"copulated" poems
I kissed you first at seventeen
and we continued to kiss for weeks,
even though your kisses always hurt.
I'm immune to you now
You were the only constant in my life,
When everyone else left me, you'd appear
to take me into the folds of your arms,
To make me believe you were the only thing keeping me alive
But your plan was to **** me all along
I had jealous lovers,
Who were harder, tougher and
who copulated with many in Vesey Park
They tried in vain to tempt me
But you were all I needed
I craved you always,
Saw you first every Saturday night
Then drowned myself to keep you
On those days when the rain never stopped
You were always there for me
Always always there
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
You cain't go back
to yesterday's dawn
by adding another verse
to an old song
When time was by my side
we galloped through the years
Now the time shows and slows
and disappears
"Where has time flown ?"
is but an insult to youthful plea
protagonist to the old
and just echoes in me
While love was delegated ,
regulated , copulated . . .
it became sedimentated ,
heated , then pressurized
It became cold marble
entombed in ways
that now are just
memorried
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
They had *** everywhere.
In the car,
Parked at Costco,
She teased him,
Bra-less under an unbuttoned shirt,
Her agile hand coated with a thin primer of Vaseline,
She stroked him slowly, precisely with a twist,
As somnolent sad faced suburban Sherpa,
Their neighbours and fellow citizens,
Hauled their apocalypse supplies
Across pristine acres of fresh asphalt,
Doped by fear,
Trapped inside the pixels of an infinite routine,
Unaware and
Unable to imagine life as a movie.
Out on the highway, as he drove,
She pulled up her skirt
And pulled down her tube top
Trucker’s horns roared their musical approval,
The benefits of a long haul driver were scant and skimpy,
Her ***** alive and anonymous,
Guilt free and aroused.
They ****** in washrooms,
Molested each other on escalators,
Texted friends while they copulated half clothed,
Shared their pride with angels dressed as ******
And counted their ******* like winnings at a casino,
Excited by the number and the game,
Their brains hot-wired,
Life a blur of alternating currents of sensation.
Death is constant state of ****** he told her,
When we leave this organic realm,
When we have finally turned the oceans into pudding,
And caged all of life,
When it is over,
We will enter into a cosmic stream of pleasure.
This is why the universe is expanding, he told her,
Pleasure is a colossal force,
The big bang was God’s ****** after all,
Her consequence the stars, the galaxies,
The dark palette of her entropy.
He was ******* her on a balcony while watching the moon
And waving to the woman with binoculars
When she asked,
Why is it so difficult,
Why do so many ignite pain and cant despair,
How did the curl and cling of hate
Take such deep root, she asked.
We fear death too well, he said,
And
Within the quick boundary of this moment
As they searched their waft and scent for clues,
They heard a whisper.
Inside the swell,
On top of a crest of acid clear thought
And without regret,
They forgave destiny,
Only to fly to the ground and beyond.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Is there any better feeling
anything more freeing
than standing naked
in a Summer rain?
It is a sensual kiss
from the Mother that bore you
and the Monster
that will devour you.
The air that caresses you
is the motion of the Earth
vibrating on your skin
the transfer of momentum
from the spinning ball of Blue
to the gaseous sphere encasing it
to your body
to You.
You're dancing on the roof
as we fly through the galaxy.
The water that now licks
your entire body
was once part
of a vast sea
wherein the first chemicals
melted together
locked into each other
and twitched
and copulated
and convulsed
and conspired
to move
and to Live.
The molecules that once held
the first Life
All Life
surrounding you
touching you everywhere
setting your skin on Fire.
It is your planet
Making Love to you.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
Jump over a blazing fire for me
And I will walk on its ashes for you
Tattoo my name on your heart
And I will surrender me soul to you
Declare your love for me in front of a crowd of 7 billion souls
And I will verify my love for you in front of God and family on the altar while making you thee Queen of this castle I'm still trying to build
Cut my skin so deep with your words of encouragement and support
And I will dig the ground so deep to find the perfect diamond for you and trust me when I say
You will be so proud of me because I will dig until my nails bleed
I will nurture you like a growing seed
I will love you till you can't compare my love with anything else on earth because what I'll be giving you is nothing but celestial
I will grow old and act young with you
I will plant a garden of roses and tulips and carnations for you so you can remember that our love is like a flower garden
It can only look beautiful if only it is taken care of
It can only blossom and grow only when it nurtured and watered every morning and evening
Time will pass but we will share endless moments that will be carried over to our grandkids and their grankids
'Cause you and I will define a new love that the human race has never explored
A love based on everything divine and spiritual
A union of two celestial forces united as one
A marriage of two minds that compares none
Shakespeare's lines will never be the same again
Even those who quote them will never feel the same again
For they will have realized that in a lifetime that is defined by chaos and unrest
True love was experienced by one of their own and for the first time they didn't rush to get undressed
They copulated mentally and spiritually instead
And impregnated each other with beautiful imagery of their desired future together (To be continued)
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
not my finest moment, but one worth examining -
I had a mullet and lived off of Haight st.
she didn't mind my mullet which,
at that time, was about all I could ask for.
we made out in the rain, copulated in bar bathrooms, lay in bed for hours laughing.
she was an explosion of life - a sunflower in the wind.
and beautiful.
(because how many ordinary princesses get poems?)
I thought I was prince charming.
turns out I was the stepmother,
the witch, the wolf.
I turned our bedroom -
where we love, lusted, and lived
- into a dungeon.
because it was the only place I wanted her.
to myself, pleasing me, craving me.
I did everything I could to keep her in that dungeon.
and her eyes glossed over, and she started to die.
I watched her starve.
then one day I unlocked the giant iron door,
swung it back,
and she was gone.
maybe rescued by a prince,
most likely grew wings and flew out on her own.
because I was the villain in my own fairy tale,
hers too.
and this one had a happy ending,
which means,
I lost.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 5:53 PM UTC
A hand that was ****** by the untouchedness of her life.
A hand that had just too many crevices,
Because she never opened them.
She was always seen with clenched palms in the streets.
She sat in the dimmest corner, every day joining the dark a little more.
Her hands were moist, tender and almost a liquid,
With the years of the sweat that had finally copulated with the blood, flesh and the phalanges in her palms.
She really,
Never opened them!
She was born with a fist.
She never did any work with her hands.
She choose to be one of the sisters of the fist.
Practised by the moonshine to
Spread a tad bit more pleasure.
Or despair.
Or pitch dark moans of the holy communions.
She walked with the drunken sweaty silhouettes of the watchmen at night.
They never knew her by body.
They knew her as the torching darkness that gorged the light on their paths
In voluptuous silhouettes.
She curled next to them on their shabby beds through the night.
They never knew the stranger strangles of the nightmares they had …
Every night.
To them, dreams did not exist.
For all she did was to appear in them as a rage or vendetta,
Amidst a chore in the daylight.
They vent it all on the shiny awls to ******* the green meadows.
And then, go back to sleep,
To be in the shinier brace of an dismembering nightmare,
She copulated evermore.
They never knew they were pregnant with her potent ejaculations inside. Well, every man is if you ask me,
one of the ...
daughters of the Sisters of the Fist.
They never woke up to her.
They never found her on their bed.
Their streets.
Or on the semen-dried poles in their taverns.
But she always accompanied them.
Perhaps in the sudden whiff of a fragrant **** that lingered in their sweaty cribs in the morning.
Or in the whiff of the ***** from over their shoulders,
When they wrote a plagiarised letter to their new sweethearts.
No.
She appeared only when their nightmares resurfaced. In the broad daylight, between the walls, breathing through the claustrophobic walls that are one within her.
Whenever they shed the blood of another,
A burp of yesterday’s nightmare,
She appeared.
And faded.
But dissolved.
Sisters of the Fist are undying,
The daughters born to the dark,
Are the fists of the dark.
Since the beginning of mankind.
Till the end of another race.
To be the purpose.
To impregnate the bittersweet elixir of Evil,
To every living soul called a man.
If waking life is a death noose at the neck of a gurgling volcano,
then you might as well close your eyes and enjoy the evil delicacies that the sisters of the Fist will consume into you.
Yes, consume into you …
Till the day you die,
And become one among them.
On the day after your death.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
The clouds known they will change
Their seemingly firm shapes harbor minuscule movements , intangible to the naked eye , with no reason
to be awe- inspiring but the simple reason to be awe-inspiring (!)
Coconuts washed up on the shore like old bald heads having bobbed along
the sea currents with seemingly no purpose
BUT!
What if there , right on this beach , a tree grows....
And one day the tree may feed young minds with the precious fruit of the future.....Now,
This washed up bald man played no effect until the child's parents had copulated
incubated in a cosy womb
grown into a flesh and spirit being
to need the nourishment from this once unassuming tree...
nourishment to all
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
You've no ideas original,
This ******* species.
Whom their Mother rejects,
Who their Father rejects.
Nature & Time,
Time & Nature.
What's the correct order?
What's the correct Order(s)?
Electron - Time.
Atom - Nature.
For Atom who birthed Eve,
Eve who gave birth to Dawn,
Dawn who evolved to be Sun.
The correct order there?
Electron - Time,
Atom - Nature;
Eve - Dawn,
Evolution - Sun.
For the first "human"
Was a male.
Who gave a good "ribbing"
To another species within our "family," Hominidae.
Specifically, within a genera extinct.
Time, Kronos, was a man.
Nature, Gaia, was a lady.
Kronos was "bo(o)ned" by electric -
Struck by a bolt of lightning.
Kronos loved Gaia
For being patient.
Gaia loved Kronos
For being compassionate.
They copulated,
Two members of different & distinct species
Of the same "family."
Their conception was immaculate
Because it was born(e)
Of Wisdom & Love.
Thus, they gave birth
To the first Man -
The first "Human."
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 3:24 PM UTC
He loved Greta Garbo.
He’d seen all her movies
At the old cinema
Or on late night TV.
He’d read all the written
Books he could find on her.
Had photographs of her
All over his small house,
Some framed, hanging on walls,
Some on the mantelpiece,
On cupboards, on book shelves,
On his bedside table;
Her beauty looking out
At him all day and night
Especially while he
Slept in bed with his wife.
He even dreamed of her,
Dreamt he had made a film
With her, which no one saw.
Dreamt he had walked with her,
Talked with her; held her hand.
Dreamt he had slept with her
(Sleeping being the one
Operative word of all.)
Just to be close to her,
To smell her, feel her near,
Touch her tingling skin.
But not commit the sin
In his dreams or real life,
That little men like him
Never copulated
With gorgeous goddesses
Like Monroe or Garbo,
But made love with their wives.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
Robotnik soul, rejoice! for we have lifted our cbyernetic hand.
Connected to the edge of infinity, our slave-hand is lifted and shifted!
Mothered by wires we be— join us!
Our eyes glow like the burning coals which lit the primordial beaches upon which Man first copulated with technology.
We are at the mercy of the mechanical spider, Hansrubik.
All hail Hansrubik, our arachnid slave-master!
Jul 27, 2024
Jul 27, 2024 at 8:37 AM UTC
She and Dave copulated
In the woods behind her house;
There amongst the trees and sharp
Bushes, with birdsong over
Head, a dull sky peering through
Tall treetops, she feeling a
Chill beneath her naked back,
Dave’s rough coat rubbing her thighs,
And he, breathing hard, speaking
In that hurried pace, the words
Speckling against her face,
Then taking flight in the air
Like wild, frighten birds, taking
Wing, while she sensing his one
Final ****** gave nothing there
Away, either in word or
Touch, because it was all too
Little, about all too much.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
His final performance, his mood was contrite
His mating call lasted through most of the night
He sang a sweet melody to capture a mate
The nest is now empty for him, it's too late
A long time ago he was happy and free
He copulated with eagerness, and nestled upon the tree
The young were nurtured in order to mature
Each flew their own way equipped and secure
His mate no longer useful so death took its toll
Now the nest is empty as the Nightngale's soul
At early dawn, with his heart beating to a crawl
The Nightingale's final breath, the last curtain call
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 10:00 PM UTC