"courtesans" poems
Thailand ******
Can read my mind
See my desire
Feel my pain
Siam Halloween in nana klong toey
Thai delights even the ladyboys look good tonight they know how to **** over and survive using a cheap disguise
Hey forang you wanna **** me?
1000 baht short time curiosity.
I prefer real ladies with juicy butts
Flavored with beer and sangsom whiskey *****
Take me home beat me with your
**** asian Treats
Make me lick your ***** feets
Asian women are my lust filled desire
They sit on my face until I can't breath no more
Than make me pay for my ***** laundry
Soap me up and knock me down
Bangkok Thailand is my home town
I slither along the Sukhumvit soi 11, devoted to the ***** I'm in 7th heaven...
Her **** smells better than stupid blonde Suzy the airhead girl next door boring rubber doll
Asian toilet scrubbers turn me on the never heard of boring old vain Beverly hills ugly rodeo drive full of stuffy old hags high on ****** pills
Sad drag Beverly hills I lived in that phoney fake berg I love the ancient town Bangkok where my face gets slapped and hurt!
*** is a weapon.
****** are mans desire
Zeus fell in lust with a Greek goddess than expired?
Nasty ****** in Thailand make me hard
I become 18 again nothing else matters but fun with that wanna be ******
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Saying “Women of the Night”
Might be alright
As a description for some girls,
They stream eastward
Along the bank,
Checking for marauders and adjusting curls.
Yet courtesans are different;
They came as swiftly as they went,
Called on by important men.
From house and hotel they are borne,
In carriages, and in finery worn,
For those who have a yen.
Yet others still elude one name,
Of condemnation or fame.
They do not wander at men’s whims.
They deliver terms to him or him.
And live in dwellings finer still,
Until the payer has had his fill.
But with the latter does he ever
Tire of the source of pleasure?
For some the need outlasts his want,
And he becomes the supplicant!
Then woman’s wit becomes the master,
While her body wields a whip.
The sinner’s desire speeds still faster,
As she the body’s scale does tip.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
We are the terraced women
piled row on row on the sagging, slipping hillsides of our
lives.
We tug reluctant children up slanting streets
the push chair wheels wedging in the ruts
breathless and bad tempered we shift the Tesco carrier bags
from hand to hand
and stop to watch the town
The hill tops creep away like children playing games
our other children shriek against the school yard rails
‘there’s Mandy’s mum, John’s mum, Dave’s mum,
Kate’s mum, Ceri’s mother, Tracey’s mummy’
we wave with hands scarred by groceries and too much
washing up
catching echoes as we pass of old wild games
after lunch, more bread and butter, tea
we dress in blue and white and pink and white checked
overalls
and do the house and scrub the porch and sweep the street
and clean all the little terraces
up and down and up and down and up and down the hill
later, before the end-of-school bell rings
all the babies are asleep
Mandy’s mum joins Ceri’s mum across the street
running to avoid the rain
and Dave’s mum and John’s mum – the others too – stop
for tea
and briefly we are wild women
girls with secrets, travellers, engineers, courtesans, and stars
of fiction, films
plotting our escape like jail birds
terraced, tescoed prisoners rising from the household dust
like heroines.
Pennyanne Windsor, from Poetry 1900-2000 One hundred poets from Wales
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
The Jester to the court
A simple fool
A man to bring about life
Bring about the Dreary
Bring about the Light
Bring about stories of Joy & Strife
Dance amongst
Wax philosophical for
Play about the Concepts
Reorganize the Notions Preconceived and Not
Bring about the Esoteric
Bring about only the Palpable
Bring about plays of Obscure Lucidity
So alone who is he
When at home does he see
What does a merry walk become
Questions, “Who begins to portray me?”
Bring about Divinity
Bring about Sin City
Bring down to Existence and Humility
A Jester will never need a court
Will never have courtesans
He only needs to compliment their world
Must succeed in augmenting their reality through his own
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
In the land
Of the burning tribe,
Dwelt the worst of evils.
A tribe
Where immorality is moral
And flaming human minds
Can be traced.
Allergic to goodness,
Cancerous to strangers,
Abhorrent to civilization,
Glut with cheating.
Pure hostility
Even at jovial point
And under loving atmosphere.
A tribe
of courtesans
Where adultery is tradition,
And fornication begins at ten
To enhance development,
For healthy living.
A tribe
Of awkward belief
In a path of abstinence to sickness
Curable with *** alone.
Of what descent
Are they?
Too violent to exist
with no regard to life.
Of what mentality?
When playing safe
Is inhuman!
And ******
Of the innocents unborn
Is nothing.
Spreading the virus,
Never afraid to harbour it.
Where is their good side?
Is it unseen or extinct?
If any, “ wuese te”.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 6:14 AM UTC
Like the king of a rainy country, am I!
Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye -
The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns,
The company of dogs leaves him forlorn.
Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry,
Nor the mortal jousts before his balcony,
From his favourite jester no ***** tale
Can redden the cheek of one so pale.
His ornate chamber has become a tomb -
And courtesans, scantily-clad, to whom,
Though royal favours inspire their provocation;
This skeletal youth finds no temptation.
Flamel himself could forge no plan
To extract the dark humours from this man.
In the baths of blood from days of yore,
He finds no properties to restore
This dazed corpse in whose veins once red -
Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
the courtesans on the corner called him baby blue,
though he cavorted around with a candid ecstasy
seldom seen under the streetlights or above the sewers of town
though he bought rounds for all the ******** at the bar at 2 a.m.
and bellowed drinking ballads to no one in particular
though he had a colossal crocodile smile
wider than the sea, the sky, or any of the tiny bits in between
the courtesans on the corner called him baby blue,
because on the navy nights when he would lay with them,
which was now and again, it was always with silent tears
and they flowed like the deepest sorrow untold.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
Minuscule cockroaches creak
Conspicuously around the crude crumbs
On the dusty kitchen counter,
And tadpoles squirm in the cremated creek.
The porridge poured itself
For the poor stray kitten,
Who was too spritely
For eureka's euthanization,
Triumphant in trespassing
The proximity of the porch.
Meanwhile, the revolving rover
Imitated the raunchy rocket ships,
Launching like fervent fertility
Interceding September's secret,
Sacred admirers of ethereal pyres.
The sepulchre's soma
Spread from the peach's center
Like the terrific thighs of a virile *****
Jurassic travels ,
Machines running on ancient carcass,
Annulling the terra firma
Of its aloe vera-like virginity,
And courtesans adorned with jewels,
Pretending to be Aphrodite?
Just as Jupiter does,
Joy wears covetous rings..
Originally written 8/12/11
Revised 10/19/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
The king says with a long grim face
My wealth brings me no happiness
With all the courtesans around my throne
There’s no fulfillment and I feel all alone.
My courtiers have only good words for me
I know they’re not genuine but mere flattery
They smile at my smiles and frown if I frown
They wouldn’t have cared a fig but for my crown.
You may not know but my crown feels so heavy
With the curses of my people for the taxes I levy
They suffer to see me in wealth and affluence
The king’s might make them bear it in silence.
You may envy me for all my treasure trove
Not knowing how much I pine for little love
Crave for freedom and life’s little pleasures
That cannot be bought with all my treasures.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
O! Happy day!
For on this day I find myself
In love with every girl:
In the innumerable masses of licentious courtesans
Parading their every facet,
Every inch of bare supple flesh
Their thread-bare scraps of clothes
Can tastefully expose,
I have chosen a mere handful
That do so skilfully!
And so I act;
Mutilating the leafy genitals of lesser lifeforms,
Pruning them into a pleasing shape
That it might entice them to reciprocate
And replicate;
Presenting to them dashing symbols of consumerism,
Such as ingots of saccharine fat
To please them now
And spurn them later
When they wish to regain their shapely shape,
Or compressed ichor borne of ancient remains,
Cut into a pleasing sparkle
To please their primal preference for shine.
Surely this will win their affections!
O! Happy day!
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
Like those green hills
in an undaunted meditative silence
in front of the house
i was brought up
my secrets are pretty open,
i am still a gun with full of bullets
if i spill the beans
i'll be compromised, some one pointed out
so what?
yes, i did fornicate a bit
most unforgettable one
was with an intellectual type
under the 'wisdom tree'
highlighted as a tourist attraction
in the municipal park,
on a full moon day,
that was a condition she put,
i found no problem to agree.
this was the time when we were wild
smoked joints, did theater,
and went about aimlessly
but read a lot, as if our lives
would come to a grinding
halt the very next day;
so we had to finish all that.
it was as if we are mad.
Oh! not to forget the Ashram
over looking a lake
where one learned few things
on life and other matters of interest,
how can i forget the fiery poet,
who got there to get
enlightened if possible in a week
we slept and created a lovely scandal
(you should forgive me for all that,
quite coincidental, not at all intentional)
noted in my diary thus--
'poets are no less hot than other mortals'
Once in drunken stupor
i went to swim in the lake across the Ashram
with full of crocodiles that relished
eating people's limbs
not all, but one at a time,
the girl who found me floating
inviting attention of crocs
dragged me out, took me to her room
in the Ashram, and at that night
she said:"how romantic!
let's go to bed together
your punch drunk meat
would have been eaten
by crocs by now..so celebrate"
she was so much better than crocodiles
in heat, left me in a state of dazzle
Yes now it can be told; one of my secrets is this
I believe in eclectic wisdom,
as ephemeral life has
wisdom alone offers salvation.
i have no great secrets,
no Swiss bank accounts,
affairs with enchanting courtesans
in any Maharaja's court.
The last and only Maharaja i met face to face
had retired long back
and during my interview with him
addressed me "Sir"
how could one tell a Maharaja
though he is a paper tiger that
one is averse to colonial manners!
About certain secrets to be unearthed:
I will recount this in a later date.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
I am but a courtesan,
Mistress
***** of the moon
As are you
Though you deny this
Your denial, makes it ever more true
Promiscuous beings,
We
Dwellers of The flesh
Wearing a tant amount,
of lies and morals
As babies blankets
While our flesh
prays pleasure
And our eyes
Hold lies
Living under black rainbows
and broken hearts
Loose tongues and
tight spots
Our lot
Courtesans
We
Me~A
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
I have traveled so far
And for so long
That none could conceive it possible.
My Journey of aeons and lifetimes
Has taken me through
Crystal palaces of exquisite splendor
Where I played with courtesans
The likes of which this world
Has never seen.
I have led armies into battle
Been slain and conquered a million times.
I have ridden ******** on mythical beasts
Exploring worlds of unimaginable beauty.
I've bathed in enchanted pools under cooling moonlight
And lived with the nymphs who dwell in those places.
I have dived to the depths of oceans
And fought with the mighty beasts
Who dwell in the deep.
I have explored the four corners of space,
Spent lifetimes in silent ecstasy
Breathing in and out with the stars.
I have fallen through the earth
And been held captive in the most cruel of places.
I have been cut and tormented,
Had my life ripped away
And been revived in places of daggers and pain.
I have been swept along in rivers of molten flame,
Burned until I could no longer recognize
Even my own body.
Fought, fought and fought,
Killed and been killed
Spending aeons in fear, rage and fury.
I have taken animal form,
Run with the wolves
And howled at the moon in the depths of night.
I have been killed a million, million times,
Loved and lost through bitter heart ache
As my love left me for another life
More times than I care to recall.
I have had Sons, Daughters,
Wives, Husbands, Harems.
I have lived through the greed of owning one million palaces
The hatred of murdering one million men
The love of devoting myself entirely to a precious few.
The self obsession of the inglorious "I".
Misery, torment, abandonment,
Fear, loneliness, isolation, grief... joy.
I have lived through them all
I have lived in them all!
There is not one place in this entire universe I have not visited,
Or one thing I have not owned...
And yet,
I stand here before you
Empty handed and alone.
An old man at the end of his travels,
Weary of adventure
And seeking peace...
A place to call home.
The road is not less traveled!
We play this mighty game of life and death
Never stopping to question
Or pause to think...
The question is not "When will it stop?".
The question is "When will we stop?".
When will we search for home?
Listen to that quiet, quiet voice
Which tells us to be still.
To awaken.
To see that,
From the highest palace,
To the deepest hell.
It has all been - but a dream
We have been dreaming.
*Wake up my friends
and find peace.*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.
On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,
and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris
in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.
There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.
I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once
while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed
and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.
Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.
You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.
You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.
Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.
How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.
Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel
By Wisława Szymborska
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 4:29 AM UTC
in days of old
when knights were bold
returning battle-weary wounded
would be taken to temples
where priestesses
noble ******
dressed their wounds
with salves and medicinal herbs
to heal
and perform voluptuously ****** acts
for love and pleasure
a fevered joining
in the realm of the senses
spirit with flesh
in Venusian worship
devotion to sacred desires
courtesans of divinity
sacred hearts
with eager wet mouths
and
oh so willing open sacred *****
women of the highest character
once consecrated ladies
sadly lost to us
like arcane holy waters
that gave spiritual blow jobs
to wash away the pain
now in history's dust bin
of ***** dreams
sad vaginas and *****
desolated cups and ******
things get worse with time
in our Victorian phantasm
of serial monogamies
and broken heart
trunk music marriages
..........
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC
We tell everyone lies they want to hear,
Translucent guns are waved from face to face.
We say “It’s nice to meet you” out of fear,
of being ****** and marked to be erased.
The sociable are given gifts of gold,
While loners rot in cages made of words.
All your expressions need to be controlled,
If your wish is to live among the birds.
We strive to be the people that we hate,
Jealousy turns our heart into a stone.
We claw with nails and teeth on iron gates,
we built ourselves and choose to leave alone.
Emotions build behind a mask of clay,
and masks explode on those whom we betray.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
I shan't let myself type, write, or udder
the word that the oh, so shallow misuse.
The term that hopeful, gutter ****** mutter;
but empty (should it, a hallow abuse).
Confused is the callow boy full of thirst,
due to courtesans words, so misleading.
The harlots fight over who will be first
to devour his heart, warm and bleeding.
Fleeting is usually how I define
ones faux and improper use of the word.
If down pours the rain, and water is wine,
then wet lushes slur convictions: absurd.
You'll never know what you've got til its dawn,
and out comes the word, all consciousness gone.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Princess Diana came back last week
She wore all her pretty clothes
And looked stunning in her hats
She went about her ways as best she could
But there was no hiding all the sorrow in her eyes.
The luckiest girl in all the world
Chosen to one day be the Queen
And then demoted to a brood mare
By a Prince who was secretly a ****
Her fairy tale had not even got it’s start
When she found out how it would end,
And she was trapped by tea towels
With her face imprinted on them.
She delivered all that was required of her
And even though the song was ended
Managed to write a second verse
Which the conductor wasn’t keen to play.
Yet the music gave her legs to stand on
And the tune grew to a symphony
As she performed it for the World
Who found the melody delicious
And her solos so profound.
Lady Di is back again,
That simple girl who saved herself
To become the lamb for royal slaughter
By a horde of calculating courtesans
Who knew she didn’t matter from the start.
Left to slumber peacefully,
On her private island
Lo these twenty years,
Safe from flashing cameras
And the machinations of the Crown
Diana may be dead but her legend is alive.
ljm
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
Dancer: tune up
your body’s chords,
swaying strategically
to the rhythmic commands
of an ancient age.
Princes, kings, and
courtesans:
mark time until the day
when your dance is
recorded on the scroll.
Laughing hyenas:
grimace a yep and a yowl,
and shed your tears
stealthily as would
the muses pray.
Corrugated wrinkles
don the happiest face
when one dares look
upon the choreographer
and turn away.
And we believe
that the chorus is one
and the prima donna
creates a world unknown
where no one pulls the strings.
© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
The girls I knew upon distant shores
Courtesans to prima donnas to wall flowers to debutants to Thai street ******
I love them all
Some hated me some begged me to stay
Some jumped on me some walked away
Like herding a field of cats
In search of love around the world
Now back in this USA can't even so much as talk to a girl
They all now just walk away
Like herding a field of cats
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC