"basorexia" poems
It doesn't obligate a relationship.
Nor does a relationship obligate ***
*** is an expression of a feeling for another being.
And it shall be pursued as such and nothing else.
Not as a label. A habit.
(Self-destructive or otherwise.)
Not for pity. For lack of self awareness.
Not for boredom or distraction from life.
Not for obligation or money.
Never when you don't want to.
But for when you do.
As pure expression.
For the moment you couldn't stop yourself if you tried.
Basorexia.
The desire long haunting you.
Overwhelmingly and thoughtlessly,
immersed in a kiss.
A caress.
To share an Aura with someone so unbelievably magnetic,
and picturely poetic.
Every smile, thought and fault,
Is frozen in time.
A moment catching its beauty.
***
It's for that special person you kissed a year ago,
And you can't forget the taste of their lips.
It's for the one who's eyes,
speak louder than words and actions all together.
Finding you timelessly, again in your dance.
For the one you took for granted.
That you knew you should have held a bit longer,
But couldn't because a vampire had your heart.
It's for the one you're most nervous about.
The one that creeps into your mind and you're not sure why.
The one that makes you want to scream :: "Take Me Away!"
Regardless, whoever + whenever, have one vow:
<<< Do It Only If They Drive You Wild. >>>
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
I wish I could have kissed you
the moment I saw you
in real life for the first time;
something like
running into your arms
and letting the world
turn into static,
only focusing on you.
Only you.
But that would have been
too dramatic. Maybe
you'd get shy all of a sudden
or think I am too forward.
So I just held your hand—
warm like a heavy blanket
and evidently bigger
than mine. Enveloping my hand
in the most comfortable of ways,
like some missing puzzle piece
that was bound to be together
no matter what.
That would have appeased me
don't you think?
No. Not really.
I have nothing to say.
I still want to kiss you.
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 9:33 AM UTC
I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.
Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.
In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Beneath the woven moonlight
And the glistening lapidary against the sapphire eve
Like ice-flakes on a dark hood
For as great as my nearsighted eyes can see
With a cigarette in the driveway
And the feathers of those clouds falling down
My breath and the smoke runs away with the zephyr
And I’m alone again in this pretty how town
Without a sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Without a glance for the ground
Waiting for you to come back
Like the farmers wait for their flax
Or the women tend to the millions of moths
That sound like rain on the roofs
Or that sound like the crackling of my cigarette burning
Breaking the silence beneath the woven cocoon
Light of the white philtrum moon
It’s her and I and the clouds falling down
And just that single solitary sound
Waiting for you to come back around
Hoping you come back soon
(c) 2015
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
lips like magnets
hands like puzzle pieces
eye contact unshakable
I lean forward
bite your bottom lip
looking for solace in your kisses,
but you pull away.
I am wrapped around you
my bare thighs embracing your **** hips
our stomachs pressed together
yours strong against my hills and valleys
our hearts talking to one another
through synchronized heartbeats.
my elbows are perched upon your shoulders
hands tickling your hair as your nose
presses against mine
causing a ripple of shivers down my spine
at the realization of something starting.
once again you pull away
and I push my face towards yours
begging to be kissed.
you touch your lips my cheek
and then my jaw
you connect the dots from the scar under my chin
to the winged curve of my collar bone.
I lean back as you trace my neck
moving down the lines of my muscle
you kiss me across my chest
and with every peck my longing for your lips on mine
becomes stronger.
you return to your starting point
and pull away
leaving me whining and pulling at your hair
asking for that taste
that your lips allow
you sit back against the pillows and look at me
tuck my hair behind my ears
and sit up fast
pulling my face to yours again.
our lips make contacts with full force
mine mold into the long memorized shape of yours
fitting perfectly in the nooks and crannies.
almost instantaneously
our tongues shake hands
and I wrap both my arms around the back of your head
fingers lost in your tangle of hair
I kiss you harder
squeezing tighter
the space between smaller
urging our lips closer
love and passion mixing in the fiery heat between us
and I’m wishing more than anything to never stop.
on we go
with this dance our lips have memorized.
when we finally finish
our lips are chapped
tired from this exercise
I fall back onto your chest
and there I lay
exhausted but
satisfied.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
Crystals are rushing the pathways of you, gleaming.
They are resting on the sound of a wave dreaming
alive all of the irresistible magnetism's that live here.
All the pieces of you that chime my bells of soul places;
You ring me true.
There's something about the complement that comes with you.
In a hot place of purity, we could become
the warmth of this desire, long numbed.
Vaporizing the cold from our flesh.
Programming dissipates within the crystal daze.
Is wrong of me to want a wiser way ?
[ Than that of the dullness of those in my range. ]
I love that I can always find you,
a few words over hanging on the same page.
I as the Princess, and you as the Sage.
I wish I could live in the daze forever.
A space where blasphemy does not reckon itself.
I wish it didn't matter whether,
your walk has been long or short, here in this passing life.
But I am blessed to have over lapped your time, so i sigh.
And wish upon another sunny time, with you.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
I'd slit my wrist
for a passionate kiss
To touch longing lips
And tongue's subtle twist
I'd bite the blade deep
'Til the blood starts to drip
First slow and then fast
like my pulse in such bliss
I'd smile as the puddle
Grows round my kicks
and vision gets muddled
Having gotten my fix.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
i.
the strongest urge
to carve the word "home"
on your lips--
i have yet to discover why it pulses within me, flaring up at every touch,
and leaving residual fingerprints on the inside of my skull.
ii.
was never really good at learning languages, but the french do know how to speak otherwise--
speaking in tongues (passionately speaking) is a pastime that looks right for our inquisitive mouths.
iii.
seal every promise not with pinky fingers, nor swears on holy bibles, or unfortunate gravestones--
no, please seal mine
with a kiss.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
pink like a soft bloom
do not come near me with those
perfect pairs
for i cannot stop thinking
how would it feel
to finally put an end to enduring, thinking,
how would yours feel
against mine
i apologize for these
reckless thoughts
i wonder how you would taste—
maybe a little like wine
or maybe the balm you put
religiously
i'm sorry, i apologize
—1:19AM
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
kisses:
meant nothing
until you;
mean nothing
without you.
basorexia:
my lonely lips
begging for attention
from someone,
anyone.
desire:
wanting
my basorexia
to be cured by
your kiss.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
She
afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng
anthropolatrating agelasts.
Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.
Her lips
instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.
And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way
towards & towards
and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,
just sat and stared
her life, her love, all gone and disappeared.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
every path,
person,
and decision
I've faced
has been an arrow
pointing me in your direction.
it all seemed devoid of meaning,
pointless,
then with you I was resurrected.
the previously empty side of my bed
is now warm.
my hopefully suggestive attire has been torn.
we met at the end of a chapter,
on the page our basorexia was born.
and ever since
you've used your kiss
like an eraser to apparel and forlorn.
time keeps passing
while we remain
you're all I want
to stay the same.
the lines I crave now
are the ones from your brain
the ones that make me ethereal
in ways unfathomable to feel
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
A very short story about Basorexia..
I think someone put a hex on me.
And not even a good one.
I usually sleep in on Sundays,
but some intense force drug me out of bed at 7 a.m.
Stupid force.
After showering, I got dressed and
had breakfast. I wasn't even exactly sure where I was going.
But, I was going.
Before leaving my apartment,
I checked my appearance one last time
to make sure I was at least a 6 that day.
I did a triple take in the mirror because
my lips were looking exceptionally grand just then.
Oddly grand.
I ran a finger over them to make sure they were mine.
Softer than usual, I giggled for having to question myself.
"Of course they're mine." "That's just silly."
After having a drawn out conversation with myself,
I knew it was time to go.
The sun was looking glorious that day
but all I could think about were my lips.
I saw my neighbor at the mailbox.
I usually just wave, but there that force was again,
pulling my lifeless body over to see her.
Her lips started to move around as if to say something to me.
She then asked me if I wanted a kiss! Was she reading my mind?
I did not hesitate.
I leaned in, closed my eyes, and puckered my juicy
unchapped pout for some of her sweetness.
Because that's what neighbors do, they lend you sugar.
What a sorry justification that was.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Parker was offering me a Hershey's kiss.
I froze with embarrassment as she leaned back and took off
into her apartment.
She left the entire bag of kisses with me.
As I power walked away, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Parker pull their curtains back in dismay. Whispering and pointing in slow motion.
I decided I can never go back to my apartment again.
The shame has me wondering the streets,
consumed with this undeniable force,
trading chocolates for kisses.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
i cold write poems about
klimt’s the kiss, soiled and stained in your garage,
how we’re all a mess of basorexia and urgent fingers,
darling, take me in your hands, i’m not gonna fall apart
like dead chrysanthemum petals.
i could write poems about long nights and long drives,
how the road had seen all those **** promises,
love, we’ll never repeat my parent’s history of falling out of love.
and yet history does rewrite itself
in different words,
different phrases,
different roads yet all the same.
i could write poems about
how you resemble the moon —
exquisite, beguiling,
and i am icarus,
all wide-eyed, all moonstruck,
all aware of the risks.
but no, darling
because as it turns out, this poem is about
the kisses planted on wrong places
and our bed, it’s filled with petals soiled by the earth.
darling, this is about us,
zipping ourselves in my parent’s skin,
oh how they lead us back to blood and bones
we’re running away from.
this is about the moon’s deceptive silver shades
and icarus,
falling,
plummeting,
crashing once more to the ground.
this poem is a mess of words
about our downfall.
this poem is a mess of words about you, darling.
a mess of words about you —
a mess of words about you gone.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC