"boudoir" poems
Let not this love fall into discontent,
Nor my eyes accustom to her allure.
Let not the sight of her cease wonderment,
Nor my passion bore with beauty demure.
Let not my lips stop quiv’ring for her kiss,
Nor my fingers ache for her velvet hair.
Let not my arms embrace with avarice,
Nor my desire leave anything to spare.
Let not her beauty ever be passé,
Nor my heart not yearn for her naked breast.
Let not making love miss a single day,
Nor lying beside her allow us rest.
Let not me take for granted her boudoir,
Nor my love for her wane even a bit.
Let not my lustful eyes ever look far,
Nor my body ablaze become unlit.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
It was very hot. The day had gone just past its noon.
I'd stretched out on a couch to take a nap.
One of the window-shutters was open, one was closed.
The light was like you'd see deep in the woods,
or like the glow of dusk when Phoebus leaves the sky,
or when night pales, and day has not yet dawned,
- a perfect light for girls with too much modesty,
where anxious Shame can hope to hide away.
When, look! here comes Corinna in a loose ungirded gown,
her parted hair framing her gleaming throat,
like lovely Semiramis entering her boudoir,
or fabled Lais, loved by many men.
I tore her gown off - not that it mattered, being so sheer,
and yet she fought to keep that sheer gown on;
but since she fought with no great wish for victory,
she lost, betraying herself to the enemy.
And as she stood before me, her garment all thrown off,
I saw a body perfect in every inch:
What shoulders, what fine arms I looked on - and embraced!
What lovely ******* begging to be caressed!
How smooth and flat a belly under a compact waist!
And the side view - what a long and youthful thigh!
But why go into details? Each point deserved its praise.
I clasped her naked body close to mine.
You can fill in the rest. We both lay there, worn out.
May all my afternoons turn out this well.
5.4k
~
*In her sulking-place
alone and naked
framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue
at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory
she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror
at herself
at her embonpoint
yes, at these *******
—at their landscape
how they fall
(like Niagara)
where they point
(like a compass)
what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together
about their time
—their work and play
towers on the precipice
of judgment
both callous and
uncharitable
if the mirror
truly be her reflection
her vision is turned around
as illusion
—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh
the room
an invitation
or perhaps
a lockaway
where she even keeps secrets
from herself*
~
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 10:37 AM UTC
You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes
Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes,
And the perfume of your soul
Is vague and suffusing,
With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me,
And I grow mad with gazing
At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny,
Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust,
That its sparkle may amuse you.
3.3k
A
Rose in dust
a rose is nice
Petals are healthy
red dark arch
sun shines hot
Leaves seem (up)right
gazing the height
green emerald
From land to ace
Ace of the sky march.
Rose is nice
Roots in dust
Feature is rouge
Of the shame love trust
Bud…bud…bud
Blossoms of the yard.
Yard is land
Land is grand
vast soil of the hand
light crimson band
Wind blows harsh
Fences move hard
Trees far behind
Shake each side
Men come down
The first one talk
The last one mock
Both of whom walk
Touch the soft land
Ha…ha…ha…
Soil is empty
Dark…dark…dark
Land full of soil
Soil full of worm
Worm is sick
Nasty nabid pick
Become lot... lot ...lot
Every day and night
Wind blows harsh
Spring moves fast.
Man is running
Worm is cunning
man in hurry
Ha…ha…ha…
rose is worry.
worm moves straight
move..more…away…
move…more…away…
hurry…hurry…again
swirl…sweep…deep…
digging…digging…erect
man runs far
seeking new boudoir.
rose is alone
poisonous thing around
soil is shaking
grand land kicking
man sing a song
.
.
man, wine, wrong
happy, happy long
wind blows harsh
autumn seize the yard.
rose is sick
petal withered down
no leaves green
gazing to the sun
rose is nice
rose is kind
death moves around
happy stands behind.
far...far...bahind!
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
He was lost in the spirited flow of a river,
Later found himself in this lady's boudoir,
The circumstances to onlookers are little unclar,
But suffice to tell, in water things were quite fluid,
The boudoir was hectic, he was more or less stuck.
Don't think he had any serious complaint about it,
Only hoped, this strange fact be better explained.
Her kind of explanation was rather queer, he felt!
"There is nothing to be astonished, my dear
I'm an ace swimmer, and was present there
At the time of the incident, nothing more"
She mysteriously smiled, adding a dainty twist.
Well, a rescue mission, as we know is higly humanitarian,
There are more than what meets the eyes, in this situation.
