"doorpost" poems
My sister never had any boyfriends
which was quite surprising really you know
because she had a nice pair of knockers
and a very cute little **** on her
but never once a gentleman caller
came knock knock knock on her friendless portal.
So I asked her what was the ******* score
that no butch lads wanted to part her bush
and whyfore was she not barking for it
in a vague manner of ******* speaking
and she told me to glue my keen peepers
on her keyhole the next night to find out.
Thus I knelt down before her bedroom door
my eye glued to the appropriate hole
with a full view of her "sleepezee" bed
on which she casually lay spread out
legs opened like a major T-junction
and then her friend appeared to my rapt joy.
I gasped in wonder as her lesby love
straddled my **** sis and gave her tongue
a good chance to lick out her womb entrance
causing me to indulge in self-abuse
as their eager mutual ***********
gave way to some red hot ***** action.
(I hope they didn't hear the noisy splats
as I squirted my lovejuice onto the doorpost)
Good taste, eh?
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
•••
"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
*and obviously,
no forethought,*
firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low
smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness
is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?
t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!
for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?
my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series
every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost
ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition
on some days I love you more than others
•••
p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"*
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
her languid face stirs slowly
from its lines
and within it harbours an echo of alarm
as the thoughts like distant thunderstorm that rises on the sky
awaken within her
fleeting moments chase each other across her eye
each one bearing the weight of meaning a little further
than the last until the final one gasping
and sweating it lay its burden to a fitful rest
on the doorpost of her denials
like a blood stained accusation
like a scarlet letter
she greases her hands to the task
and works muscle and bone against the tide
but it is a idea birthed in folly
it is a concept of true lies
harrowing tales regaled around table
of men who strove and men who wept
thouse who slipped benith the waves
with desperate plea sent forth having failed
and thouse who triumph plays over and over in old age's eye
but none were ever told
that did not bear her tainted signature
ink and sweat in fine carved lines
on her dusty limbs
she now sees that she too must one day face
fates indifferent game
must one day choose
and risk all at the hand of chance
her hands greased to the task
her true lies shatter resistance
break stone
tales to regale tonight of the maidens
ink and sweat delicate lines
on her ***** dusty limbs
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
The door was ajar to a pokey room
All gloomy and morbid inside,
It gave off an air of despair and gloom
Not joyful, befitting a bride,
The couple arrived as I wandered by,
But she with her eyes on the ground,
While he simply glared as we passed on the stair
As if to say, ‘See what I found!’
I wasn’t that curious back in the day
For couples, they came and they went,
Those pokey apartments so full of decay,
They’d be better off in a tent.
But these two had stayed there much longer than most,
She rarely came out in the light,
And he placed a padlock from door to the doorpost,
Whenever he left in the night.
Whenever he left, and he certainly did,
He’d leave her in there on her own,
Though where he would go, I now think that he hid
For sometimes I heard the girl moan.
I’d feel the floor shudder, and hear the walls creak
While out in the hall it would whine,
And I would go searching, like hide and go seek
To be sure it was nothing of mine.
One night with a rumble behind their front door
I heard someone dragging a case,
That terrible screech on the lino, at least
In that something was dragged out of place,
Could that be a trunk, was he doing a bunk
With her body to sink off the coast?
I called in the cops as I thought she was lost
And they blocked the door off, he was toast.
They opened the trunk, took the padlock away
And that’s where she was, true enough,
When they questioned him why she was locked up inside
‘She’s a penchant for travelling rough.’
They said did she mind and to this she replied
The woman, whose first name was Joyce,
‘He showed me the padlock and said it was wedlock,
I thought that I had little choice.’
David Lewis Paget
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Aremo my Love
The thought that fills my smile
Fairest of the good bachelors
that exist in the land
Though many young virgins
waited long to see your face
but end up being deceived
Out of lust, the virgins
of the Land had thrown away
The fort you committed to us
Many defiled out of their
Impatience and convetiousness
Make haste my beloved
I look patiently
Looking intently for your coming my Love
Though my heart weakens
And it doesn't look easy
Yet I'll find it easy
Out of my passion for you I'll wait
My lover I'll stay in there
Else I'll be defiled
With my foes vain speeches
Waiting and looking forward to your coming
For I know it's near
Constant mockery rocks my mind
Friends and foes firing at me
Waiting...
Till I see your glorious face
Shine its light into my darkened
and tired eyes
Till your hand touches me
I'll stay till day break
Till the shadows find no expression
Around me
Until I feel the blessedness of
the weight of your presence
Tables beautifully set
The hour to walk
Graciously to the banqueting house
with my lover draws near
For I know the voice of my lover
It is sweet and sounds good to the ear
I will choose to deafen my ear
to the voice of deceit
Many waters cannot quench it
The fire of love burning deep inside of me
They sit at my doorpost
Liars and defilers
Thinking I'll be drunk
Drunk with the wine
which will carelessly pushed me
out of the chambers
I'll rather be drunk
excessively drunk with your love
The Prince of persia and his aides
Stalk me with vain words
but the sound of your coming
Keeps my heart at perfect peace
My beloved, the sacrifices of your love
I'll overcome
Your love for me is enough
to keep me waiting
#AfricanThoughtsCollections
#Waiting
#JustThisTime
#NoteToMyBeloved
#WaleToke
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
She comes and looks deep
into my eyes
Her beautiful, majestic eyes
mesmerizing me
There she stands on the doorpost
waiting for my move
I take her hand into my hand
pressing softly
She takes off her clothes gently
to the last piece
There she stands in all skin
in all her glory
She offers me a rope and
stretches her arm
She is bound for me
there she waits for me
Warm
Exhilarating
lifting each other
Blindfolded warriors in a field
fingers
tongue
soft lips
Our weapons of love
and our bodies
our shields
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
To find you is to not find you.
Even if I walk the earth from end to end you aren't there.
Even if I had the ears of all the world, your voice will not be heard.
You rode on a bus I can never chase.
You dived into a sea I could not sail.
Time is our chasm and time is no longer our friend.
The leaves of my home can't fly to yours.
I sent you a million letters but you did not reply.
I stood by your doorpost but you never opened.
Your lights were already out when I came by.
How long will you hide?
When will you come back?
The streets are gray.
The sky is red.
The colors will wait forever.
There's no artist like the one who's gone.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC