"frequents" poems
She frequents here most weekend nights,Big **** long kegs, freaky appetite,Her eyes scan every inch of the club,Wet *** all hard and ***** to hell with love.She licks her lips, and warmly, her other lips respond,She sees her prey and grins at knowing this night will be long,They stroll towards her knowingly, they are the lucky ones,She straddles one, while the other mouth makes her come.Moaning ***** words, and writhing, her **** are bouncing freely,Two on one's her favourite, it makes her come so gleely,Her wet tongue finds something hard and veiny, she takes it in her mouth,Her stroking slips and slides make both guys moan and pant out loud.His ball sack dangles over her, she's begging for a suck,The other's fingers enter her, she loves a finger fuck,Her mouth fills up with pleasure juice, she comes onto his fingers,She licks it off, but takes her time,intent to make it linger...
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
Over-born and too-
Bright for us treacle-bound.
We'll lay sections
Before us--
But I'm stuck-with-
Sasquatch oaks; --ginkgo golems
If only clouds could lift
The moon which frequents
Venus-speech at night.
Needless for dormant-- endings
We've been untwisting,
Thoughts trapped tightly
In rules-
And it's us again,
That can see or forget the darkness,
When keyboards and pens
Tame the light.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
I know a writer
She seems like quite the fighter
her arms and legs are covered in scars
But her eyes are so full of stars
I know a writer
Whose future couldn't be brighter
that always seems so sad
Or maybe just a bit mad
I know a writer
Who couldn’t shoot higher
She always looks up on her strolls
For the sky holds all her goals
I know a writer
Sleepless over her typewriter
She often falls asleep in class
But, she has a smile that could cut glass
I know a writer
Who frequents the overnighter
Sleep to her is a foreign ideal
She knows not how it can heal
I know a writer
Who is quick to tire
An hour or two
It’s ever so true
I know a writer
Who's not an outsider
So full of compassion
She runs with a faction
I know a writer
And she's kinda a whiner
Loud and proud
Much like a storm cloud
I know a writer
She's nothing more than a cipher
With her secret codes
Hidden in all of her odes
I know a writer
Who couldn’t be nicer
Always smiling at strangers
She's a real game changer
I know a writer
Who fights like a tiger
She’s stronger than most
But she isn’t one to boast
I know a writer
Who bites like a viper
She can be malignant
But only if you’re distant
I know a writer
And this may seem minor
But her vivid imagination
leads to the beauty of creation
I know a writer
Who couldn’t be wiser
With a heart for spoken word
Though she’s often left unheard
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
(Mark, xi.17)
Thy mansion is the Christian's heart,
O Lord, Thy dwelling place secure!
Bid the unruly throng depart,
And leave the consecrated door.
Devoted as it is to Thee,
A thievish swarm frequents the place,
They steal away my hopes from me,
And rob my Saviour of His praise.
There, too, a sharp designing trade
Sin, Satan, and the World maintain;
Nor cease to press me, and persuade
To part with ease, and purchase pain.
I know them, and I hate their din;
And weary of the bustling crowd;
But while their voice is heard within,
I cannot serve Thee as I would.
Oh! for the joy thy presence gives,
What peace shall reign when Thou art there;
Thy presence makes this den of thieves
A calm delightful house of prayer.
And if Thou make Thy temple shine,
Yet self-abased, will I adore;
The gold and silver are not mine;
I give Thee waht was Thine before.
1.4k
Its commensal, at best,
This house fly of a guest;
Who frequents your home,
Alits on a chair,
Rubbing its hands together.
It shows no regrets,
Feeding, slurping and buzzing,
With a self-made bequest.
I can tolerate a bar fly;
A barn fly, a sty fly;
But,
I've the bottle fly,
That plunders my fridge,
Swarms over my beer
Like a blood-thirsty midge.
He's a house fly,
And ignorant,
So fly paper won't do.
I need a SWAT team to shoo
This house fly adieu.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked
and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked
she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist
get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said
yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said
she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster
hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist
I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed
windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked
the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door
and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here
wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing
then widening
ok
she said
can I go?
she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer
than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother
took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape
what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying
her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things
from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped
the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******
she said
I see
I said
unsure
what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes
gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said
pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok
I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke
hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate
from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune
I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:17 AM UTC
I dream a reoccurring dream
One that luckily frequents
I walk into a little dive bar
It smells of smoke and whiskey
I sit a table with three gentlemen
They happen to be outlaws
These aren't ordinary outlaws
They are the men that set the bar
There is the Man in Black
Next to him is good ol Waylon
Next to Waylon is No Show Jones
These men have seen it all
I sit down and order a glass of bourbon
They treat me like an old friend
They share their stories
Imparting wisdom I could never imagine
From the pain, the woe and the happiness
I take a lot with me
They tell me not to go soft
Stay the course, be who you are
As I finish the bourbon, I shake each of their hands
Giving them my honest thanks
I am an outlaw
And I hope to fill their boots one day
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Last night too came the demon
My sleeping face he held on stare
Pierced eyelids and had me thrown
To the darkest abyss of nightmare!
He enjoys the way I shrink
As he cruelly muddles my dream
Makes a quicksand for me to sink
Claps in glee at my woeful scream!
He turns turbulent the serenest beach
Rides me up the scariest cliff
His stretched hands always out of reach
The master that he is at mischief!
The demon frequents my nights of late
Himself going sleepless for the fun
Innovating new terrors ‘neath blanket
Conjuring fears where there’s none!
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
E-mail sent from Heaven
Written on gold and silver stone
Contents
My people have gone astray
to each his or her own way.
My Brethren is texting all over the land.
the lambs and sheep continues to be
slaughter by man.
As the undocumented skilled workers
watered the neighbor lawn
while the master of the home video tape ****
neglecting his family in his home land
My creation has disappointed me tremendously
evil overpowered the good in man
therefore, no ending to this horror across the lands.
The popping sound of the firecrackers,
or was it the sound of DSM thirty four
rose to the heaven
the arch Angel sound the sirens
Man down, man down,
as the scream echoes in the airwaves,
another mother son lay dying
due to street violence,
Black on black crime
white and black catastrophe.
an frequents outbursts in society
by idle hands of a youth insanity.
The window are eyes ,
as it quickly closes its curtain
to a life uncertain.
so
its fades into a slumber.
building fear into the heart of the citizens.
Suffer the fool gladly
that he or she might see
the destruction of their ways.
CEASE FIRE ON STREET VIOLENCE.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
Only he can wear this crown
The woe that pulls and holds him down
A life without, a life with shame
And only he may hold the blame
A door once shut can ne'er reopen
The portal sealed with those words spoken
A path he frequents and walks through slowly
A friendship formed by suitor lowly.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
A little old man ordered an extravagant ice cream sundae. Glasses, striped short-sleeved collared button-down (outdated). I watch him as he eats it with a peaceful and innocent contentment. I can't help but smile to myself. He noticed me looking. He couldn't care less. He is himself; he's done with dreams and ambitions. All he needs is his ice cream sundae. I wonder if he's lived here his whole life. And now he frequents touristy places to avoid the familiar turf that evokes memories- or perhaps this is his turf- so much changed that it no longer produces bittersweet nostalgias. Tourists come and go.
I wonder what he thinks about- if it’s highly intellectual or if he simply dwells on his now-empty sundae bowl. Better the latter. Why dwell on the oddities of life when all you need is ice cream to make you happy? What a blessing to be old and happy; to care about nothing but your ice cream sundae. But what a tragedy that all we do in life is search, and in the end, all we were looking for was dessert!
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Succulents and decor,
Meticulous cleaning, more friends.
Swiping crazy on tinder,
Online shopping, expensive skincare
Ruminating on what was once there sitting,
In suspended reality.
Where were the parents? That child is
dead now.
Locked in a haze, trying to forget
What a let down we’ve become.
That’s just how it can be.
**** that really blows.
What you thought was flush,
could just be bust.
Watching Disney + shows,
Toes the color of a mood.
Brooding about the future,
And saving the cash.
Cooking up and meal prep,
A meditation streak
you’re scared to break.
Excessive napping and
rubbing ten out on Sunday.
Dealing with small men,
eating like a champion,
taking a bath with an enemy
then do it again.
Avoiding all your frequents,
Picking up your phone calls,
singing Doja lyrics in a commute.
Drinking away the anxiety,
Staring at the tv,
Covered in twenty Sherpa-
You’re gone and I want to stay high
But I’m settled in an empty room
with self care books
I hope this time it’s a womb and
not a coffin.
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
His name is William
Just a boy
A perfect stranger
Who even after meeting, I retain now knowledge of
Except for a name
And a face
Not just a stranger, but a best friend
I think of him
I feel his effect on me in an almost nostalgic euphoria
As if imbedded in memory
I experience the sentiment of moments never shared
Reminiscing our friendship never realized
I don't know him
But we know each other completely
He recognizes my ways
Adapting movements without force to mine
Being just William, for me
An individual with a head to imagine
A single body to interact
Without hesitation he considered me-
A girl with no known purpose in his life
This indescribable man, he lives honestly
And he remembers that he, first and foremost is a man
Practicing human nature
Feeling emotion
Considering others in all realities
And utilizing his mind to better understand others
Thinking before thinking
He frequents fantasies, just like many
But keeps his life amongst the living
With no imagination to smooth imperfections
But he still interacts with shadows who present themselves willingly
Looking past their movements before
And treats all equally
As their living, breathing, feeling selves
I trust William
And don't care if I am wrong doing so
He's seen inside me with glazed eyes
And opened them to look at me
Considering my thoughts and feelings voiced many times before
Never manipulating in his favor, and never dismissing my views
He sees me, Alice
He heard my words in his hand
Unvoiced scribbles spelling thoughts
If he didn't agree, he never shook the letters off
He sees me living
And with that solely in mind
He turned his head, with body not brain
And shared a smile with feelings and heart.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
Below One-Hundred Frequents,
Rattle,
They disturb my soul,
Rolled off,
Pushed away,
Drawn back,
With an introspective grin from ear to ear.
Penetrate thoughts with,
Waves of sub-aural patterns,
Trample them with raised rhythmic textures.
Wind down,
Breathe in,
Dark and let them permeate.
Twenty-Seven Frequents,
Stir my balance,
Nauseate the brain,
They flush the dance floor iridescence.
Nine Frequents,
To tremble the cage,
Until marrow sings.
Five cracks the walls it held,
Shatters the casing.
Two builds the pressure,
Pushes red through the glove.
And One is the,
Lub Dub,
Lub Dub,
Lub Dub.
Sound is a Lifeforce…
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
“all dreams are relevant in varying degrees to the life of the dreamer…they are all parts of one great web”--from man and his symbols by carl jung
the blackhole parking lot
the pool table at the bar
the despised dentist chair
the airplane that frequents underground tunnels
or the ocean with its killer whales.
you pick up the spike that sits in the lot at the gas station
to save us from the unspoken crash.
you handle the wolf spider of pure snow
climbing your thigh in awe.
you gaze wide-eyed as
the dentist tortures your teeth with pliers.
you stand by the shore as the whale vacuums your brother up like a dust bunny.
you transform the plane into a dive bar so
passengers don’t notice when you go down.
you watch the first bite in the cherry tomato:
the teeth settle into the plump yellow flesh
fangs puncture the skin & seeds become flees--
you watch it again & again, in slow motion, on repeat.
you walk down the aisles in the grocery store
under florescent lights, the canned goods explode
as you pass, a blackbean rain, no one cares.
but the ladies in line for blackberry pie
squeal when you forget to take a number in line.
and the partner that just dumped you says
he didn’t mean it when you agree to a date and
look down to see you’re wearing your pink fuzzy bathrobe.
share the closed-eye visions,
the untold stories stick to the web
of the collective subconscious.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
From the depths of my soul
My most reputable
source of information Told me
to keep it real
but the reel's spinnin' Towards me
and the fact of the matter
is a matter of fact
the laughing stock
is just a toy warehouse in the back
and these feelings are just feelings
and it's clearly appearing
that merely believing
is healing the cracks
Sanity intact
Man it seems that that alone
Would satisfy my manic past
A lapse of judgement
Frequents me
So let's adjust the frequency
Muster up the decency
To face it head on peacefully
Turn another leaf for me
To at least get through this evening
So I can focus on just healing me
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
It's a bad dream..happens any moment
...late summer, or...early winter...
...suddenly, you're among unfamiliar faces,
....or places...in a strange island, where,
a cloak of confusion spreads...thick,
to the skin, to the mind, it sticks...
eyes gape, in fear...in panic...
there are only questions...no answers
those that had been asked, seem unasked...
.......
a moment of normalcy, a calm...arises,
...as if, you've woken from your bad dream
a bliss, that is momentary...because
....at the back of your mind, lurks,
a phantom fear...of the dark dream
setting in once again...of getting lost again,
alone...floating through the waters of oblivion
........and it is not known, when the waters
.....again, would clear...
........
this dream comes on and off, it frequents,
....up to a point...when yesterdays vanish
you're on your own...afraid...isolated...
.....what happens tomorrow when
your eyes meet with those of your loved ones,
would there be a spark? make you remember?
in that dream space of strange faces and surroundings?
why do you attempt to escape?
where does that urge to flee, come from?
why do you want to go unnoticed?
do you feel abandoned? are you hurt?
do you recognize that feeling?
.......
you struggle...and in brief moments of clarity,
your eyes ask the questions.......in silence...
"will i ever wake up from this nightmare?"
.......
It's a dream that can happen
.........in the late summer,
or early winter....of one's life...
Sally
Copyright April 24, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
#npmdream #nightmare #oblivion #alzheimer'sdisease
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
the oscillation of anger and you
frequents my day my night
my fuel injected gut muscles
my rocking back and forth rhythm
and limbs that squirm and writhe
-pause to drink-
hit and wrestle this day down
and it is up again flinging desire
and **** you where are you
all over the moon and the sun
and this desert of and this desert of
-pause to drink-
enough of my brain leaps out at a thigh
nails on a red table cloth snag moments cause chills
powers flow through my thoughts and laugh
the laugh of old certainty on new foolishness
i am renewed in my stupidity of aim vs landing
vibrating rattles clanking down some mountain cliff
-pause to drink-
keeping keeping keeping
arms in hands close parallel to myself
not, in this case, me not in this case anyone
is grinning and gripping and grinding steps
and you are out there circling something
with something lit and sizzling ahead no matter ahead
-pause to drink-
i am behind the sound has moved on banging
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
I don’t know when the alarm goes off, but when I come after lunch to get my books it’s probing, pulsing, beckoning through the dorm. It does not fluctuate like mine, which crashes and recedes-waves on a wall. It chips away at my sanity with the reliability of the aorta. I lose a sliver each second I am not crushing the power button of the dorm clock. I cannot be the only person who frequents this hallway during the day, or can no one hear its grinding wails? What Lucifer enthusiast set this alarm when no girl should need waking? I cowered today when I heard it seeping under my door, this immovable constant in my life. I believe now that it only sounds for me. Maybe I have forgotten something and this is the sound of it struggling inside a mental prison. Maybe one day I should let it ring, and ring, and ring, until I wake up.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
I wonder who you'd be
Without your misery
You say you want a better life
Reaching for a happier day
But will it leave you with less to say?
Who you are and who you want to be
Are separated only by your plight
What becomes of a soldier after the fight?
Tearless you, when it rains
Can't let go of your pains
Falling hopeless, you won't change
Beneath your fear you are curled
I wonder what you'd ask of the world
After you'd had freedom from your chains
Would life be the same with no one to blame?
Or would you crack without a cursed name?
Bliss should help you to soar
Could you even tell anymore
What it is to be happy?
Yet laughter frequents your face
Has your heart ever truly left that place?
Where did you hide the key to that locked door?
Lost in the darkness of your misery?
Why is your own happiness so hard to see?
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 1:58 AM UTC
She frequents an air-conditioned room with cabinets full of years,
And other forgotten things.
She rests her elbow on the desk, and her head on the brick wall behind her,
So often that she doesn’t mind that stupid switch plate anymore.
It’s quiet, but not really.
The door opens like a floodgate and drowns the space in noise.
(a high school band room, no less, what is there to expect?)
A room four paces by three and a half suddenly holds the world's orchestra
And it’s terribly necessary—
that sound of simultaneous trumpets and clarinets and dreams whatnot—to dissuade her mind from caving in on it’s own cacophony.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC
*She hangs the memories of what could of been back on the crooked shelf
Once a silence reigned where now the roaring of lions frequents her moments
To have to hold to free to let go to live to die to just be one self in a chaotic stage play
Hold her hand a while
Trace the veins which feed her soul , mind and body
She is not perfect
But somehow close for all her faults
You should of took it further
She would of held you for a life time
Fear is placed where humans dare not tread
Your eyes swim with confusion
She can smooth the waters if only you could slow down
She has the music of mermaids and the power of the shaman
You let that go at the dark hour when you stopped and forgot to breathe
She held you there
Then you turned and walked away
Head held low as you fell in love with others who only brought you to your knees
Years passing
lovers come and go
She holds a small corner
Not in wanting but in yearning for
Not in yearning but in a knowingness
Once she loves she never forgets the taste upon her tongue
Pass by
Walk on
Head low
No more tears fall from these eyes
Love is gone
Now all there is a selfless understanding of belonging to one self
Connections blocked*
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
Deep in the crevice of cozy cosmos,
Swirling around the big ***** enmasse,
A glowing globe of fire amidst aloft,
An earthly sphere spinning time its best.
The starry crowd watching and winking,
The crazy clouds clashing and flashing,
Moonlit fare is lovely, cool and strong,
Oh, the cosmic game is splendid far and long.
Tell-tale telecast frequents ultra-high,
Beaming across the ethereal sky,
The sportive spirit sponsored it all unknown,
Here we clamour to bring out well known.
The ever-invincible powers that be,
All out in space know not where to be.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
They have it in for you and me,
Ingeniously
they have found a way
to have their cake and
eat it every day.
But it's not about them.
You and I get by and together
we can fly away.
In the summertime and the washing's off the line, we can build a kite together and perfect weather for floating a dream downstream.
I watch as the clouds realign and see a sign and a warning as more clouds and storm clouds are forming off the starboard bow.
How do they manage to eat all of the cake?
It's the frequency that frequents me and brings the news of home, news from friends and family, tears of joy and tragedy on the frequency that frequents me.
I turn off and tune in and soon all is forgotten
except for them and cake and I have a stomach ache.
You and me and two into one go on because it's not about them,
It's about us.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC