broke every bed, and smashed every ******* hope and dream our parents had for us.
We screamed and yelled and decimated each other to the brink of permanent dislocation, and then you shoved me over the cliff.
My, what a cliff that was..
**** me?
No.
**** you.
We shattered every bone in our bodies violently explaining how "right" one of us was,
but we only proved how fatally stubborn we really are.
We rode the waves of life ********
That was a mistake.
We shot up the night, and drank up the tragedies like drunks fresh out of a failed rehab stint, as they rolled over us like rock crushers-- hair of the dog that bit you; "it's good for poetry", they said.
Never a dull moment for us
Abuser
Never a craving
I want what I had back
Never a quiet moment
We used to scream so loud..
Never left wanting more
I want more than a manipulator.
Never a deeper sadness than what we create together
**** straight**
I don't love you anymore.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
I rode behind him, ******** on a handsome steed,
My head against his strong, fragrant, sweaty back,
I'm sure, as we reached the woods with speed,
That he deliberately rode off the beaten track.
A cabin stood not fat from us,my heart began to race,
My body ached for his soft wet tongue, to slip beneath my lace,
The lake was like an ice rink, not a ripple to be seen,
I fantasised my open legs would float him in between.
Dismounting with such grace, he held out his arms so strong,
And swept me down upon the grass, inhibitions gone,
We shared each moment tenderly at first, with touch and taste,
The water hid our mouths and hands,my chastity he chased,
The ripples increasing faster now, our passion mounting so,
And breathless panting i let out, while learning what he showed,
The fluid love between us seeped from me, and then from him,
Explosions i have never felt before, and never since,
We dressed eachother gently, taking in eachothers beauty,
And off he carried me toward the cabin, intent on marital duty..
"But That's Another Story"
(c) eileen mcgreevy 2009
Nov 20, 2009
Nov 20, 2009 at 5:30 AM UTC
I still don't know if
I've ever "made love"
but if I have
the first time
was definitely with you:
******** on the ***** carpet floor
of your best friend's house
in Tallahassee. we knocked
tattoos against the coffee table
both our knees red
rugburnt from scooting the length
of the living room + hallway.
we moaned into each other's mouths
as our friends passed out drunk
not seven feet away
we tried three positions & your
body told me the last one was your
favorite so we bumped bellies
pulled each other's hair
your chest on my chest
your shoulder blades
drenched in moonlight
small in my careful hands
stars camped in our eyes
you bit my
lip too hard.
I'll never forget the wet way you kissed
my salty forehead as we
climbed connected onto
the couch, but the most vivid
memories from that night
are your legs
still quivering but clenched
ankle locked together at the
slope of my back, & falling asleep
inside you because it
felt like the right thing to do.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
My name is Pablo Cervantes
But you can call me Quinton Saint Clair
I’m something rare like turquoise tangerines
Or crystal cathedrals and blistering sunbeams,
My stare is a raw gaze full of awe like ocean’s dawn
I ride ******** on polar bears in the dead Alaskan air
Slay undead corpses, a tantalizing career
Drink the tears of Jesus to make life clear
Eat waterfalls for breakfast, mountains for lunch, and last, but not least I feast on shooting stars before I go to sleep
Just call me Quinton Saint Clair savior of all quintessential affairs
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
Shining chariot of the king you are, I am the sprinting horse,
the diabolic king has met with his fate, we two freedom seek,
I am a ******** rider, the shining star of the rodeo nights,
you are an ambling horse, moves the way my mind wishes to dance
no animal activist can ever find any fault in our magical pact,
I do bull riding, barrel racing, tie-down roping and all the rest,
an unbeaten team we are, life for us has been a blast so far
you are my Juliet and I am your Romeo, right from the first sight
against the wish of the whole ****** world, that keeps snarling at us,
happily united in a suicide pact, no one can in anyway object,
when the passion filled moments cherished, turn to mere mirage,
why live, life is but a dream, let's wake up at last, fall dead.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC