"exhibitionism" poems
.*well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman ************ or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.*
in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
i moved away from
fine art nudes...
found an alternative
outlet....
https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5
i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...
it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...
who the hell needs
****** glory-holes,
******** crap?
pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...
**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
**** is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...
m.i.w.i.l.f.
mom in waiting i'd
love to ****
who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***
****** *****
who said we would turn the
******** avenue?
oops? for not being
adventurous enough?
adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***
******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...
i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
In your Sillouette,
Painted Gold, against Magic Curtain.
This Oz Stage, Hiding our bodies.
I am lingering.
You are gilded beautiful
Bare ******* pointed at Chandeliers
****** Capstones sealing perfect Arches
I am a foot protruding from your sculpture
In mustard.
I am that blot behind your Hip Bone
Cold Draft from the window
Opened Opposite the Magic curtain
A breath of ocean waves
Our bodies casting illusions
In ripples of Moonlit fabric
Dancing around our sillouette.
Black Moss collects in the shape of your tattoos
Silk screen thighs,
Underbust Corset
where the breeze whispered
where my fingertips wrapped your hipbones.
growing where we Calloused
In our Roughs
In our trenches
Rubbing Leather against Silk
You invested in our common interest.
A mirror, Fastened to the Ceiling.
Reflecting Our Two Loudest Vices.
Ownership,
And your body.
I love the Chips in your paint.
I hate the man who painted you.
infected by Tunnel vision Voyeurism
Sick with a Spiderweb brain
Spinning from your imperfections.
You are so, perfect.
Artists come from all over
To watch the magic curtain.
Your Golden arching Back.
My Mustard Toes.
we all look at you,
even you look at you.
we do not Blink.
Just stare, position ourselves.
behind this curtain.
Our callouses grow like the black moss
bodies marble under ocean pressure
erode from the chill winds
Your archaic exhibitionism
Carved From Counting Gazes
Mustard eternally pondering
why our sillouettes, different colors
Drawn by the same moon,
Casted on the same cloth.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
I must confess that a while ago,
I wanted to be a superhero, you know,
to blaze like a thousand suns and shout
hello, I’m here.
Yes, you're right, it was a bit pathetic, really,
but you see, I was afraid of being
just another speck
in the swarm of time,
swallowed up and
insignificant.
So now I’ve changed, and
I just want to say
hello, I love you.
Love is incredibly more
incandescent, iridescent and resplendent
than all that hero stuff and blind ambition
and all that exhibitionism.
Maybe my spandex suit was too tight in the crotch,
or whatever, but so what,
I now don't feel the need to be a superhero at all.
Yeah, so all of those old galaxies can spin around
and glow in the dark
and wheel through time
as much as they like,
because I’m doing just fine now,
simply being me, right here.
And anyway, love is much more fun
because love is when you don't have to
wear your underpants on the outside,
like all those superheroes.
Actually, and this is very logical,
because when you're a lover,
you don't have to wear any underpants at all.
Mike T Minehan
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
Insanity engraved in
Exhibition is going on
Madness instill
Paradox of false learning continue!
Nature encores its own functions
So called exhibitionism never inspire
to learn, unlearn and relearn!
So, madness continue
to engraved its own coffer for exhibition!
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 10:34 AM UTC
You are not and can now be totally independent; a vile, tiny worm is making its way into your flesh, like some infectious disease, a desperate, hypocritical attempt to change anything in a dignified way, a completely meaningless, pitiful series of wild instincts that have lost their wings; sooner or later, with quiet indifference, the crumbly lump that obstructs the network of blood vessels with its heavy Sisyphean rocks will just fall off your heart, so that you can prolong your life for at least twenty or thirty seconds.
Every minute, the permanent, indestructible Maya veil of transience floats over your head. Timelessness makes life uninteresting, which cannot be started anew every single day, because secretly everything remains a reflex of your selfish body, an everyday simultaneous. Like a faded, lifeless donkey skin, the pores of your skin also feel the template, the cancer of superficial exhibitionism.
As if not only the Hangman's death, but also the consciousness of loneliness, that you can count on no one but yourself, has been breathing down your neck for a thin life. Knee pain, torturing hemorrhoids, a hearty cholesterol bomb that have taken over your life; from the medium of Time that separates you, perhaps a helping hand will bend down to you, to help you up early, because a gray, old eternal child looks back at you from shop windows.
From the echoing darkness of the underworld, some secret, inner fall will begin, which perhaps only you yourself can understand; existence itself is a jungle, a withered Nirvana-desert, a riddle, which it would be good to finally solve, so that you can know and understand what your task and business is here!
Sep 5, 2025
Sep 5, 2025 at 12:44 AM UTC
the day was spent
posting old, neglected
poetry
& ******* around on
tumblr
listening to eisley
sing about
never growing up
the babe is rocking himself
in the big yellow chair
grinning at me
its so frightening to be someone's
pure guidance
every
day
the husband is cursing at
modern warfare 3
unpoetic
harsh
rude
I'll never understand why
he calls me childish
we don't sleep around here
& when we do
no one is there to hear it
I have bad words on my
tongue tonight
& nowhere to put them
but in songs
no one listens to when I post
them on facebook
I'm addicted to this exhibitionism.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Forerunner asked
“Can you assess how much water is
there in the mountain and air?”
The aficionado of deconstruction said,
“Yes! It is not complicated;
If you drain everything through a conduit,
It is easy to measure!
So, model it and run the model!”
Forerunner enquire,
“Are you going to build a conduit
as a signifier of your existence?”
The addict of ember to exhibitionism replies
“Display the ability of tools and skill you have,
Put up the silhouette and blown up shadow,
Then wreck up when underway to allegory,
Deconstruct, search and measure!”
Forerunner smile and
Stroll away and murmurs
“Everything relative, go by the way of nature “
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
we're still only expanding
on the scenario of
encountering internet chat rooms,
social media is just
a complication of chat rooms,
i.e. you have to show yourself
and relate to people
inhibiting the same kind of voyeurism
you wish to state by
an exhibitionism, although fully
attired, and completely stealth,
and all the many conceivable paradoxes
creating an intelligence of some sort...
but social media is still an advanced
version of hot-mail chat-rooms,
while modern novelists are too
attached to flimsy paper encodings
rather than attached to the pixels of pages
that want change but by wanting change
simply yawn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
This split stick fucksicle... there it goes again, circling the drain...creating a distraction, truth in obfuscation... and, amongst it all, throughout the fall, there it holds, a heavy shadow tugging at her will, distended from an unearthed and then uprooted olive branch...to remain in stasis, and display the prophetic delusions of subversive prophets...who never seem to promote such blatant exhibitionism
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
What's mine is yours
What's yours is only for
You.
You let others see
On good days
What's your Possession.
What your manlessness wants to exclude from the presence of anyone else.
In the crowd you'll sit and taste
With a bittersweet dispair
that "She is mine".
-
Then why do I
Let her
Dance?
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
curated
left myself hanging on the gallery of promises.
eyes and arms outstretched,
ache and need
follow you around the room.
do a double take,
take my few remaining moments
while you ponder
if you could have done something similar, leaving loss under floodlights
to tell a feeling, to rot under public protection.
Jul 1, 2024
Jul 1, 2024 at 8:28 AM UTC
Privacy is a relic
Living vicariously through a piece of blue glass
Shameless exhibitionism, our every move, thought, opinion, judgement, like, and dislike screamed into the void
Demanding validation
While the algorithms tell us what to think, buy and feel we shun reality more every day
Cognitive incarceration
Wake up!
What comes of all this is a chronic dissatisfaction, always begging for more
Hungry ghosts, we will never be satisfied
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
I thought I'd write you a letter
It's to tell you goodbye, even though we've never met
There are so many things we've shared
You've written about all of them, how could you forget?
Prosaic gravity pulled us together
You know you felt it, but to which lonely globe have you fallen?
The air is not the way you remembered
But what you learned to breathe, was the awakening pollen
I want you to know how I will leave you
Your heart will be half what it was, but I will only take the backside
You thought *** was a gift I wanted
So why did I paint black walls black again when I was on the inside?
You can’t answer that question my love
You felt less than a woman but that was because I was less than a man
The mistake was your beauty
If you had only spoken first seduction would not have been my plan
The pilgrimage you made drove you mad
You reveal your sickness because you are consumed with passion
You cannot avoid me my love
You have to give me everything so that you can be full of reason
I made love to you in the ocean
Everyone could see us but there was nothing we could do
I wanted to terrify you with exhibitionism
But instead it's me who has to live with the salt burned residue
Tell me now that you hate me
I know you do, but remember I only took the wall that is shadowed
You feel as if you cannot give again
But he will see the façade I left and believe the field is unplowed
Never ask me why I am the way I am
You could never explain yourself to me even though you tried
Both of us would rather write about it
Than say things with eyes that will only feel like somebody lied
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
What is this mania of over the top
self-absorption that appears to be
running amok, this social dementia
annoying egotism, where it seems
everyone is constantly posing and
publicly auditioning for attention.
Cellphones and Social media two
of the abetting culprits, deluding
the populace that constant selfies
a star does make. Get a blog, be a
celebrity, go on TV? Self-promotion
and crass Exhibitionism has become
a vexing preoccupation. Striving for
LIKES and Followers sending and
Trending, seeking the adulations of
strangers out in the cloud that they
will never actually meet.
What happened to modesty, or
self-restraint? Have we all lost
our minds? When did being an
average normal well-adjusted
human become not enough.
When did humility become
undesirably passe? Are we all
truly that insecure?
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 4:35 PM UTC