He was of two minds, to remain there and to break loose,
Life in her boudoir, he feared would make him a libertine!
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:44 AM UTC
Ive planted some posies in a jar
Kept safe in my fancy boudoir
To place in my pocket as I travel far
And mask the stench of my rotting scar
I color my body in a thousand shades
Of these flowers to prepare for the promenades
A fountain of people amongst the maids
To be served and serve as lost jades
I dance the steps proclaimed
With the slough of men famed
And blend with all women tamed
Reaking of the posies, my body inflamed
My soul screams for white wings
Of the dove as he sings
But as a marionette on strings
I must listen to my given kings
So like the flowers adorn
I'm the jewelry of this scorn
A lie amidst the torn
The princess never really born
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
scratched walls,
horrifying screams,
of dreams,
electric chair stupor,
in the boudoir,
breathing lunar air,
it’s a psychotic affair.
dilated pupil,
the brain was being a cupel,
men in white coats,
injecting drugs,
in bodies like slugs.
soaked bodies in bath tub,
gazing on the ceiling reading what’s written up.
loonies conspiring against the medic,
through the power of psychedelic.
eyeing each doctor from the corner of their eye,
sitting on their chairs high.
burning with desire,
cold as a wire.
the breakout began at noon,
headed by a loon.
followed by a goon,
in the end of june.
the loons,
wanted to escape to the desert dunes,
running away from the chemical fumes,
dodging exhume.
electrocuted,
injected,
infected,
discarded and rejected.
the loons had taken over,
the goons had won.
they were stun.
terrible turn of events,
it was all in their mind tents,
still sulking on the beds and their wheel chairs,
dreaming of the answers of their prayers.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
she only ever wants to play
she pushes them all away
she sets the stage
and pulls the puppet strings
but no one can touch hers
and when she gets bored
she packs up her playthings and goes home
selfish she
is plastic
without a heart
selfish she
is toxic
leaving her mark
a levy of limbs
a boudoir of bones
selfish she
plays her game
never lonely
but always alone
she only ever wants to play
she pushes them all away
selfish she
laughs as she breaks her dolls
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Beautiful she was,
All sleek pine and cotton wool rigging
A beautiful deck made for a'spying
And a secret cabin boudoir fit for a king
Plenty of nautical miles ahead
Just open sky blue and free
So shiver me timbers and come take my hand
We'll take the Mimosa to sea
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.
Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.
Night is an ace temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.
Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be kinky,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate
I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel
You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine
Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew
Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
As the peals of your laughter ring a silver bell aloud,
Being trapped in your boudoir, sinks in to my consciousness,
Every single time your desire moans softly in pleasure,
It's hard to find an escape route, from this happy entrapment.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
Now blissfully engaged, in this most intimate act,
Our bodies do frolic in the playground of our loving boudoir.
I have committed to sightless memory, every curve of your beautiful form,
And my hands slowly recall your soft geography.
Your deep coos and murmurs stir my primal senses,
To a heavenly plane, elevated, as I extend lingual kisses to the center of your soul.
Your impassioned and skillful ministrations upon my ardor, I can't catch my breath;
I read the emotion and devotion in your eyes as they look up deep into mine.
Me aloft of you in slight embrace, I deliberately yet slowly ingress your warmth,
You hold me still, savoring this space, before now riding this ocean's waves, ebbs and tides.
Perhaps due to the intermittent pressure of our coupling upon your abdomen,
You give way to an audible flatulent moment, we laugh uncontrollably in each others' arms.
Our noses and our cachinnation stem the tide of this ill-timed olfactory assault,
The blush in your cheeks from embarrassment only makes me hold you closer, tighter.
In synchronous ecstasy, we continue our **** horizontal dance to joyful satiated fruition,
Your head lies resting upon my chest, as we hold hands over my heart.
Despite what smells should ever emanate from either of us on any occasion, any instance,
I want you always to know;
I love you for the life of me,
I'll love you 'til the stinky end of us both.
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
my darling
i will visit you in your boudoir
tumescent Satan, I
you, a goddess, your body-- the temple it was built for
our hermetic union,
two bodies entwined on the hearth,
the argent moon looking on, clutching her vestal livery
heathens, heathens!
how can something so exquisite be a turpitude?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
*Which sublime symphony,
makes me fully forget
I am a limited being
rooted on the earth.
The booming wind's
the running water's?
or the serenade that cascades
as the wink of a million stars
filling the limitless skies?
which blue evokes,
the hue of my inner world,
the sky's or the sea's,
perhaps the turquoise of her eyes?
On the meadow green,
the grass under my feet,
is resilient, never lies low,
and the sun at dusk
showers gold dust over it.
Now, I feel a lightness, no word can tell,
I am ebullient, feels omnipotent,
on newly acquired wings, I hover up,
the evening silver star, waking up,
at the far corner of the sky
extends her hands
to invite me to her boudoir.*
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
I nurse immortal longings
at my girlish chest
Pacing, rocking, swaying
agitated pluck at an instrument
and am lost for sounds
paintbrushes crusted with acrylic
dim florescent basement hum
I pick up a pen
and it burns my palm
turn and turn to a looking glass
and scrutinize my limbs
these 23rd year limbs in the
autumn of youth have
barely begun to wrinkle
I ransack my renaissance boudoir
An artist, poet, musician, healer
one, some, any of these,
or none? I gather my trappings
and hold them to me like a toddler
hoping that perhaps they will impart
purpose, or authentic human feeling
palpable happiness, cutting sorrow
I used to feel so much more then-
where have my feelings gone?
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
Sister, you are more dear to me than all the lilies of the field,
more quiet and wilder-sweet
than the last honeysuckle breaths of spring,
and the fall of your hair as you lift your face
is enough to convince me that I am safe.
Fiorentina, when the heavy rains stop and the earth begins
to flower and perfume herself
with the rich heaviness of soil
like a young girl at her mother's boudoir,
I'll be here if you want me to
teach you there's brightness waiting for you,
and part the hedge of roses with my lyre
and show you more than one way to fly out in the night:
I will charm down the worst horrors of our world and the next
if that will keep you safe.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Horrible horrible horrible
You are horrible
And so am I.
Is my condition curable?
What apothecary of extra brilliant kindness
Has the magic remedy?
Can I get it from the chemist?
Does the wizard has it?
Or will he absorb in the forest-flavoured mist?
I can't think anymore
The night is here
Morpheus is knocking on my door
I'll let him in my boudoir
And read him Charles Baudelaire
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
In the boudoir of satan's play pen
Chain-smoking her pretty lies
You learn the art
In your veins
In your heart
You can not refrain, dancing with sins
Touching her slowly
Oh the pain, you can not contain
Out of reach, you weep
This is your defeat
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 1:25 AM UTC
In silk,
Eyes to the mirror and floor
Hair, swish against all the black,
Sighing for strong arms with wings on the back
The pretty lace, petal place
All glass and dimly lit
In the plush we sit
In the curtains we kiss
Dreams of skin on skin,
Is this as good as pretty gets?
A hundred looks and a cha-ching fist?
Here goes the dress
Always more hope in a dress
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
///
to what degree loveless *** makes
The boudoir seem to be a ********** room
Reveals the essence of the Man
//
( but of course --- some men --- and women ! --
Prefer the sterility of " mere function "
And the sense of safety thus provided )
••
••
Will we become robots before robots become man !
••
••
We die real easy unless we don't
//////
•
The prison walls are mere illusion
You can only hide for a little while
//////
I read the poem from a mother trying to save her children
()
Real feelings !!!
( coming from oh so very far away )
The boudoir walls are thick with lust
Nothing can penetrate
Till all walls just fade away
//
Our comments
GREAT READ , MOM !
KEEP FIGHTING !
sound as hollow as our hearts
|||||
in the ********** the untouched bodies weep
Hey YOU !
GET YOUR *** OVER HERE !
fills the empty spaces where no one is
//////
The homeless children stagger on
The childless mother moans
//
The world around us changing shapes
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
EEEEEEK! She shrieked as
Lucky black cat spat
A mouse into the house
SKEEEEEEK! Squeaked said mouse
Paddling skedaddling hither thither
Seeking sites secure
Said mouse booked it to bedroom
Cornered itself into a corner
SQUEEEEEAKING!
Himself (and black cat) tried to help
Poking prodding mouse to come out
Critter capered up my trouser
And lept!
Disappeared!
We slept.
From boudoir to bath
I find next morning mousy
Tentatively treading toilet water
What a fright!
All night!
All his might!
Suavely saving mousey
Glad I put gloves on as its
Teeth deployed deeply
Outside with him.
Run away!
Cat’s watching.
Heart beating
Lungs working
Stay alive, little guy!
Later, Fred keeping watch
The little grey fluff is gone
I mean: really gone
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC