"basest" poems
a birthday poem for S.
perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...
perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,
the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,
burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough
loving kindness
sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 8:33 AM UTC
"The problem is..."
he drawls
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever **** yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and ******* he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our ******* is'nt *******
its ********** Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially gay *** Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during *** and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its ****** on."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
and were the ears so pleased when:
the iciclic needles dug into our skins,
fleshy cloths that, sewn together,
made the mask to hide the whole.
we wore them like the cheapest of trophies,
the basest of glories and the simplest of stories.
we wore them to contrast to the whiteness of space,
the empty black white gray of life's living littleness
with the reddened hardwork of claymade shells.
they glowed with the rusty red of millions of faces
free to make their mark as they see best fit.
we had found these skins
forgotten on the floor,
and so we picked them up
with our biglittle hands
and opened the door
to newmade makings and
brand new beings.
it was empty within us--
the beings of old
and the yearnings of yore
had retreated far beneath the surface,
burrowed deep below mountains and meadows and
hills pushed up like sand in a box,
crushed against the sides of our enclosure.
it was silent within us--
the screech-making moon
sang in time to chest-beatings
and the barking of stray dogs;
the melody of moments lost in time.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Sorry to...
Hit yo noes
like a brick of green
Like the grass that grow
nourished by the Celtic saints that know
Man tell a lie better make it true
if you don’t, then what do I make of you?
Now Wonder Woman
no wonder were human
bringing Brooklyn
some thunder hoodlum
My baited brown eyes look up and down you
Mile marker .66
and I’m still hitting this
crisp as a chrysalis
you may be the eyewitness
of my fist to this
more like the wittiness
of my pen tip dipped in ambergris
I get around you get the gist
healing hands I mend the cyst
with broken hands I gripped the rich
don't understand
don't worry
like Krishna I persist
zzzz Slept on like
The buzz of viciousness
**** the violence
turn the red to VIOLET
just look right through my eyes slit
Now and then
divine feminine deigned
to grace my face again
turned fake eyes to grin
false pride, double subs, and sin.
Complete appreciation, genuflected form reflected in
this fertile goddeSS
who puts the seeds in season
She see through SnakeS and reedS when
She based in wiSdom
reaSon
designed to take the basest race
from darkest depths to airs of divine space
till we’re flushed with grace
some are hushed by my ace in the whole
I'm a S33ker throwing axes
but YOU better only call me
an axehole
when
I
mis
s
.
***** simple as this.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-17/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-ii/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-iii/
(best read in order)
He blankets her with a mist that is fine and as pure as his postpartum soul is able to manifest. He’s sorry that she is sobbing on the dirt floor. He can’t think past the hunger that is beating upon her, which beats upon him. He is angry that his ancient predatory instincts are gaping to the fore.
For the ancient being now gently weeping on a cold dirt floor.
Why did he not recognize her? How did he get so lax in the thinking that cattle could disguise it self? A Wolf in Sheep’s clothing? Well... it’s not like he has not donned the same costume!
He had been a Protector for so long. Rising each Sunset with the challenges that bring on the most predatory beasts that hunger for pain. He, alone, has stood beside Humanity to bring the world a semblance of normality, morality, a passing moment when they thought they were King of the world… but their inflated egos were never touched by doubt.
Because of him.
But she brings him down to the basest level.
He feels…
For her
For her hunger
For her emptiness
For her utter contemptuousness
She is the creature that he has been birthed to fight. The utter savageness that she brings forth when it becomes night.
He alone, in eternity, wanders the earth to make Mortal life the one thing that is right.
She lifts her head from the cold dirt floor to stare at him. He materializes as a persona that should scare her, one that heralds Death, but his emotions are fraught with peril. She is important to him. He may have been birthed to bring Death but he was never denied that one could become his Life.
His pulse quickens, her eyes widen, her pulse quickens, he is afraid of the sight that lays bare in front of him. His fangs are buried deep in his bottom lip, he can not say a word even if his immortal soul depends on it.
She licks her lips in hesitation, maybe anticipation; she could be licking her lips because of the small droplet of blood that lingers in the corner of her mouth. He wants to touch his tongue to said lips and cheek and ear and throat and, well HELL, he’s happy to continue south… as long as his tongue is touching skin…
She looks away, briefly, and cries again. She is unable to fight past her hunger even though she has recognized the Protector.
She needs protecting too!
She’s so hungry!
But from the swelling of his body, so is he…
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
a million ears listening
no one hears a thing
basest news a big surprise
ignominy is crowned king
a squander of treasure
best minds laid to waste
price of fear forever accrues
funds the purpose of the place
eyes of a diligent nation
brains filled with briny mush
ears clogged and waxen
expertise in smelling ****
central intel brainiacs
the heft of heavy dudes
a sordid nest of vipers
collecting despots dues
Music selection:
Radiohead,
Artificial Intelligence
Oakland
2/14/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC
FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear
As little as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst not show nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse and then betray;
Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted me
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride and ignorance the schools;
Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,
But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed;
Where every freedom is betray'd,
And every goodness tax'd or grieved.
But what we're born for, we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here,
If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind--that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my ***** and at home.
2.6k
It’s so dumb and not really the point.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I could force you to choke on it.
With every verbal message you spew,
The more the realization that the sparkle and shine,
Was just a shackle of the basest iron.
One that you released me from yourself.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I could force you to choke on it.
It’s so dumb and not really the point.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 1:23 AM UTC
'So It Begins...'
once upon a time
there was a girl
who always ran around in circles
figuratively, of course
not literally, because if she was literally always running in circles, she'd pretty soon be dead
but that's neither here nor there. back to the girl
she had no idea that she did this
but everyone around and about
was painfully aware of her issues
she was convinced that she was always coming up with new and exciting ideas
when really she just spent all her time recycling her own idiocy
and she became increasingly irate as all the things that she kept around
even though she would never admit that she intentionally kept them around
started to seem wrong
or used
or just completely foreign
until a magic prince
with a magic want
who totally dug the fact that this chick was entirely self obsessed and weird
and pretty much certifiable
snuck in the middle of the night
and robbed the ***** blind
however
because the guy took all her worthless
pointless
and in the end
meaningless baggage away with him
she replaced her former obsessions with stalking him
and he became her magic want
which he severely regretted soon enough
because with her circular habits
her stalking efforts were not unlike being relentlessly pursued
by a small
angry
but not entirely unaffectionate
chihuahua
he fully intended for her to stalk him from the beginning
but unfortunately
as he had been raised in a pseudo-feministic
yet highly romanticized society
he was under the false impression that once this chick started pursuing him
she would give in to her basest wants
and deep seated but repressed desires
that every girl has but doesn't admit
to ending up with a magic prince
he was wrong
there
was
no
fairytale
and once she caught up with him
the relationship that ensued
became a vicious cycle of marriage, divorce, and remarriage
because he had been ****** in
to her circularity.
the end
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
Retro Morn: Re-Reading Jenny (1.) and Her Purple Hat, (2.), Listening to Vonda Shepard
I am a beautiful woman, and reliably informed so,
by handsome. men, lustful fools, and one too many
sideward glances
in a difference place, musical needs call me out to retro smooth me
away from the waves of nausea of news repeats ingested, the lesser
qualities of human beings basic basest nature, I inhale subdued
Jenny’s defiance of life’s expectations and Vonda’s voice
smooth my discordant emotive candles that won’t stay lit,
add in a touch of melting Joni & Divine Ms. Bette,
gets me slow kickstarting
and I have not reached
the lofty plateau of
twenty five years of age
*but my mom, the Queen Regent, reminds me royalty possesses
very old souls, which Is why I’m caught out listening, dancing
awake to the music of her youth* and hear her discreetly humming the tunes, even though the phone connection broken minutes earlier
she signed off with a practised Elizabethan airy disturbance royal wave of her hand, instructing this raining (no, not reigning)
Queen to “darling go write a poem…”
don’t we all listen to our mothers?*
my name is brandychanning
music inhale subdued kickstarting a poem
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 12:35 PM UTC
with each passing day, I understand less and less, for
who could ever claim to know it all, yet, the simplicity
of our base-ic basest instincts makes evil so easily attractive,
that now, I forgive almost nothing, anyone for the cruelty
inherent in on the surfacial skin of our normalcy, so easily,
revealed, and reveled in, wrecks me, and the poetry
sparks are not doused, but wick and ember shriveled
oh the irony, that foolish me should write of the
commandment to love just as the world displays
old levels of hate historically deep… .I am hated,
to many who would know me only as Jew,
and this refresher course in my brain, reminds me,
that love thy neighbor as thyself, can morph into a
generational opposite, that my former degree of comfort,
beliefs, was only skin deep…and Tolstoy was a naïf, a romantic,
a royal, who hoped for the best in each man, and that
cannot ne achieved for hate is so easy digestible, so sweet a treat
for humans, who desire no compass other than simple baseness
to know which direction to take….
————————————————————————————-
”There can be only one permanent revolution—a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man. How is this revolution to take place? Nobody knows how it will take place in humanity, but every man feels it clearly in himself. And yet in our world everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself."
Tolstoy
”To perform evil deeds a person must discover “a justification for his actions,” so that he can regard stealing, humiliating and killing as good. “Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble,” and so conscience restrained him. He had no ideology, Solzhenitsyn observes, nothing like “anti-imperialism” or “decolonization” to allay pangs of guilt. Solzhenitsyn concludes: “Ideology—that is what gives evil-doing its long-sought justification and gives the evil-doer the necessary steadfastness and determination . . . so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but receive praise and honors.”
Solzhenitsyn
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
I created a ray to save the world.
We had come too far,
had lost ourselves, it seemed to me
and we were taking the Earth along with us
into the abyss.
Too much knowledge: too much thought.
We needed to go back.
And so I created the Great Devolver Ray
and stood, trembling, by the trigger.
This would return us
to our basest animal selves.
Would tune us perfectly into Nature,
re-thread us into the fabric of Creation
destroy the wall between Natural and Unnatural.
Pure uncorrupted survival: nothing more.
And so I stood, on the brink,
unsure as all great revolutionaries must be,
put my hand in place,
and pushed.
And the ray burst forth
and we were transformed
into the pure ******* creatures that Life demanded.
And absolutely nothing changed
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountaintops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow.
But out, alack! He was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.
1.4k
i ring the door bell twice
the door opens
there is a boy maybe 4 5
he smiles at me
rustled ***** blonde hair
blue eyes shining seeing into me
knowing me in the basest truth
as only children can know
"Hi. Welcome. Hello."
all rapidly said so politely
i step inside
the house is not too large
not small by any means
this porridge is just right
he leads me in as one who
leads a child to
the den well furnished
the father sits in his chair
watching the boy gratefully
the boy buzzing with
the energy of new company
leaps onto the couch and
announces himself
"My name is Demetri. Nice to meet you.
Welcome to my home. What is your name?"
"Sam"
"Hey, Sam, nice to meet you, Sam."
he flips off the couch grandly
grabs my hand and shakes violently
"Nice to meet you, Sam. Im Demetri.
Welcome to my home. Please, please.
Sit, sit."
He pulls me to the couch
I sit so my arm is not dislocated
he lets go wrist hurting
not the strength of a
4 5 year old boy
a well developed boy well spoken
i look to his father who
watches son lost in amazement
proud as can be as should be
the boy is again in my ear
"What brought you here, Sam? Did you
want to see my house? Did you wanna
see my legos? I got a lot of them. I like
building spaceships. I wanna build a real one.
Hey Sam, you wanna build a spaceship."
no idea how to build a spaceship
"Im here to speak with your father, little guy."
"Really? About what? Huh? About what?
Do you bring things to people? Like presents?
Do you have a present? I think I know
what about. You have a present for my dad.
Is that it, Sam, do you have a present?"
im both annoyed and fascinated
simultaneously by the boy
annoyance why father
has not said something
leash this dog muzzle
however
fascination buzzing by simple fact
i did have something for his father
a present
for the father to keep forever
for the boy to find later
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 8:26 PM UTC
Times behold when twisted men are captured by their spleen
When souls will writhe in torment though their thoughts are seldom seen,
When agitation rides aloft with blunt spur on its' ****
And the hounds of hell are baying as though purgatory will pass.
Torment in its' basest form is shaded beastly red
Immersing flocks of faithful in the mind set till they’re dead,
For shredded nails and worry lines, so deeply now ingrained,
Are signatured paralysis of the breed that has abstained.
Abstained in all things beautiful, such as dreams which flow in mirth,
Abstained from eyes of merriment and joyful leaps from earth,
Divorced to all that conjures up the gracious well of love
Divorced from thoughts of holiness in faith, both hand in glove.
Baptised to despondency, inured to sights and sounds
Which lift the mind's creation well beyond all earthly bounds,
Committed to the trench of the dark abyss of gloom
Assigned to unenlightenment...The soul has left the room.
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 4:26 AM UTC
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing, they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest **** outbraves his dignity.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
1.2k
We are suffering today
From a disease called hypocrisy.
And it is the basest enemy
Of freedom in democracy.
It substitutes a dollar amount
For lives and souls and hope
And tantalizes the population
With TV, ***** and dope.
By the time the population
Wakes up and catches on
A new batch of crooks exist
The old got rich, moved on.
Every campaign promise
They will fail to deliver.
They will lie to your face
And sell you down the river.
Our women are widows
Our children are orphans
The churches want money
For larger pipe organs.
They wring their hands
Subject abortion to scorn
But, abandon them to penury
As soon as they are born.
They say they want nobody
To receive free ride Medicare
Then freely give corporations
Un-needed trillions in welfare.
The chant against big government
Is a perennial marching tune.
They’ll decide the kind of ***
And have control over wombs,
The world is a place today
Where the dollar comes first
And the children of the poor
Are usually treated the worst.
We are suffering today
From a disease called hypocrisy.
And it is the basest enemy
Of freedom in democracy.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Good neighbors, sweet friends, can you forgive me?
In long, still and creeping hours of study,
I can be stern and inaccessible.
My studies tax me to basest function,
resting, weight-like, on my wretched shoulders.
I, too-weary, ebb and at times, tend to
spare few feelings and gall, as if licensed.
Sometimes I go, unwillingly to class,
a melancholy lass. Please, if we talk,
speak gently. I labor under command,
and you may not be answered with reason.
Hereby hangs the tale, ladies just and fair.
Sleep, that dark medicine, has restored me,
my sanity and my better judgment.
Patiently receive my apology
and recall our many fun adventures.
Sep 16, 2023
Sep 16, 2023 at 9:47 AM UTC
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a thronèd queen,
The basest jewel will be well esteemed.
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
1.2k
Down her cheek there rolls a tear
Lowered eyes reflect the fear
She feels that others see the pain
She tries to hide to mask the shame.
Shame of what she has become
Despite her efforts to succumb
To good intentioned, sound advice
Delivered at preposterous price.
Shame at how the mind deplores
Those temperamental personal flaws,
Of slights inferred and insults hurled
At friend and foe with flag unfurled.
Friend and foe who tried to help,
Who lowered guard to feel the welt
Of verbal horsewhip to the jowl,
To violently recoil with howl.
Betrayal in its basest form
All sympathetic help withdrawn.
She furiously stands distraught
In isolation’s cold white thought.
Down her cheek there rolls a tear
Of distain for the eyes that jeer,
Direction of the darts of blame
From whence no help will come again.
Marshalg
Collateral damage
4 February 2012
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
i find certain poets
too engaged with
a pronoun interchange,
and underusing nouns,
with some fear to
clear their footprints
to go further;
and there's no reason
for them to go further,
there's more reason
to stand-still... and disengage
from the basest description
language of overly using pronouns
and speaking like philosophers:
referring to everything with the
word thing, whether that's
a subject or an object or whatever.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
*where every millenia one bird flies past
and alters the stone that would have sacrificed itself to idols*
The poem is written loosely in my clothing. I wrap it into my hair
decorated with sighs as I prepare to leave home each morning
I check myself in the mirror and in all possible reflections,
just to be sure it hasn't unraveled in the absence of audience
or that some subtle aspect of it's beauty hasn't morphed
into something else since last I looked.
What you think is vain is simple.
Is there anything I might have missed?
Look again. Look again.
What have you missed?
How am I ever to find God when all I want is Art?
Given: To be an artist is to be driven solely by sin.
Lustful enough to encompass the world,
Greedy.
Vain enough to imagine that God with her many arms,
mother and eater of worlds
could be woven into the ascendant strata of my spine.
She could climb up from my gut a ladder built of the basest desires
and from the space between hemispheres, jump out across the synapse
as light cast into the void, and echo of herself to herself singing only I am.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
A *** DEAL MADE ME NOT 01-23-10
Moral Conundrums
Dilemma Number 1:
If you won a million dollars and were told that you could give it all away to the needs of others or you could keep it all to yourself, what would you do?
My Honest Answer:
I’d keep it and sneak it back around from my profitable endeavors. So yes I would keep it, only to further my ability to give back more than a million. Seriously. If I thought I didn’t have the ability to do that, given the chance, then I’d rather quickly fade away and give it all to the Humane Society.
A happy medium, ethically, would be all of the above, or I think I would be happy dying trying!
Dilemma Number 2:
You pull off the interstate and wait for a green light. You are turning left, so you must wait. It is raining, hard. It’s 55 degree’s, unusual for Florida. The woman outside your window is over seventy, and toothless, wet as a tired sewer rat. But she is not a rat. She is or was or could have been someone’s mother.
She certainly was someone’s daughter, but that doesn’t really matter much, never has, and never will sometimes, always. Out of ten there will always be one sometimes or no-times child. There will always be those with and without. There will always be that “have more or less” mentality based on sentiments of the basest of humanity.
I have a dollar…until next week. One dollar. Until next week. I have some food and some cigarette butts. I have an adequate amount of liquor…to make it to next week.
None of this really penetrates my brain. I want to feel the cold rain falling on my hand as I wish her the best and silently express my gratitude to God.
In some sort of way, be it the way which is chosen and taken by me… and everyone else. I must stop thinking like this!
I alone can make a difference, I will make a difference; right here, right now! I feel it in my gut, my brain, the burning turmoil inside my soul!
I turn off the exit going east on I-192. My tires were fine moments ago. Now one blows. I skid to a stop in front of a gas station. My hand is out; I need a little change to call for some help. My dollar is gone, but I’m not.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 8:03 PM UTC
Gently feeling round the edge,
detect the shape of inner you
and I’ve been tangled in the texture,
taste and weight and scent and hue.
Ardently keening for the contact
Hearts race. Our basest needs need meet.
Now heat is emanating out
like all the clothes about our feet.
Circumnavigate your figure
in a boat inside my mouth.
Paint long ribbons in its wake,
colour you in till you’re a lake.
The water’s warm, the tide is rising
let the swell come rolling in.
Lovely undercurrent rythme,
relentless. Drawing me within.
Here come the breakers, catch a breath,
asphyxiate a tiny death.
Between your thighs my ears are roaring,
hear a pulse and nothing else.
Convulsions padded by our warmth
Hold on, and throw a gentle fit.
We're just swirling in the swell
The outside world does not exist.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC