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"coupling" poems
The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
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14.2k
A Song Of Despair
The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
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58
Brown sugar sapotas Blending with custard alfonso mangos And bold sweet lime juice Georgette saris Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces Mixed with peals and rubies Gently sloping palm trees Swaying in balmy sultry air And hazy golden sunsets Frenetic yellow autos Competing with dusty zipping mopeds Mixed with ambulating pedestrians Aromas of cumin Blending with the sewage Other times with incense Glows of brass oil lamps Singing in hums of prayer Added with turmeric's incantations Brightly-patterned salwars Accentuating gemstone bindis Comfy fitted leggings Savory masala dosas Coupling coconut chutney Meter-high filter coffee
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Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Treasures of Chennai, India
The complexity of coupling is an exponential increase. No matter how perturbed life may be, we strive to linearize it, thank you Laplace. You transform us. It is integral to simplify life. Like Da Vinci, Like Thoreau: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication” “Our life is frittered away by detail…simplify, simplify” Let us not differentiate between the good or the bad                          the high or the low. Life is too brief to quantify, qualify, and compare it to others. It is yours alone. Embrace the change over time.
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Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Mathematical Life
Coupling wind and fire an terrific, tumultuous, take Time waits for no man but of him his fate, the fellow frets and is frightened by fame, Son of Father Time, cannot merely hide inside its vase, Blooming, what a fellow hath he grown noble and sublime soon to love and learn the great burden of his time.
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Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
Seed of The Sage
They took you from the hospital They didn’t know why you had died They wanted to do an autopsy It took 3 weeks We couldn’t see your body It wasn’t fit they said And eventually we got A Report Brain - 2 and a half pounds Body - healthy, unmarked - not emaciated No needle marks on the arms Liver - taken for analysis Traces of Tuinal and Physeptone They cut, weighed and analysed you But couldn’t find the reason Why you had died Drowning on your own ***** In a mental hospital My mother took you to her hometown for burial To the cemetery hedge where you were conceived Later she told me that whenever you cried She shoved a dummy covered in malt into your mouth And then she would leave you Her bundle of idle words, looks and ***** Poor Dorothy looking for escape The war child who knew no softness or comfort Poor John a quick coupling in the dark beneath the cemetery hedge Begotten from chocolate, stockings and a Burslem teapot
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Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
Burslem Teapot
It's hard to hide a smile When you should feel defiled. Is it wrong to give my soul, act as a ***** in the bed and reconcile your acts as nothing but worthwhile? My skin and mind are afire we're lying side by side respirating shallowly admired, reviled and inspired I let myself wander with thoughts of our beguiled afternoon. Love affairs are seedy, needy and just without my lover I'd feel nothing but bile for the man I let slip a band on me. I want to stay awhile, but the room will be needed by the next coupling. And, until next time I have to veil my vile, yet necessary secret And that I do with guile and style.
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Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
Defile
The Quantum Poetry Theorem from a long time ago, a thousand poems a priori. **Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement., But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.** Scruffy, yet ennobled, my own 99% invade and occupy all my senses, in my eyesight encamped sensing opportunity, the 99 demand that each shutter eye snap, all nominal exhalations, every quantum minutia perception, be live streamed, direct tv to you Everything I witness, transformed into an acoustic guitar rocking vision, a levitation of poetic expression,   set to a primitive three-chord rock & roll overture, and my iPad, appointed Recording Secretary, compiles exhalations as ecrivations a preservation society of the verb, strings of words emanating non-stop within my head, from a guitar playing twenty four seven, ironically, expressed mathematically Street strolling, busy brasserie bar, a Pinot Noir arrives, a large pour of stanzas and a napkin upon to scribble mind in ferment but A Capella smooth cool, my bossy brain requires incident reports, a "write me down, please," and no matter how much I drink, ain't anti-matter enough to stop my eyes from seeing every human interaction as a poetic, probabilistic, verbal equation, quantum expressions of sensory upload The brain revels and reels from overload,   no mas, no more, poetry fatigue incurable, caplets and ointments, string theory, can't cure or explain the compulsion I feel, and the 1% of me protests my overtaxed mental capacity, and hear the, see the, masses, the shouts, the placards, outside my home, shut it down, no one cares, no one wants your transplanted mechanics in their eardrums Huzzah, found in my gut, a Grand Unifying Theory to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize my internal asymmetries, yes, a coupling factor required, but still, one equation that explains everything! my fatigued, pointy, index finger refuses to tap any more, my Theory of Everything, and my poetry, forgot, overlooked. in my library buried, black holed, forever silence-stored
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Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
The Quantum Poetry Theorem from a long time ago, a thousand poems a priori. **Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement., But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.** Scruffy, yet ennobled, my own 99% invade and occupy all my senses, in my eyesight encamped sensing opportunity, the 99 demand that each shutter eye snap, all nominal exhalations, every quantum minutia perception, be live streamed, direct tv to you Everything I witness, transformed into an acoustic guitar rocking vision, a levitation of poetic expression,   set to a primitive three-chord rock & roll overture, and my iPad, appointed Recording Secretary, compiles exhalations as ecrivations a preservation society of the verb, strings of words emanating non-stop within my head, from a guitar playing twenty four seven, ironically, expressed mathematically Street strolling, busy brasserie bar, a Pinot Noir arrives, a large pour of stanzas and a napkin upon to scribble mind in ferment but A Capella smooth cool, my bossy brain requires incident reports, a "write me down, please," and no matter how much I drink, ain't anti-matter enough to stop my eyes from seeing every human interaction as a poetic, probabilistic, verbal equation, quantum expressions of sensory upload The brain revels and reels from overload,   no mas, no more, poetry fatigue incurable, caplets and ointments, string theory, can't cure or explain the compulsion I feel, and the 1% of me protests my overtaxed mental capacity, and hear the, see the, masses, the shouts, the placards, outside my home, shut it down, no one cares, no one wants your transplanted mechanics in their eardrums Huzzah, found in my gut, a Grand Unifying Theory to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize my internal asymmetries, yes, a coupling factor required, but still, one equation that explains everything! my fatigued, pointy, index finger refuses to tap any more, my Theory of Everything, and my poetry, forgot, overlooked. in my library buried, black holed, forever silence-stored
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79
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets to trains of light. now draw us into daylight in our beds; and clear away what presses on the brain: put out the neon shapes that float and swell and glare down the gray avenue between the eyes in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs. Hang-over moons, wane, wane! From the window I see an immense city, carefully revealed, made delicate by over-workmanship, detail upon detail, cornice upon facade, reaching up so languidly up into a weak white sky, it seems to waver there. (Where it has slowly grown in skies of water-glass from fused beads of iron and copper crystals, the little chemical "garden" in a jar trembles and stands again, pale blue, blue-green, and brick.) The sparrows hurriedly begin their play. Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke. "Boom!" and the exploding ball of blossom blooms again. (And all the employees who work in a plants where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death," turn in their sleep and feel the short hairs bristling on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off. A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line. Along the street below the water-wagon comes throwing its hissing, snowy fan across peelings and newspapers. The water dries light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern of the cool watermelon. I hear the day-springs of the morning strike from stony walls and halls and iron beds, scattered or grouped cascades, alarms for the expected: queer cupids of all persons getting up, whose evening meal they will prepare all day, you will dine well on his heart, on his, and his, so send them about your business affectionately, dragging in the streets their unique loves. Scourge them with roses only, be light as helium, for always to one, or several, morning comes whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed, whose face is turned so that the image of the city grows down into his open eyes inverted and distorted. No. I mean distorted and revealed, if he sees it at all.
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2.6k
Love Lies Sleeping
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets to trains of light. now draw us into daylight in our beds; and clear away what presses on the brain: put out the neon shapes that float and swell and glare down the gray avenue between the eyes in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs. Hang-over moons, wane, wane! From the window I see an immense city, carefully revealed, made delicate by over-workmanship, detail upon detail, cornice upon facade, reaching up so languidly up into a weak white sky, it seems to waver there. (Where it has slowly grown in skies of water-glass from fused beads of iron and copper crystals, the little chemical "garden" in a jar trembles and stands again, pale blue, blue-green, and brick.) The sparrows hurriedly begin their play. Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke. "Boom!" and the exploding ball of blossom blooms again. (And all the employees who work in a plants where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death," turn in their sleep and feel the short hairs bristling on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off. A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line. Along the street below the water-wagon comes throwing its hissing, snowy fan across peelings and newspapers. The water dries light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern of the cool watermelon. I hear the day-springs of the morning strike from stony walls and halls and iron beds, scattered or grouped cascades, alarms for the expected: queer cupids of all persons getting up, whose evening meal they will prepare all day, you will dine well on his heart, on his, and his, so send them about your business affectionately, dragging in the streets their unique loves. Scourge them with roses only, be light as helium, for always to one, or several, morning comes whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed, whose face is turned so that the image of the city grows down into his open eyes inverted and distorted. No. I mean distorted and revealed, if he sees it at all.
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60
It's cold outside no one to walk down the road with am all alone a little girl that has lost her way had everything taken away. there is no hope for tomorrow no sun for the morrow only rain on the windowpanes a rushed coupling goodbye forever. They are starcrossed lovers together but apart. ever yearning and praying that the sun would give more a few extra hours to laugh and to cuddle. sneaking around in the shadows wishing on a star that fate would switch them over give them forever.
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Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
Star crossed lovers
I fear my dear my ****** dreams of you, the longing for salacious contact; the rousing impure dreams of your naked body is dementing my soul. Often in my dreams, I think of myself as a vampire lusting for your juicy young flesh. I know one day our bodies will be one again in heavenly blood, our blissful coupling will float forever, my dear sweet succulent angel. My whole being shall mingle with yours; only the most boundless abandonmen can satisfy my lust for you; for our love consists in a mysterious fusion of our most carnal personnal experiences. Since your death dear one my desire for you only increases and flourishes my need to in twine firmly forever with you my beloved . . . To recieve you into my inter-most being, and be one with you till eternity is all I long for now. I know you are an apparation that has deranged my spirit; but please dear do not resist my satonic passionate dreams of you, for I would die so that we could feed on each other, on each other alone.
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Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Satonic Lust
The most boring part of the day is the day time as I wish you were with me kissing me everywhere You want to ******* kiss me , your love only Comes at night like a loving hallucination it is good But will not last! I enjoy the feeling of you being inside Me! Doing what you naturally do for me and my pleasure I wish kissing you; making love to you; to get lost in your Eyes! As we we do the loving thing to each other, Kiss me Where my clothes cover me , and reveal those parts as we kiss ******* worship me as who I am, as I worship you for Who you are! Let me pleasure you at the night And at the day, and grab my bosoms I want to trace your lips with my tongue as we make love Coupling as you are not just my sensei, and I not your student Come and covet me as your lover and as your student But I want to know that you love me that you think Of me as precious Show me the world!
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Jan 6, 2025
Jan 6, 2025 at 4:42 PM UTC
Your love
watch the starlings synchronizing their collective dance.. each bird deciding for the all each on the edge of chaos and fall.. local decisions on moving coupling a mysterious non-local intuition.. all spurring our wonder our disbelief are we forced to consider our analogous place each one of us poised on a delicate line.. each needing to master a courage to reach transform near fear take that one step our own trust knowing all steps.. holographic truth at last each differing step stimulating new wholeness and light watch the starlings once more.. locate where you now stand my edge in my time absorb the starling's miracle murmuring our own murmuration
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Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
murmuration
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too! Keywords/Tags: bees, kissing, buzzing, dizzy, circle, two, couples, coupling, attraction, *** nectar, pollen, pollination
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Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 5:10 AM UTC
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
*** 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling― Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
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Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
*** 101
*Once there was a maiden who has a gardener as her wooer. And the maiden love him too. The maiden is affluent in money called Memories. And the gardener has flower bounties called Feelings he gives daily to the maiden. Every morning the gardener would knock on the maiden's door and hand her the most beautiful picks of Feelings his garden has. Some days it's a posy of 'I love you's'; or a nosegay of 'I miss you's'. Other days it's a wreath of 'kisses' and 'hugs'. But he knew what she likes best - it's the bouquet of the four. And every time, the maiden would insist to pay him with a Memory, but sweetly he would shake his head no. Until one morning, she heard no knock on the door nor there were flowers on her porch. She waited and waited, but nothing came and he never arrived. Days became weeks, there were no signs of the gardener still. The Feelings he gave her started to wilt, but many remain abloom.* "I wish the next time he knocks, he would hand me a bouquet of 'I love you's' with a coupling of 'I miss you's'," she whispered between sighs. "It's not my favorite arrangement, but those I favor among all." *And the skies seem to hear her wish. There were three gentle knocks on the door. She smiled and stood in front of it, wishing that it's really him. And it was. But he had no bouquets in hand. No posies nor nosegays nor wreaths.* "There is a new damsel in town, and to her I chose to give the Feelings, but she don't seem to care," he explained. "My Feelings piled up on her lawn but she never opened the door." *He paused. Then earnestly,* "My garden is bare of flowers, and I ran out of Feelings to give you," he continued. "But if you would allow, could you hand me a little Memory so I can restore my garden and offer you bouquets of Feelings again?" Then she gave him every Memory she has.
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Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Memories and Feelings
*Once there was a maiden who has a gardener as her wooer. And the maiden love him too. The maiden is affluent in money called Memories. And the gardener has flower bounties called Feelings he gives daily to the maiden. Every morning the gardener would knock on the maiden's door and hand her the most beautiful picks of Feelings his garden has. Some days it's a posy of 'I love you's'; or a nosegay of 'I miss you's'. Other days it's a wreath of 'kisses' and 'hugs'. But he knew what she likes best - it's the bouquet of the four. And every time, the maiden would insist to pay him with a Memory, but sweetly he would shake his head no. Until one morning, she heard no knock on the door nor there were flowers on her porch. She waited and waited, but nothing came and he never arrived. Days became weeks, there were no signs of the gardener still. The Feelings he gave her started to wilt, but many remain abloom.* "I wish the next time he knocks, he would hand me a bouquet of 'I love you's' with a coupling of 'I miss you's'," she whispered between sighs. "It's not my favorite arrangement, but those I favor among all." *And the skies seem to hear her wish. There were three gentle knocks on the door. She smiled and stood in front of it, wishing that it's really him. And it was. But he had no bouquets in hand. No posies nor nosegays nor wreaths.* "There is a new damsel in town, and to her I chose to give the Feelings, but she don't seem to care," he explained. "My Feelings piled up on her lawn but she never opened the door." *He paused. Then earnestly,* "My garden is bare of flowers, and I ran out of Feelings to give you," he continued. "But if you would allow, could you hand me a little Memory so I can restore my garden and offer you bouquets of Feelings again?" Then she gave him every Memory she has.
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11
Can you feel the resonance throbbing gently through this subtle discourse? I constantly find your lustful innuendo to be an incredibly pleasurable experience. Like your a magical lyricist.., Your words urge to create masterful penetration's through laced pages with in me you bring out the artistic'ness hidden deep with in me. Rhymes and rhythmic vibrations build up until finally they gush forth with musical symbols, A stream of lyrics resounds in & out of my orchestra, While we attempt to concentrate on our next feature. You have me unable to distinguish the next verse for our repetition's, Artfully your lyrics coincide with my own causing phrases to be come literate and a **** good read, Flowing melodies, While you impregnate my text with all your, your lyrical kiss&naughtiness.; Filling up my syllable's,Reconstructing my vocabulary. Our rhyme is basic element that defines the couplet, LOL Coupling as we do. Our consistent element is the repetition of form, As in me and you forming as one Not in-difference to you , Just with small changes, in your technique As we face off while playing out these scene, Your persistence of our sonnet reverberates like multicultural dance, I'm competitive while feeling in awe of you. Your sweet tunes ripple down my spine, while our word play brings havoc to my mind. Like a chant or a sweet harmonies. Causing mental eruption's. Conversing about to end, tactically you evoke emotional & sensual response, But I'm keeping up with your lyrical flow. Rhyme for rhyme, as each adjective courses through me, in and out while you become a cunning linguist master!, I'm about to overflow as you Cause me to rhythmically fall victim to insightful Poems! Always Me Ayeshah Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s) All right reserved
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Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
I never tittled this one (I hope U can) ???
Can you feel the resonance throbbing gently through this subtle discourse? I constantly find your lustful innuendo to be an incredibly pleasurable experience. Like your a magical lyricist.., Your words urge to create masterful penetration's through laced pages with in me you bring out the artistic'ness hidden deep with in me. Rhymes and rhythmic vibrations build up until finally they gush forth with musical symbols, A stream of lyrics resounds in & out of my orchestra, While we attempt to concentrate on our next feature. You have me unable to distinguish the next verse for our repetition's, Artfully your lyrics coincide with my own causing phrases to be come literate and a **** good read, Flowing melodies, While you impregnate my text with all your, your lyrical kiss&naughtiness.; Filling up my syllable's,Reconstructing my vocabulary. Our rhyme is basic element that defines the couplet, LOL Coupling as we do. Our consistent element is the repetition of form, As in me and you forming as one Not in-difference to you , Just with small changes, in your technique As we face off while playing out these scene, Your persistence of our sonnet reverberates like multicultural dance, I'm competitive while feeling in awe of you. Your sweet tunes ripple down my spine, while our word play brings havoc to my mind. Like a chant or a sweet harmonies. Causing mental eruption's. Conversing about to end, tactically you evoke emotional & sensual response, But I'm keeping up with your lyrical flow. Rhyme for rhyme, as each adjective courses through me, in and out while you become a cunning linguist master!, I'm about to overflow as you Cause me to rhythmically fall victim to insightful Poems! Always Me Ayeshah Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s) All right reserved
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29
Giraffe in Salford We clung to each other on our raft bed, Over hot breath amidst summer storms, Our bodies held fast. Melded. He gazed nightly into our Love Room, Without judgement. From an unsullied eye he blinked, Deliciously at our coupling, And pondered our fate. We sought him in the quiet times, Where our eyes first sculptured him, нιdden ιn тнe тreeѕ.      Caught in the wind,            Arching backwards,             Giraffe yawned. Chewed on his home-grown high flung leaves, And dreamt of Africa. F.S.Chapman.
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Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
Giraffe in Salford.
I reminisce quite often of your touch and the unabashed ****** experimentation's we've shared. I know my worth, so don't you go forgetting, I had you with your mouth agape, your toe's curling as you cried out my name... call my conceit one of a kind, because I know the way you stare, the way your  eyes lustfully & licentiously devourer me, the way you crave me and how you cling to the memories of us, in bed. Your priapic lust for me is equally accepted & measure, almost to a point where I could have bodily-combusted since you always seem unable to stop, but you must know, I have a very arcane little list and lucky for you I've let you in... hahaha lucky indeed & better for me. My concupiscence  language and metaphors simplify & convey my lustful intent. In simpler terms just know I want to repeat are coupling, I'd like you to to bend me over and stretch me to my fullest. open me widely and dance with in my silken  Venus’ cradle, entangle me into a dreamlike haze, in which my  fantasy and reality are indistinguishable. I know you've  harboured about me & the many ways, all the very excitingly different ways you could defile and desecrate my ripe tight little body, I see more clarity and certainty of what might happen,    if ever I'd allow you to spend the night with me again, I still remember our passionate nights together,    oh so very well,   I can see it, I taste us and worst yet, I can feel your animalistic and sometimes brutal ****** assault on me, I still feel you deep within my seductive tight little love box. Your a cannibalistic-cunnalinguist master, causing havoc within me, as you attack hungrily between my thighs, sending me spinning, sending me on a  intoxicating high. Our last encounter,   left me unable to breathe, barely able to walk and yet I have no regrets, well maybe just one, and that is; all good things must come to an end! (until I heal.) Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®          K.A.C.L.N ©      All right reserved ® Copyright 1977 - Present ©
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Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Until I Heal.
I reminisce quite often of your touch and the unabashed ****** experimentation's we've shared. I know my worth, so don't you go forgetting, I had you with your mouth agape, your toe's curling as you cried out my name... call my conceit one of a kind, because I know the way you stare, the way your  eyes lustfully & licentiously devourer me, the way you crave me and how you cling to the memories of us, in bed. Your priapic lust for me is equally accepted & measure, almost to a point where I could have bodily-combusted since you always seem unable to stop, but you must know, I have a very arcane little list and lucky for you I've let you in... hahaha lucky indeed & better for me. My concupiscence  language and metaphors simplify & convey my lustful intent. In simpler terms just know I want to repeat are coupling, I'd like you to to bend me over and stretch me to my fullest. open me widely and dance with in my silken  Venus’ cradle, entangle me into a dreamlike haze, in which my  fantasy and reality are indistinguishable. I know you've  harboured about me & the many ways, all the very excitingly different ways you could defile and desecrate my ripe tight little body, I see more clarity and certainty of what might happen,    if ever I'd allow you to spend the night with me again, I still remember our passionate nights together,    oh so very well,   I can see it, I taste us and worst yet, I can feel your animalistic and sometimes brutal ****** assault on me, I still feel you deep within my seductive tight little love box. Your a cannibalistic-cunnalinguist master, causing havoc within me, as you attack hungrily between my thighs, sending me spinning, sending me on a  intoxicating high. Our last encounter,   left me unable to breathe, barely able to walk and yet I have no regrets, well maybe just one, and that is; all good things must come to an end! (until I heal.) Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®          K.A.C.L.N ©      All right reserved ® Copyright 1977 - Present ©
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I said to Love, “It is not now as in old days When men adored thee and thy ways All else above; Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One Who spread a heaven beneath the sun,” I said to Love. I said to him, “We now know more of thee than then; We were but weak in judgment when, With hearts abrim, We clamoured thee that thou would’st please Inflict on us thine agonies,” I said to him. I said to Love, “Thou art not young, thou art not fair, No elfin darts, no cherub air, Nor swan, nor dove Are thine; but features pitiless, And iron daggers of distress,” I said to Love. “Depart then, Love! Man’s race shall perish, threatenest thou, WIthout thy kindling coupling-vow? The age to come the man of now Know nothing of? We fear not such a threat from thee; We are too old in apathy! Mankind shall cease…— So let it be,” I said to Love.
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I Said To Love
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
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Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
"Odiferous Interruptus"
Humans can keep all their dreams when they sleep. Humans can gain all their strength through just pain. Humans are intelligent well, some less than full percent. Humanity is simply a coupling of actors whos roles were supporting and Humans will strive for the light thats been waning but Humans are silly dont take them to serious, divide and then conquer a victory so glorious.
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Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
No Homie Power
walking through the dark on the outskirts of Baton Rouge just me and a bunch of stars no one else to talk to the yard is staging cars expecting a train I gather my gear trying to beat out the rain wind is howling roosters start to crow 6-string on my back I'm bound for a Houston show I like the early morning quiet, dark, and cold and watching for that engine tryin ta breathe real low... the "CLASP! of thunderous coupling "SkReeeech," its time ta go wind starts ta rushing this steel carries me on
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May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 12:28 PM UTC
carry on
1. The Ugly Coupling of the blue sousaphone suckling Buffalo Buffalo didn't know the blue mouth piece widget was no inspired milk spigot soaked with Mr. Creosote in Vomit'n beer laden banana bins weewoo weewoo the maniac is behind you (its funny how when i'm feeling particularly uninspired my poems always come out like this....) chuckling happily listening to singing nonsense with headphones on 9 beats, repeated triplets, phrases spoken in a mumbling rhythm (....just jumbled references, slant rhymes and free associations) dreams of peace in the middle east as eyes turn upward to see a collard shirt and mohawk looking back "my god what have you done"
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Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Fake Candy with Razor Blades Inside