"deflowered" poems
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
It was an autumn day; a fresh aroma the air.
Breathing in deeply, I was trapped in a snare.
How was I loured into this dangerous trap,
I just was not looking or even aware.
There was a sweet sticky dew tasting like mead,
This honey nectar turned my head to greed.
Losing control I was going out of my mind,
In a strange flower bed, I left my world behind.
Now wondering in a deep psychedelic dream,
I am floating eagerly down a rainbow stream.
Tender fresh flesh standing bold and proud,
Attracting prey with her bright coloured shroud.
Giving in freely, about to be devoured.
My censors telling me I was being deflowered.
There were silky soft hairs all over my skin,
Is a shocking end about to begin?
If no one had noticed I was ensnared in this place,
It may have all ended in humiliation and disgrace.
Now in so deep I have lost all self control,
It was as if a demon had stolen my soul.
Just then a watchful serpent raised its head,
Looking straight at me it hissed and said.
“I can see you; you have had your fun,
Now it is time to pay, or get out and run”.
Shocked out of the dream, I saw my plight,
What he said was true, I made my flight.
Lucky to escape, my advice is here,
If you see a Venus Flytrap,
STAY CLEAR.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 6:19 AM UTC
Oh Heiress!
My heiress
You date many men
At the least you've dated eighteen
That's in the last few years
But you're royalist of blood
Makes you special
For you're the heiress
To become The Condescension!
So date who you wish
Be deflowered if you want
But know this
I'll remember this always
Violet's always remember
Especially those who were close
Stay away from Jason!
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Clambering and clawing
Grasping hooks, crannies
a crown of thorns
flowering purple red blood
bright fluorescent
she wore her designer nails
to the summer ball
strapless and holding up
her rounded dignity
spoken in a plunging neckline
She flowered
was deflowered
that twilight under a silver orb
whispering ocean fronts
dropped off at her starlight home
sealed that memory
with a bougainvillea kiss
of immense sensuality
and down the drive
thinking how beautiful she was
in making memories.
years later
I still remember the look
of that velvet sky
and the nails that scoured
a language on my back.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Purge your unclean self
Your existence does not depend
On the judgement of others
You are the beauty created
For something long before you were born
Life depends on you
You are what you aspire to look like
Appearances fail when you forget
That time is an illusion
Seasons are fleeting
But you will reign red-blooded
The eyes follow every angle
Seriously believe in your immortality
The skinny boy on the runway
Believes
Invincibility
Inevitably forever
This is heaven
This is hell
Death is forever
Life lasts beyond eons
Your beauty is worn on your soul
Be it an old familiar jacket
That has toured the world
Be it a minimalistic shift
Worn moments before you were deflowered
Photographs will create the verdict
You will be weighed
You will be measured
Perfection is possible
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
All the Catholics on the Anniversary lie,
Eating Satan's eggs that fall from the sky.
Pull Jesus out of an egg,
To remind yourself that you'll never die!
Plucked the wings off a wounded bird,
That fell from a nest.
Planted fur and gave it rabbit feet,
It was so grateful that it oviposited gifts.
I saw Satan wearing a bunny costume.
He came around midnight and laid some eggs.
If the children rise and miss them,
We will go and cook the nest.
Come to the alter,
Bring a ****** flower,
To be deflowered by the sun.
When we see them again,
The flowers will bring their children,
To the festival of the Anniversary Sun!
Rabbit's mating beneath the Anniversary Sun!
Remembering the death of the Moon's son!
The goddess's son dies,
and lives again.
A ****** blossom bleeds,
And gives him new skin.
Come on everybody it is time to celebrate!
The rebirth of our king!
Sniff a bible verse off of a pagan god's chest.
Hang a devil from the top of a Christmas tree.
A Christmas ghost takes you back to the past.
It is not so bad with Christian imagery.
Come on everybody it is time to celebrate!
The birthday of our king!
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
Just turned sixteen
a rage of hormones
erogenous zones
no more sexting
or wet dreams
your sixteen
you have our permission
to give in to your impulses
full submission
your pulse races
no more wishing
release your inhibitions
but before you do hold up and listen.
You can't drink and drive
yet you can think of life
for now any thought you conceive
can legally achieve
a new life you can breed
Should anyone so young have this much power?
to class it as fun and be deflowered
just because you can attain an ********
stand to attention
gives you the right to create perfection?
- when love isn't even mentioned.
Should we raise the age limit?
Would teenage pregnancies plummet?
but you say
they will still do it anyway
regardless
they couldn't care less
do you blame parents?
- or carers?
Maybe we need
a better educational system
to teach them.
It’s the media that feeds
into the body image
a consistent mirage
a constant barrage
of so called celebrities
having *** on TV
With the skinny waist
fake *****
and high heels
what a waste,
you choose
how you feel.
Take time to pause
and hold onto what’s yours
for once lost
you will pay its cost
your virginity
is its own currency
people will value you more
or label you a *****
a **** a slapper
a used ****** wrapper
go ahead tap her
she doesn't care
what you wear
or if you marry
take her cherry.
Just because it has a secondary function
doesn't mean you have to use your junk son.
the next time you get an ********
steer your mind in another direction
or at least use protection
so you don't spread STD's by infection
having *** so young can be tragic
take the time to think
or you may later regret it.
Don't give into peer pressure
Don’t use others as your measure
have *** at your leisure
when its your pleasure
when you're ready
not just because you've been going steady
protect your innocence
remain a princess
pretty in pink
abhor red
so think first
before bed.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
[[ ****
blood pooling around her
there she lay sprawled
eyes glazed,motionless with no stir
she is another victim to succumb
to this heinous inhuman act
the mission is accomplished
the criminal thinks
freely he walks
head and shoulder held high
among mortals he laugh
life goes on ,another life gone
my sister,mum and aunt
the daughters of eve are endangered
my brother,dad and i
the all sons of adam
are the perpetrators
fear exists among our female species
they fear to be stripped off their
coverings
they live in a nightmare of being
stripped off their dignity
unwillingly be disrobed and be
robbed
they fear being deflowered and
defiled
out of her will she was forced
naked and spreadeagled
vitruvian man style she lay
her case was a repetition of a biblical
story
dinah and the sons of shechem
blood freely trickled between her
open pelvic
life seeped out of her misused shell
did she really deserve this???
who will end this atrocity?
who will fight for the girl child?
toddlers and grannies
shamelessly chauvinist male defiles
them
its against the word
its against the unwritten codes
it's unafrican
it's evil
my anger is frothing
like a volcano the lava is heating up
my pen is crying for the female child
i will shout this from rooftops
on the skyline i will write it
this battle is ours and we have to
fight
protection we've to offer
[[the chronicles of the dumb speaker]]
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Farce!
False!
Fantasy maybe. Even still,
It’s far from fact.
Fiction!
I've seen more accurate depictions
Of Love
In abstract pictures.
At least it’s fierce colors
Show so form of passion
Fashion!
Artistic? It can be
But this is trendy
It'll fade as a
Fad!
True art is timeless
Truth? It can be
But this is candy
Not fruit
This is pop
Not soul
Technically it’s music
Because of it’s movement
But this needed no muse
Only tech
No chords
Piano or vocal
Only vocoder!
Inhumane, alien maybe.
But even the Vulcan
Shows some form of fire
Folktale!
Fog!
The misleading smoke
Shows no water
In the vicinity
Only industry
The only esteem
In this engine
Is steam
Gas.
The closest thing
To nothing
Fodder!
Deflowered. Devoured
By self-expression
Selfish innovators imitating life
Forgetting to live it.
****
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
.
*Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.*
© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 4:36 AM UTC
I gave you everything
All that I could give
I tried to make you happy
Tried to help you live
You constantly spoke of your misery
And it sounded so much like my own
It struck me to the core
Your pain made my soul groan
Because you know that I know
Exactly how you feel
What you also know is that
Your pain was leverage so I would kneel
You knew I would kneel before you
And lay everything I had down
My heart, my love, my innocence
Just to reverse your frown
You knew how to get inside my head
With your **** sociopathic ways
Using your words and your afflictions
So that I would be swayed
Swayed into love,
where I fell deep.
Swayed into your bed,
where I wish all we'd done was sleep
But know I sit and ponder,
I lay on my own and weep
Because of all the lies you spoke
You've plunged your knife quite deep.
I hope those other girls were worth it
And I hope they don't fall like me
Seeing someone else go through that
It'd be quite awful to see
My only hope is that some day
You will understand.
Understand what you did to me
See that it was by your own hand
That I was destroyed, crushed, deflowered
Now I will never love again
Because you are a wolf in sheep's clothing;
Funny, since you said you weren't like "them".
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
When I flare my nostrils
I sneeze cordite?
When I pout my big lips
Does hot magma erupt?
When my gored orbs roll
Behold liquid blitz come
to judgment?
Fingered nerves claw
At the fragile fabric of sanity
Kamikaze dreams make horrendous
Enterprise at vanishing sunbeam
Clamourous amorous wishes
Purr vapours of invisible kisses
With the gods of fantasy
Clawing up the dark wall of hope
Plastered with ancient ivy of determination
To live and kiss another day
And weave another gooey dream
Or to live another flirtation
With a phantom lover?
Stainless steel roses
For my garden (please!)
For roses are painted red
By blood from wounded dreams
And dust puffed from rusting trust
Because life has been unfaithful
Snogging and ******** with another
LOVER! In my bed.
I have nourished mine love tree
With tears from swollen eyes of hope
And ***** from fat bladder of determination
Red blood from amputated limbs
Of self-sacrifice and selflessness
I have tried.
Undress your mind and jump into bed
My mind often has balled fists against a woe
Than has it kissed many a *****
Blasted Judas! you are the foe
You took away her innocence
There is no red stain on the white linen
Only red lipstick on my pillow
And chewing gum in my hair...
My mind still swoons
To be deflowered
Undress my mind.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
All-new
****** lands
(except for the natives)
dying to be properly deflowered and nailed and ******* and erroded
to make way for gun forts and gold mines
(they can be built!)
they're called Zale's and they love money
funny, not to all but to enough
call them crazy call them savage
but maybe they just love their homes
and don't own the kinds of weapons that make the loudest noise
but that **** the slowest and with least dignity.
Color-me a Cosmo girl
fit to be cover material, just look at my hair
look at Pocahontas, you know she was bald?
Hideous, un-English in every way
probably because she wasn't
but gotta give credite where credit is rejected, overdrawn
maybe never even earned just splurged and secreted
but wanna hear a secret?
The land belongs to nobody
not a soul not a body not a mind
they knew this but knew others were destroying it
that's why they were mad,
not because they were children who had their toys stolen
but because a living lifeless matter was being assaulted
catapulted into the future of steam engines and fried chicken
feathers blowing in the winds of convertables
they took scalps to maybe open the minds to the error of ways
not that one's head should be disassembled
but one can't seem so oblivious or wide eyed when shown the facts
of obvious emotional response
but we are young
dinosaurs were old and we have time to forget.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
a brown-eyed susan deflowered in the unmade bed of a bleary eyed boy
she ***** her fists into ocean blue sheets,
she feels as if her roots are about to give
with clumsy hands, he caresses her spine
he calls her beautiful
she is awoken by a gentle beam of sunlight that sneaks through his curtains
and kisses her eyelids
her delicate petals litter the floor
she tip-toes around them
and sees herself out.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
sometimes hearsay isn't enough
I'm digging, digging,
oh, just raking up the flower bed
you have a sweet face
open yet so guarded
what secrets do you hide behind cherry lips?
you will share them with me over cake and cold tea
you will not take them to your grave, it's impolite
pray tell, what brings you here
and who gave you secrets
speak, those lips aren't just for the painting
why so silent, lady? silence is impolite
I said, you will share your secrets with me
I've already prepared cake and tea and a soft bed for you
(is it normal to be so angry)
the tea is cold, I apologize
you see, we have no warmth in these parts
you're new here, so you have to learn quickly
secrets are our currency
you have lips like a flower, quite dainty
(flowers also die easily)
don't make me pluck the petals, one by one
woman, deflowered
you will share your secrets, one by one
yes of course, I will send the painting to your husband back home
I walk out onto the veranda
in the living room, the butler picks up cherry-red petals and stores them in a jar
I see the flower bed in the distance (at least what's left of it)
I did my best digging it up, I believe it makes a soft bed
I told you, she will not take her secrets to her grave
fret not, woman, oblivion is not an issue
I will see you in flower beds, and in portraits of guarded smiles
your family will remember you in the painting I sold to a museum instead
woman, portrait
you're no longer a mystery
thanks for sharing your secrets over cake and cold tea
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
the prints
that the pressure of a deflowered love
made on the pages it was pressed in
still float loosely in my journal
with all the purple petals
thrown out long ago
and all of my worries
penned out into oblivion
waiting to be read.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
A tattered soul journeys.
Awaken the sleeping gods.
Jaded fragments of the whole.
Moonlight trickles down.
Smell of burning amber.
The night deflowered.
A fluorescent bolt.
The dismal void crackles.
Lightning brands the sky.
Supine on porcelain.
In a mesmer of cold.
Sensations surge.
Blankly whispering eyes.
Tracing the cracks.
A starless ceiling.
Music snakes about.
A dreary tangle.
Rhyme and melody.
Sober thoughts clamour.
Awash with miasma .
Sordid with memories.
Slivers of imagination.
Mares in the shadow.
My dire soul slumbers.
Emotions at the gallows.
Staircase spirit dialogues.
Coffee cup delusions.
Jaded fragments of the whole.
Awaken the sleeping gods.
A tattered soul journeys.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.
Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,
who despise her art.
And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.
Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.
Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat
and not a surrender.
Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:
‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’
‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’
‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’
‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’
And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:
Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.
Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.
And please,
bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Because I had loved you before I was thirteen
Because I had loved you throughout my teen
You stole my virginity: you deflowered me
Surely, I have composed and quieted my soul;
Now, I am like a baby about to be weaned
Because I have loved you so much
Because love can make us do and say crazy things.
Now it’s impossible to love another.
Because I am the dark angel with heart shaped wings
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
We had heard about the big steel-beasts.
For weeks, vicious rumors had spread
like wildfire across the steppes.
Nothing was safe in their path.
They left death and destruction,
thousands of deflowered
women & girls
in their wake.
Late last night,
we heard the clanking,
felt the rumbling,
the shattering of earth
outside the city skirts,
then dead quiet, nothing,
not a single sound.
Early this morning,
Svetlana stumbled-delirious,
dazed toward the center of town.
Blackened eyes & missing teeth
adorned her bruised face,
dried blood-lines faded
from the corners of her mouth.
It appeared as if her jaw was broken,
vacancy was written in her eyes.
A crimson stain on her torn skirt
marked the cleft between her legs.
A ******** arm band
hung around her neck.
She didn't say a word.
We heard the clanking again,
felt he rumbling,
the shattering of earth
as the Tigers left our village.
And by the way Svetlana looked,
quickly realized the rumors were true.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Beneath the world of expectation
above the Hells of Satan’s lair
a body lies in mortification
and no one knows that it is there.
A ****** on a frosty evening
of lovely girl with sprightly nature
who’s only sin was of receiving
with evils own collaborator.
Innocence was wholly shattered,
deflowered just for being there,
her body beaten and so battered
and left there dead with just her stare.
Terrified, transfixed, still staring
in that direction from where it came.
A beast so vicious and uncaring,
who treated her with so much shame.
There was no offer of protection,
there was no one to lend a hand.
Just he who caused her such dejection.
Just he who placed her 'neath the land.
This girl of lovely disposition
never had time to say farewell,
was never found by expedition,
just left to rot and left to smell.
She missed a life of exploration
that night he took her life so ill.
Encircled now in forestation
beneath the soil of old land fill.
Her family sought, indeed, still seeking
in hope one day she may be found
and from her grave her soul is speaking
to all who walk above the ground.
One day she may receive response
by someone sensitive to call
someone who walks with such a nuance
that she may indeed perhaps enthral.
But until that time she lies beneath,
between the World and Satan’s lair.
Waiting for that one relief,
that all should know and all might care.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Sara L Russell 6/11/13, 07:56
The baby Chinese girl
discarded from the world
I am she
and she is me
The wife with ravaged face
where acid left its trace
I am she
and she is me
The girl who had to wed
and share an old man's bed
I am she
and she is me
The one deflowered by knife
to live a "purer" life
I am she
and she is me
Come world sisters, unite
and keep your souls alight
like the sun
shining as one.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC