"ejaculated" poems
While we lay in bed
Your arms in mine..
Our eyes softly gazing into each other
Our lips met with a gentle touch
Then, they part... to invite the warm swirls of our tongues
Gentle kisses, Gentle tongue fights
My hands, caressing your soft skin
They seem to run .. in search of something
Slowly, our clothes peel off
And skin on skin, we kiss on
Your legs part,
I move in
I got hard,
You got wet
It was painful at first
When I first penetrated your fortress
When I tear down your walls
But,
Rocking and moving
It turn into immense pleasure
With a final ****** of love,
I ********** into you
Warm, and wet...
Our eyes met again, and gaze soften
We bask in each others scent,
Cuddling under the warm blanket sheets
Sealed with a kiss, on the lips and your forehead
Your arms in mine..
We made love under the moonlight
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"
I informed him.
"boy," he said, "that's getting it
cheap."
he meant ***
listening to it
I always imagined three oranges
sitting there,
you know how orange they can
get,
so mightily orange.
maybe Prokofiev had meant
what my father
thought.
if so, I preferred it the
other way
the most horrible thing
I could think of
was part of me being
what ********** out of the
end of his
stupid *****
I will never forgive him
for that,
his trick that I am stuck
with,
I find no nobility in
parenthood.
I say **** the Father
before he makes more
such as
I.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992
6k
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
⊙
*Luke 12:49
“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!”*
This wasteland, desolate vegetable garden
No crops will grow, no sun will shine
No cool breeze to clean the air
of the smell of decomposition
Just dead things, the decay of man and dreams of hope
Which my black boots stomp on
I walk the ruin in silence
I walk past a monster sleeping by a tree
Turning, frowning
The monster is me
Its eyes are as red as judgement day
As red as the faces of the condemed
Those who stare at the 144 000, wondering if they are worthy
As red as the blood ********** in this ancient garden
This is a battleground
Oozing with pain, pleasure, splendor and misery
Even if Pythia already circled the loser's name in bright red
Allowing the victors to trample holy ground underfoot
Before they disappeared
But me
I stood here
Feeling all feeling being drained out
I walked past a monster weeping by a tree
“Everything good must come to an end,”
Mystery says
Pursing her lips
“And so must everything wicked
But the memories
Those which encircle their victim
And slowly tighten like great snakes
Suffocating their prey
Those last forever
And if those memories last forever
Then how can one remain pure in heaven
Without thinking about sin
Temptation must surely creep in
Poisoning the mind until it is consumed with the idea
Who is pure anyway?”
I know she is lying
(Turning)
But her words are surreal, slurred, seductive
(Frowning)
I look inside my heart to reassure myself
(Turning)
There is hope
(Frowning)
But there’s nothing there
(And the monster is me)
In the vegetable garden
A ruin
A wasteland
I stand
Not really existing
⊥
⊣⊙⊢
⊤
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:07 AM UTC
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion
Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency
Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams
Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions
Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled
In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
********** with the intangible essence
To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance
Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
I remember the first time I **********
I thought I was having a seizure-
or that I had somehow malfunctioned the Matrix
and had broken through
a fold of reality;
some white-noise ladder to greater plains,
throbbing, animal convulsions,
and a peak that only death
could overpower.
I remember crashing into shame
upon my return, versus the smug welcome
of oxytocin and my adult life;
not knowing to what extent
my ***** would dominate my mind;
you know, I cannot write a poem
without noticing my loneliness,
all the ******** I have left behind.
For that moment, in my New Found ******
I was paralysed at the thought of a sober life,
and ever since that moment,
ever since that night,
I have been searching for those higher plains
in the lowest branches of myself.
Now I smoke my fill and redden my eyes
to bleed out old anxieties,
dry up old tears whilst softening scars
that I have collected over years
spent indoors, hiding from danger.
I remember the first time I **********
how it came to me by accident,
a repeated motion of unknown emotions;
the undulations in her breath;
even now I still sit by myself,
and make love out of whatever is left.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
we can't take back words
we have already been ********** !
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 5:38 AM UTC
*And what you'll find is, your highness
Can paint a picture that is vivid enough to cure blindness
- J. Cole, January 28th*
And because they have never before seen a naked soul,
they ask me
if I am being deliberately provocative
with my pen.
And then I paint.
So that they too can undress
that mental amnion that has cocooned them
since birth; which itself became still-born
as it was followed by an undying funeral
of parental expectations.
And then I paint.
So that they too can reclaim
that aborted clay and mould their burial
into gestation, and shatter
their amnion coffins
from the asphyxiating breath of non-existence
to the respiratory lust of Being.
And then I paint.
So that I too can remember
that I am they. A victim
********** into the darkness of lost light,
dreams deferred at birth;
who still focuses his pen on this canvas
to cure his own blindness, to see
and paint his naked soul before me,
which we then call Life.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Little Bow Peep
Told everyone she had lost her
Sheep
And didnt know where to
"Find them"
She had slaughtered them
All of them for
Chops
&
Kebab meat
And sold the wool to china,
Little
Bow
Peep
Told no one of the secret
She so secretly did keep,
To why the sheep had gone missing
Killing any and all from finding.
She was a
Chick
With
A
****
And had a fetish obsession of the sheep,
She was meant to looking after.
Peep Merrily nailed each and
Everyone of them,
Not
Once
Not
Twice
More like half a dozen times,
Sometimes cuddled up with
Her **** still inside them.
So when eating
Chops
Or
Kebeb
With chips, if tasting a little salty,
Then Little Bow Peep
Had slept with that sheep
And ********** inside them.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Adios England's Venus flytrap
May you ever overflow inside our rectums
You were the ornament that inserted itself
Where spunks were pelted to pieces
You ********** in the open air to our promontory
And you squirted to those inside ********
Now you reciprocate to Abraham's *****
And the black holes crack spew out your barber's pole
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never drooping with knobs on the cherry lips
When the ooze congeal within
And your smells will always regurgitate here
Along England's juiciest blast—offs
Your cigarette lighter's exploded spew out long before
Your whiff ever go the whole hog
Voluptuousness we've jiggled
These frenzied wombs of time needing your clenched fist
This lava lamp we'll always get pregnant
For our breed's fair—haired brats
And even though we have a finger in
The clean breast seduces us to moistness
All our foghorns cannot ****
The ecstasy you stimulated us throughout the age groups
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
When did I become a ******
I lost my virginity somewhere in between,
Random one nightstands...
And drunken ******
Virginity lost so long ago
Can't even remember why I lost it for
Now I find myself on the delivering end
Of some woman who tommorrow,
I won't even be remembering
I don't want to be misleading
I actually have feelings for these women
But it seems to get ********** at the end of each meeting
Than they just become another notch on my belt,
Which I guess is good
Because it seem like the more notches I get
Seem to prove my manhood
When did I become a ******
Maybe it was in the 8th grade,
When I got addicted to ****
Or when I got to college,
And it became so easy to get a drunk female,
To my dorm
When did I become a ******
When did *** become an addiction
Maybe in high school when all the dudes would brag,
About females they than hit
And I just got tired of listening
So having *** became a mission
When did I become a ******
I guess somewhere in between,
Losing my virginity with my first love
And the women I slept with last night,
Just because
When did I become a ******
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
Look into my crimson eyes, they despise the suns glare,
they prove I am not human, and certainly not mere.
My teeth are as sharp as daggers and as white as an albino,
their unrelenting force is not to be matched by anything less than a rhino.
And speaking of force I have one unmatched,
t'is the sheer power and might of my **** thrusting thine ***
If such a force could be measured it would be dubbed unstable,
last time I got it on I shattered a table.
Its sheer size would frighten most men,
but my father and uncle... they could fend off about ten.
I tried it one night with my brother in song.
His body was moist and his tongue was so long.
I slipped my sweaty hands through his crack,
and as time progressed I started fondling my sack.
I ****** him hard and broke through his ******
i'm getting ready to show this guy my full spectrum.
As we continued our adventure I felt something sublime,
I tried to pull it, but it felt like I was wasting my time.
But then it happened, I pulled with zeal,
and what hit the floor made me hunger for a meal.
T'was his prostate it felt ever so soft,
I ********** on it and licked it all off.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
The paint is chipping, the Christmas tree shutters hanging
Green on gray, brick stoop and twin column mouth
Opens to creaking stairs that made sneaking out commando work
My room made your favorite shade is gone, death to ugly orange
I used to think of it as my laboratory, safe haven for exploration
And abstract cultivation, I bled my innocence into the floorboards
There are still fist-sized holes along the stud that I detected
Remnants of the games I played and the four that I connected
The basement is still damp and dreary, the wooden cage for laundry suspended
At the bottom of a chute that you told me was the tomb of a curious girl
My weight bench, secondhand and mixed pounds with kilograms
Living in sin, vowed never to be defenseless training endless
The attic lends its hospitable hand to trapped bird and cobweb gems
Quarter-circle window kept by chain hungrily swallows smoke
Shelves packed so tight with yellowing knowledge and petrified wood
That if spiteful spark made love to
Musty air and
********** embers, I would never make it out
Déjà vu as backyard grass soothes badtripbitch with tingling tips
Of leathery flesh, ready to be buried and wormed in its bedbox
Overwhelmed like militia in failing keep against advancing hordes
Until nature’s handsome sprouts remind me life is beautiful, always
The trumpet vine grows hideous and spiny, roots reaching deep
Settles in its site and survives all assaults man-made
For a blink during the year its vermillion nectar tubes take flower
The hummingbirds find love outside my window in their bloom
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
I feel no pity...No remorse, nor shame...As i put them to the stake...
Hanging them up by their necks... setting their bodies ablaze..Grinding their ashes between my fingers... before mixing them with my supper.
Am i depraved? Am i what remains.. when the blood of dreams have spilled out of me....
And the darkness took shape... giving birth to despair...
And with its birth amidst my blood and urine.....I also ********** all that humanized my soul.Such is the fate of the slaves....I feed of them to sustain myself a little longer...
A sad comfort i find within the tomb of my hollow shell...The rancid smell of their burning flesh brings me back to my inner battlefields..A fading flame of humanity has all but illuminate the way back...
Am I to be dragged upon the altar and submit myself to the thralls?I feel the lash carve open my flesh and tearing my muscle..Nothing but muzzle flashes as i faint from sight..
Awakening at the sight of flesh flies feasting on my festering wounds..I am consumed alive amidst the filth and dirt i left behind...And am exposed for the maggot i am on the inside....
My consciousness evaporates into the faint smell of burning flesh...
Drooling with ravenous hunger.. I gluttonously gorge myself and snarl at the hand that feeds me...Like the ghoul i am... I drool at the sight of the master throwing his dogs a bone...And if he wants me to roll over and play dead...I shall not doubt nor neglect....I will submit myself to his will.. and undergo the bereavement of my innocence.
Until I blossom like nightshade...and reach my full potential...
And i will be burned as incense and my ashes processed in a final supper for all to consume.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
Human Maggots
If ********** *****
From millions of seafarers
Over hundred years
Think if this floating loneliness
Had met up and formed
An Island
And up from its depth sprung
The unborn like larvae
Whose only contact
With mothers were what
The ******
Was dreaming of at the time
Not Atlantis re- emerging
But an island born out of tedium
And tired desire
Not on a chart
To find its existence
So be careful when dreaming.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
afterparty mingle in a single bedroom vault wincing ceiling slopes so low condemning matter dance to fumbles and more penetrating life forces gum-balls into stressed room couple and squirm over into the crawl space hazardous music and metallic humour is pushing risks and insult no being is out of place pouting the smoke and store brand alcohol routing and deafening and defeating too much the gagster comes thundering down the corridor like he was wrought for applause he addresses those outside the room and it's wagging dogs and a face of cartoony ballooning pep it's hard to handle the wash of wording an assault of enthusiasm jester baits laughter with an old polaroid camera slamming open the door all tension his way he presses the button and projects them all against the walls 'Flash ****** ! ' he squells throws aside the camera 'People Pile!' he thumps into the crowd bed begging a play fight baroque girl hugging her knees crammed under the small sink to the side of the door reaches out a nervy hand and takes the discarded camera watches the ********** photo paper fade in slow retch her own pose lone excluded soul separate and saved she leaves with souvenir
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 6:22 PM UTC
When I was
seven years old
I crept down our stairs
in the dark
it was just about midnight
on Christmas Eve
and I
wanted to catch Santa Claus
as he put presents
under our tree
When I was
fifteen years old
I laid on his bed
in the dark
it was in the evening
during the summer
and I
nervously waited for him
to shove his *****
inside of me
I hid
near the fireplace
anxiously awaiting an arrival
hands clenched into tight fists
giddy with anticipation
waiting in the dark
I spread
open my legs
feeling pressured and defeated
the TV blared so that
his mom wouldn't hear
my hands clenched into tight fists
I didn't want to touch him
but I
waited in the dark
I didn't see Santa Claus
instead
it was my parents
shoveling presents under
our tree
my verbal exclamation of shock
and betrayal
led to them disciplining me
for sneaking around
in the dark
I didn't look at him
instead
my eyes wandered around
his room
gazing at the guitars and
posters and
the closet and
even the TV
he ********** and
left me there, cold
in the dark
At school,
I told all of my friends
that Santa Claus wasn't real
I wanted everyone to know
the counselor pulled me aside
and said that it wasn't fair
for me to take this
from the other kids
it wasn't right
it wasn't my place
"Let them stay innocent
a little while longer."
I didn't want anyone to know
when I lost
my virginity
tears bubbling at my waterline,
I looked at myself
in disgust
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't his place.
Except there was no counselor
for me to speak to
only the sound
of water droplets
falling
as I cried in the shower
I thought that
I lost my innocence
when I found out
that Santa Claus wasn't
real.
But
this IS real
and hurts
so
much
more.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
two suede secrets
*a blue violin plays instrumental come-ons with flamenco hints,
various pleasures merge, a three lane highway becomes a
county road with slow and steady the unposted speed limit
I am well and full accompanied and accomplished*
and I am alone
*my hands laurel my temples, my head is crowning,
laughing from the pleasure given to me to give to me,
snare drum solitary keeps my time, my two palms say psalms,
guttural and cultural, my emissions, emptying my commissions,*
and I am alone
*a-poem came with this morn to mind, and pleasure me, it did;
music and flesh, words and tissue untested but harmonizing,
hands prancing on strings of sterling silvered guitar body mine,
shouting glory glory, am risen am fallen, salved, soothed,*
I am alone, refreshingly happy, my poem **********
*and and and
both of us will die in due course, dead unread, alone together*
3/17/18 9:05 AM
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
Amillion steel pin ****** divine
each day closer to death we climb
crystal shards bejewel the sky
While
The Cities beneath me
Kicking and crying
But all I hear is goodbye
-
Unreason not able
Why are these ****** Not stabled
Just wanderin
Thru this fable
stubbed my toe
on your god of stone
That litters this river
We all flow
So
Let’s dance in this
Technicolor bliss
And never ending showers
of little lead gifts
human disinfectant
for where the slime live
Where the slime live
-
Broken bones remind the soul
of the all violence that’s been sold
All the while racing toward
that ever after
We once called home
No more
boiling jealousy
envious bedroom eyes
hideous tongues beguile
Thick salavatory lies
Lifeless imbeciles
Revolving doors
carnivorous smiles
covetous masturbators
**** Gazing while
Justice is **********
Coming a little premature
Serving our just deserves
oh my libertine
How I loathe to
See you In chains
If their speed is good enough for 6 yr olds
Then it’s safe enough for me
HEY!!!!!
I want my! I want my! I want my
methamphetamine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
-
I got too many middle fingers
Shoot straight from the cuff
Humans might lose the race
Oh well, close enough
Outlawed truth and reason
But here, I just took a dump
Never waste a good crisis
My Re-elected incumbents
Gotta Fill Them Prisons
Protest prices ‘cause
Dollars fill the fists
Along the streets uprisen
HEY!!!
Whats the policy on returns?
I’m just not happy with this
Oblivion
-
broadcast opinions
Regimental TV
Coerced confession
global stupidity
Yes, I’d like to report a hijacking
0f another species
Endangered or
Polluted at best
Just Don’t forget to breath
Oh yeah, you’re dead
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 6:45 AM UTC
He expertly probed my aching hole with his massive tool
Making my mouth water as his fingers parted my lips
Then filling me roughly as my Tongue tasted his skin
My screams echoed as his tool ********** leaving me
smiling
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
Within the violence of my mind
I lost myself one hundred times,
Plagued by dreams of religion.
Born into ********
Cursed to mourn ten thousand souls—
I ********* softly.
Born of scorn and torment, riven;
Concubine of limp derision;
We merged as one with eternity.
Pain is mine— remain withdrawn;
Centuries cry weep-weep from war;
Mass graves of rigor mortis drift;
Illusion binds this godless rift.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 6:29 AM UTC
.
And the waves crash down on a distant shore,
as worlds collide in a dramatic final encore,
a panic birthing universe, the original sacred chao,
bellicose suns carve furrows like a plough,
seed stars ********** from the maelstroms core,
illuminating that which was not there before.
The universe is a cell inhabiting a bigger store,
a microcosmic component born and newly restored,
internal explosions of chemistry creating divisions,
warping space about ideas, moulding time's schisms,
imagining life as the accident of a misplaced spore,
as the waves crash down on a distant shore.
© Pagan Paul (24/02/18)
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 6:38 AM UTC
The tree still stands
Where he kissed May
Mitewing that summer.
Dead now or dying the
Tree, but stands like a
Landmark to that kiss
And time and all that
Followed. What had
Happened to May after
That summer he couldn’t
Say, she went east with her
Parents, her old man some
Big Wheel in the business
Circus of things, and she
Tainted by what they did
After the kiss, the hay barn
**** and she panicking
She’d missed a flood, but
It all came well after a few
Days later and he having
Sweated that out in his
Room, felt relief come like
********** ***** He looks
At the tree now, remembering
Where once green leaves were,
Broken fingers and arms of
Branches are. He places his
Hand on the bark, senses
Where her tight *** was
Pressed and how the lips met
And he putting his hand on
Her waist, loving her young
Girl tongue taste. He has no
Idea where May is now or
If she lives or is dead or if
She remembers him and
The tree and kiss or hay
Barn romp, just touching
The tree, feeling the rough
Bark and wood, brings it
All back, all memory now,
Where they’d once stood.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
A quickie in the kitchen
I’m quite a normal sort of person Ì do not steal and
only lie with passion. In the house, we lived in there
were two flats on the second floor, a lady rented a
room and we shared the kitchen with her. Yes, it was
not a place where the middle classes cared to live.
One day in the kitchen I was fifteen and kissed her
I put her face -down on the table lifted her left knee
on a chair pulled her pants down and in it went like
a knife in an over ripe melon I quickly **********
a geyser of ***** ran down her legs she burped ale
grabbed a kitchen towel- her own – drying her legs
We did this every afternoon till my mother caught us
in the act and hell broke loose. I fled to the communal
bath-house which also had a swimming pool and stayed
until closing time. At home mother sat reading, she
looked up said I was disgusting. Five minutes longer she
said as to herself and with that woman!
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC