"bronco" poems
A long, long time ago, I can still remember when,
Junk food made me smile,
And I knew if had my chance,
That I could make my fatness dance,
And maybe I was happy for a while.
But McDonald's made me shiver,
With every burger they'd deliver,
Bad news on their doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried,
When I passed size twenty-five,
But something touched me deep inside,
The day I knocked back obesity fries,
CHORUS.
So, bye, bye McDonald's French fries,
Drove my chevy away from McDonald's,
didn't have a bevy,
I said goodbye to whiskey and rye,
Singing no more apple pies,
That's the end of obesity fries.....
Did you go to McDonald's biomes?
Did you know you're changing your genomes?
Eating all those pesticides?
Now do believe they love you, guys?
Might as well eat dead flies!
And can you change evolution in real time?
Well, I know you're addicted to them,
You'll need more than treadmills in the gym,
Now can't even put on your shoes,
Man, you'll dig the obesity blues,
CHORUS.
I was an obese teenage bronco buck.
Driving to McDonald's in a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day I ate landfill in those French fries...
I started singing bye, bye obesity fries,
Drove my chevy, had no bevies,
And the burgers were dry,
This is the day I knock back French fries.
CHORUS.
I met a girl who sang the blues,
She'd passed turning size twenty-two,
I asked her if she ate junk food too,
She just smiled and drove away,
I drove down to the store no more,
Where I ate additives years before,
But the junk food store didn't care anyway...
CHORUS
CHORUS....
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
like a natural country girl
took me by the hand
lead me places only country girl could
rode me like a bronco
left me with a shine in my soul
and a big ole smile on my face
like a natural country girl should
waited a lifetime for a girl like her
hay in her hair
love for horses in her heart
nothin better than a natural country girl
and the smiles we give eachother have allways been there
shes everything iv ever wanted
a natural country girl
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Yo soy *****
**** immigration and the racist white tèjanõs, please tell me how the hell would they ever know what I know, shout out to my Mexicans Hondurans and black Cubanos shut the border down call it the no fly zone. Adios Americanos me and my amigos are stealing ya women and playin em like pianos, vocal terrorist this lyrical revolt should be your primary interest. Public enemy number one the domestic hectic terrorist I'm influencing your white son, right to bear these nuts I'm taking the tea parties guns stealing your freedom from right up under you, all your jobs, and way of life, your point of view. I'm the original black power ranger hide your right winged minds if not I swear they'll be in danger. I am the broken brick the stone left unturned the rhythm of the wind the willingness to learn and the desire to fight and get what you earn. I am the individual placed on the no fly list with my hand balled into a fist cause my turbin is too tight and my beards to thick. I am the man choked to death by nypd for selling cigarettes now I'm rioting with my words doing lyrical pirouettes. Yo soy ***** spitting jive like lingo I want a Pam Grier keep your Marilyn Monroe, from the 6th borough buckin like bronco they said finish em I'm educated and black had to hit em with the combo. I'm non fictions Huey Freeman battling congress and their demons catch me flexing on the law lookin like the black He-Man Standing up for what I believe in writing in my notepad I stay steady schemin with my head up in the clouds I stay steady dreamin. Yo soy ***** freeze em like sub zero not concerned with dolores or the dinero yen or bills yo, I'm still waiting for marvel to make a Mexican superhero.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
L'anguilla, la sirena
dei mari freddi che lascia il Baltico
per giungere ai nostri mari,
ai nostri estuari, ai fiumi
che risale in profondo, sotto la piena avversa,
di ramo in ramo e poi
di capello in capello, assottigliati,
sempre piú addentro, sempre piú nel cuore
del macigno, filtrando
tra gorielli di melma finché un giorno
una luce scoccata dai castagni
ne accende il guizzo in pozze d'acquamorta,
nei fossi che declinano
dai balzi d'Appennino alla Romagna;
l'anguilla, torcia, frusta,
freccia d'Amore in terra
che solo i nostri botri o i disseccati
ruscelli pirenaici riconducono
a paradisi di fecondazione;
l'anima verde che cerca
vita là dove solo
morde l'arsura e la desolazione,
la scintilla che dice
tutto comincia quando tutto pare
incarbonirsi, bronco seppellito:
l'iride breve, gemella
di quella che incastonano i tuoi cigli
e fai brillare intatta in mezzo ai figli
dell'uomo, immersi nel tuo fango, puoi tu
non crederla sorella?
3.8k
**You want to read little pristine pretty posies
not get involved betwixt & ignore the thorns of life
whatcha gonna do when your scratch becomes infected
hiding in the bushes of denial will get you hives
of the contradicting type, bucking like a bronco
amidst the flowery storm clouds of refusal
riding through wild fields of four leaf clovers
on unicorns wings of phantasmal puff'd perfectly pink skies
pseudo fairy tales conjured up in the mind
never to cross the median line of reality's mock deception
swallow the chimerical pill of inauthentic utopia
just be sure your mythical allegory never plays havoc
in your secret garden of rainbow streaming sublimity,
the fall is greater from the zenith of repudiation**
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
If I'm the cowgirl,
courage is the bronco
and you're the stranger in the mask.
Call it geographical bias,
but I know we're both tired of tumbleweeds,
both allergic to dust.
So carry out,
carry on.
Spit and be brave, child.
This town ain't big enough
for our desert rose hearts to grow.
So give me land.
Lots of land.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
*Slammed to "Pick Up the Pieces"
by Average White Band*
Life's a jungle I have found
Torn to pieces all around
There are foxes - there are hounds
Zoos where wild things abound
Just listen to the funky sound
Now we're going underground....
Underground where rabbits go
Down tunnels in a faster slow
It's all over, don't you know
Pick & Shovel, Rake & ***
You're down with it, on the low
Like you're Edgar Allan Poe
Feast or famine - friend or foe
It must go on... The Truman Show...
*Jigsaw pieces - play the game
It is just a crying shame
Dance for dancing - Fame for fame
Break a leg and you are lame
No one'll ever know your name...
**PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES***
You're a tiger, nothin' nice
You've been bought, you had a price
Yeah, you tore off quite a slice
Well, some are men and some are mice
Some eat meat and some eat rice
Some are fire - some are ice
Some are ticks and some are lice
Let me give you some advice...
Just so you are never boring
While you're out there pimping, *******
While you're the one they are adoring
Just watch out for polished flooring
Don't break loose from your fast mooring
Into the pit you will be soaring
After that there's no restoring
Listen to the lion roaring...
Chorus
Here we are in the U.S.
We are pampered we are blessed
Sometime soon there'll be a test
We'll ride the Bronco way out West
The Magnificent Seven rides abreast
There's a new Sheriff, have you guessed?
With a tin badge on His vest
He does not play - He does not jest
I'm afraid, I will attest!
It won't be fun, just wait and see
It will be "pain" with a capitol P!
On this bus, don't ride for free
This is not a game of Wii
There's a port and there's a lea
There's a shrub (Bush), and there's a tree
There's an us, and there's a we
**There's a YOU, and there's a ME...
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/14/2016
https://youtu.be/xpflST8xWm8
"Pick Up the Pieces" extended version
Average White Band
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
It's cool to just sit
Here and deal with this ****
But hey, its better
Where the pudding is thick,
Or so they tell me,
Along with
'Don't fall for tricks,'
They'll always get you
If your mind is weak,
Like the obliques
In my side
That've been hurting for weeks,
They're so sore from
The combination
Of boredom
And the conflagration
Of all the
Tinder inside my body
That hinders my
Lodi-Dodi
Outlook
On benders
That have become
Normality,
Like you've become
A malady,
A mother-may-I
Comedy
That keeps me laughing,
Keeps me guessing,
Keeps me passing
Up on
Rafting
Down that river,
But didn't you know
That ocean never comes?
So I'll keep drifting
And counting my ones,
And try to blame
The ones on the run
Instead of the ****
Doing the chasing
And erasing my luck,
While I deface my face
And wait
For this bronco
To buck
Me off
Into the muck
Of eternal loss.
It already happened?
You got it, boss.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around
stories, pick, shovels
taking turns
not a single earthworm in this ****** soil
plenty of rocks.
Don is the oldest, at eighty-plus
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a
San Quentin prison cell,
he’s walked across the USA
three times. Big guy, gray ponytail,
not one wrinkle on that copper body,
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.
Terry is bald, seventy-plus,
in the Air Force he was trusted
with nuclear launch codes,
then thought better of it and hit the road,
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster,
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
always good with tools
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.
David is almost seventy,
bearded like a prophet,
wizard of China
raised like a farm boy,
adventures in Alaska,
heroic high school English teacher,
telepathic with animals and teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.
Digging is therapy.
A hard job, the work of death.
A time for muscle and sweat,
our language of grief.
We joke, I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.
We agree, each canine
has an individual personality
but also each carries
dog spirit. As one leaves
you welcome another
different, individual
but the dog spirit renews
rejoins your life
making you whole.
On this land already
I’ve buried four dogs, two cats.
Dakota will make five,
good company.
Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven or wherever
dogs go, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A good review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.
Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside
among spirits.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
Channelling Nostradamus from the sixteenth century
Did you see what you just wrote
Or did you just dream what we see?
When your prophecies come true
I'll say, You only had one view
So good luck to you and your future note
One shan't believe from an invisible visionary
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
The ******* ***** always seems to wear lingerie
That always looks, just a little ******
But never ever, do they slavishly try
To imitate their true identity or culture
Not like those Kardashian dogs, that dress up
Always trying to stylise society, for a very large fee
Speaking of canines, where's that poodle named Paris
She had some real talent, didn't she?
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
I wish upon a **** star of mine
Whilst screaming up to ones heaven
Most pussycats lives, end in about nine
But my time was all over, within almost seven
Maybe I really could, make it all alone
On this place god calls, my extraordinary rendition?
Or shall I live this false life, as some sort of robotic clone
Not truly knowing oneself, therefore, failing my own audition?
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
Well, just get back on that bronco horse, named Toff
Dust off that hat, once worn by certain gent
For they will forever try and attempt to buck you off
You the rider, of this very serious event
So, forget about the fame and good times
and the overhyped lives of most Hollywood stars
Live within your means and save your silver dimes
In your half empty or half full, glass money jars
When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring
When I wish upon a **** star
My dreams start to become truth by far.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
I'm Gonna Get You Sucker
you've been giving me a mouthful
steppin on my crack
tired of your ********
tellin you get back
don't stick those lips out at me
no don't show me how to pucker
if you don't give me room
I'm gonna get you sucker
you complain all the time
you love to **** and moan
your words are cuttin into me
all the way to the bone
I'm not your steppin stone
I'm no mother-trucker
but if you don't get outa my face
I'm gonna get you sucker
you want more than I can give
you call me a grunge
you think you can just give a squeeze
and drain me like a sponge
I try my best to tune you out
but you're like a bronco-bucker
get your *** off my back
or I'm gonna get you sucker
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 3:51 AM UTC
he fancies himself
as a rodeo rider
of fillies and mares
yet he hasn't the prerequisite
riding gear
to stay mounted
in these saddles fair
the fillies and mares
prefer a rider
that is a real bronco
one who can remain aboard
their conveyances
all night
not a rodeo rider
who can only muster
an eight second flight
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
This is the best possible thing
That could have ever happened for you.
I know that it is
And I've managed to convince myself too.
To get away from me
To live a stress-free life
Is a God send, a gift
The lead in the parade.
On the sides I will sit
And clap for you on your way.
This is it
Your moment, your ticket.
Life is a bronco
Don't let it be you that takes the kick.
I know you're strong
You'll need it for the journey long.
This next adventure
To make you into what you are.
But when you come back some day
Please don't have forgotten me along the way.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 12:54 AM UTC
So, I met this girl, right
Not being impolite
But she makes me fill my appetite
Looking at her never gets old
She has me in a choke hold
Still does
Skin like cocoa
Legs like Flo-Jo
And an *** that is made for riding that like a Bronco
She made me loco
But when I finally asked her
She said no
All I want to say is this
Until my feelings for you subsist
I'm really being honest
I've never been kissed
All I want is you to lick your lips
And kiss me
Can't you see?
No?
Buddies then?
I guess we can be friends
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 11:56 AM UTC
Ed Sutcliffe said
he saw his cousin
walk from bathroom
to bedroom (not his)
starkers
nigh on
had to push
my eyes back in
the sockets
he added
you muck pig
O’Brien said
you did it
on purpose
so you could
have a gawk
I never did
it was just
one of those things
never in a month
of Sundays
would I have gawked
Sutcliffe said
is she worth
the gawking?
you asked
o to be sure she is
O’Brien said
would Eddie here
be gawking
at a titless wonder?
no to be sure
she’s got to be worth
the eye strain
but not my cousin
Sutcliffe said
I’d not be waiting
outside the bathroom
to gawk at her
coming out
so say you Succy
you lecherous bronco
I think I saw her once
you said
hasn’t she got
white blonde hair
like yourself
and more curves
than the figure eight?
no
Sutcliffe said
that’s not her
that’s my mother
you’ve seen
you don’t gawk
your mother
do you Eddie?
O’Brien said
what you take me for
of course not
Sutcliffe said
he’s just joking
with you
you said
nothing meant
Sutcliffe walked ahead
in a strop
four letter words
coming over
his thin shoulder
poor old Eddie
you sure take
the *****
out of him
you said
ah it’s nothing
O’Brien said
he’ll get over it
as the bishop
got over the actress
and sure enough
as soon as you all
reached the school gates
Sutcliffe was his old self
wanting a quick drag
on O’Brien’s smoke
thinking all
the old patter
as one huge joke.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Impossible.
love is.
Like trying to move
a water sprinkler
without getting wet.
Thirsty blades,
like legs dancing
clouds overhead
off in the distance
a wallflower
is drifting away
with the pink
of a sailor's sunset.
Coolest of shades
waiting for cloud and clap
to rain in some courage.
It's always about the sky
skies and trains:
me and Rimbaud,
like underwear
and *****
is Bukowski;
they just seem to
go together,
seem to
understand
each other in such a way
that they really don't,
but they keep bucking
like a wild bronco
resisting the ride
that would
take them further
than the end of the
circular track.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
Bruno
he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:
Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor. I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity. I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy ***** just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations. No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.
Caspian
Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies. Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion. Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.
Roland
He’s like a Mayan calendar. Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious. He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco. Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples. You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.
Sol
His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy. The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle. His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency. The weight of his words, the upward convection of their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant. He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.
Richthofen
He is manumission, no more the faded vision of body incarnates ghosts. He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant. Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency. He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******** of pornographic wit. The incongruous incognito with no moniker. Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
(For Sia Jane)
once he wrote:
"Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well."
and she loved this,
for well she lived this ideation
so textual emendation
for this girl,
one of god's human poems
irony kick in the head,
truth driven home by body of late,
crossed and staked,
weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell,
eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter,
sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy
repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing,
all this time he is one
who touches nothing lest he infect the world,
with something other than joy...
all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders
and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas
playing out in full color in his own sad reality
so let me amend my prior write,
for this time, I make no overly boastful claims,
for I could pen nary a verse all these hours,
that was deserved of your affection...
write I could with any one of the five,
if four were repleted, deleted, none elited,
but one is
this man's de minimus
need at least one to function,
to master the bronco impulse to create...
don't matter which one,
which orifice writes the code,
all sensory inputs end up residing
in your heart and soul
but gotta have at least one in order to
express my love for love...
and if I can't do that,
then experience shows,
no way can the being supersede its
thrumming, hum drumming, existence,
motoring along highways circularized
of watching old tv shows
if I lose my hands I will write with
elbows, nose or toes...
my tongue cut, my mind will love more,
its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over
blinded and bereft, my mind's eye
will do double shifts, get paid overtime,
for reliving connecting your birthmarks
my jesting muted, my seers closed,
my nostrils sealed, even terminated,
dare you think, that I cannot hear or
smell my thoughts,
of the pleasure of a world in which
loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart,
so we can
extend love to ourselves and others
beyond the mere limitations
of our corporeal senses....
one, but one, all I need,
any one, in order to
sense who I am,
to love, and be loved,
therefore,
to write
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
I was on the way to see my girlfriend.
when I saw you standing next to a broke down bronco.
I new you were my dead end.
You wore patched up overall shorts with loud mismatched knee socks.
I didn't even make a phone call to tell my girl I turned the wrong block
Your frizzy hair was Kool-Aid dyed with every flavor ever made.
I meant to stop to help you, I'm just surprised I stayed
your eyes were lined with match stick ash.
Why am I attracted when everything you are's a clash?
I saw your arms painted with bruises from when he through you out with the trash.
You're not trash.
Believe me
You're not trash.
You're a Raggedy Anne who just needs some stitching up.
With a heart broke down like your bronco, just needs some fixing up.
I don't know
I mean
I don't have a magic syrup
or anything..
I'm just hoping this time that Love is enough
so, what do you think?
© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Bruno
he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:
Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor. I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity. I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy ***** just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations. No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.
Caspian
Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies. Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion. Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.
Roland
He’s like a Mayan calendar. Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious. He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco. Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples. You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.
Sol
His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy. The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle. His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency. The weight of his words, the upward convection of their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant. He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.
Richthofen
He is manumission, no more the faded vision of body incarnates ghosts. He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant. Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency. He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******** of pornographic wit. The incongruous incognito with no moniker. Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 1:51 PM UTC
When I look at you,
I remember who you used to be,
I remember it in the fold of your clothes
and the dirt under your fingernails,
You worked in the garden like you were the flower,
Wearing that mask you should have worn forever.
Now when I look at you,
I do not see a woman,
I do not see palms open with apology as I should,
I see,
The hate that you harbour for me,
You planted your flowers in my throat and now I can't ******* breathe,
Yes I can see,
You settled,
But don't act like I caged you,
Little bird, you walked right on in; I just,
Turned the key,
I muzzled your snarling mouth because I was wary,
Of being bitten,
The only reason I painted you purple was because you lied when you said,
You were a blank canvas,
So don't play the wild horse if you're going to fear the one who breaks you,
You are no bucking bronco,
No, you fought fire with fire and now you're all burnt up,
You played the rose, but without all of your petals you're just thorns,
And you've made me draw blood on more than one of your edges,
But that's okay,
Because I always thought your black eyes looked better than your blue,
And I know the lion always bows to the ring master's whip,
So next time you think about starting to spit,
Your insipid lies, I'd watch your lip,
Because we are a storm,
You can't have your thunder,
Without my lightning,
Or you are nothing at all.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
She said it wasn't her first rodeo,
so I told her
I wanted to pull pig tails
& with a yee haw,
she bucked like a wild filly,
me a bronco.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC