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Mike T Minehan Apr 2013
I like a whole lip-smacking smorgasbord of words,
such as preposterous and scrumptious,
sumptuous and curious,
roiling, rambunctious and trumpeting,
priapic, satyric and seraphic,
satyriasis and mimesis. Now this mimesis is the imitative
representation of nature and behavior in art and literature,
which is a pretentious way of trying to say what us writers do.
But hey, we don't just mimic things,
we can be sagacious and salacious, too.
Accordingly, I also like *******, which has a liquid sound,
and I'm not being facetious to suggest that
******* has a close connection to callipygous.
Then, for those who are suspicious of the libidinous,
I also like curmudgeonly and bodacious,
loquacious, precocious and pulchritudinous,
lubricious and fugacious,
scripturient, radiance, iridescence and magnificence,
lissome, lithe and languid (but not too limp),
shimmering and diaphanous, effulgent and evanescent,
flamboyant, fandango and flibbertigibbet,
(although this is difficult to say when you’re drunk),
voluptuous and vertiginous, slithery, **** and glistening.
And when I include crepuscular, strumpet and strawberry,
I may as well add whipped cream
as well, because this can be laid on in dollops,
and dollops is really an excellent word
along with slurping and *******, too.
Actually, I'm very flexible about words,
because in my lexicon, low moaning noises are OK, too.
These sounds come from the chord of creation
which is a sort of reverberation from the time of
primordial ooze, which I would like to squish between my toes.
Then there's protozoa, spermatozoa and also
wriggling flagella everywhere. So there.
But words don't even need to make sense,
because sweet nothings can say everything,
and heavy breathing can be ******,
even rhapsodic, ending in delirium.
Titillating should be in here too, because we all need
some tintinnabulation and tickling of the senses sometimes.
I've also decided that fecund is my second favorite word after love.
Fecund sounds abrupt, but it buds magnificently
in ******* and bellies to burgeon in absolute abundance,
everywhere. This brings me to *******, which I like, too.
I'm also partial to proud words, including bold, bulging and
brazen, along with a bit of swaggering braggadocio.
Then I like some big words, like brobdingnagian,
although I hope I'm not sesquipedalian.
Salivate is a word to celebrate as well,
along with onomatopoeia that helps choose some words here.
Drooling is highly evocative, too,
and it's not being provocative to observe that
even weapons drool when they're in the wrong hands.
And I shouldn't leave out *******, as you would expect,
because ****** is a sort of rippling word
that rhymes with spasm. Both sound deceptively simple,
but by golly, they can be intensely gripping.
And really, it's alright to writhe to this occasion
because all of us writers should endeavor
to have some good writhing in our oeuvre.
Even some bad writhing can be lots of fun, too.
But I almost forgot to mention yearning and burning (with desire)
and vulviform, velvet and venerous.
Yippee, yee har and hollerin' along with other exclamations
of exhortatory exuberance should be in this index, too.
Now. The words I don’t like include no, can’t, never,
stop and mustn’t. Also, irascible and intractable,
unmentionable, ineffable, inexpressible, incoherent,
immutable, impotent and impossible.
Then I don't like importune and misfortune,
and I don't know who thought up unthinkable,
because this is an oxymoron.
Inscrutable is also a complete cop out,
especially when there's no such word as scrutable.
Gawping, gaping, cavernous and cretinous, obsequious,
grovelling, pursed lips, circuitous,
obfuscation and isolation, unpalatable,
cruelty, tyranny and hypocrisy,
should also get the heave-**.
And I definitely don't like parsimonious and mendicant,
which are miserable words.
Quitting doesn't get there either,
and shut the **** up and ******* should also be taboo.
Also, hopeless is, really, well, it's hopeless
because it denies hope, and hope is buoyant and boundless.
I mean, sometimes hope is all we have.
But the word I dislike most is ****,
because this is an insulting word, and
to be taxonomical,
the negative score of this word is astronomical.
Hate is also right up there on this list. Hate is abominable
because it tries to destroy love, and love is indomitable.
Indomitable
is the
mightiest
word
of them all.
Yeah. So there.

Mike T Minehan
II felt good after writing this - it was a bit like purging the personal dictionary in my head. I think all of us could write our own list...
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
This is a beautiful "Barry Hodges" poem.*

Ah, sweet memories of that night in Blarney
In the stout-soaked suburbs of ould Cork City.
How clearly through the mist of alcoholic memory
I recall how we all piled out of Johnny's bar at closing time
****** as a load of proverbial ******* newts;
'Where to now me boys, which bar's still open?'
Shrieked spiflicated Sean O'Shannon
(that's notorious sixteen pints an hour Sean,
the man who won Strictly Come Boozing twice)
As he tottered over to his Pa's new BMW convertible,
Lucky ****** that he is to be son to a Fianna Fáil MEP,
And one not adverse to trousering a Euro or two.

'Sean, me oul' potato, de ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful o' stout
I just seen you put away down your greasy gullet,
Not to mention the quadruple whiskey chaser?'
Enquired loopy Liam O'Lephrechaun as he leaned over
And puked up another gallon of warmish Guinness
Over yours truly as I rolled helplessly in the Ballygrohan road
To the amusement of the gawping bystanders,
Bearing in mind there were a good dozen gobbets
Of half-digested pork scratchings in the froth
Which was causing havoc with my apparel.

So without another feckin' word being spoken
My dear drinking companions and ***** buddies
Left me prostrate and clambered gaily into the waiting car
And roared off into the enchanted Gaelic night;
Singing and smoking themselves silly simultaneously,
So full of the joys of life and the blessed bottle.
And then some ****** stupid American tourist
(doubtless dressed in hideous checked golfing trousers
with a backwards-facing baseball cap on his ugly head,
not to forget his overweight wifey crammed into the front seat
just like a huge white bloated fat-faced hippo),
Came round the next corner in a clapped out rental car
And the two of them got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come
With a terrible metallic crash which destroyed them completely.

'Oh begorrah and *******, would ye just look at the mess
The feckin eejit's made of me Daddy's Beemer,
And it's his pride and joy so it is to be sure!'
Cried Sean O'Shannon in an alcoholic rage,
As he contemplated the largest insurance claim
In the County Cork for the past six decades,
(at least the largest legitimate one anyway).
Whilst I was trying to get my hipster pants down
To avoid filling them up with beery diarrhoea
Brought on by my involuntary bursts of joyous mirth,
(bejasus, 'twas the second time in the space of a single week
and my new girlfriend was getting a bit fussy about hygiene
bearing in mind she was thinking of taking the veil).

How fortunate old Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both (when they'd sobered up sufficiently)
Testify later from their secure vantage point
In the rear compartment of a nearby parked hearse,
(where they were having a ******* with Deidre,
the filthiest wee **** in the whole South-Western counties)
That the accident was not dear Sean's fault at all, to be sure,
As the other stupid sober yankee ****** was driving at 75
On the wrong friggin' side of the ******' street
Or probably in the middle, come to think of it.
'Sure but Sean's the best driver this side of the Blarney Stone,
And there's no way himself would ever drive under the influence'*
They agreed sagely before going off for another jar or two
And maybe a double knee-trembler with Deidre's fat sister,
One up each of her gaping hair-rimmed orifices.
Jurgen Dec 2011
Exotic ladies flaunt their wares
to joe publics wanten stares,
'They' do this to earn their crust
'They' do this out of lust.

In the darkness of the narrow street
the gawping public shuffle feet,
The lights illuminate carnal pleasure
while 'they' peruse at their leisure.

Here is a woman drenched in red
a female who works from her bed,
How did she get here?
Why does she stay there?

A parade of cat and mouse
at the seedy brothel house,
Gestures of blazing desire
fuel the burning ****** fire.
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Kriti Mishra May 2017
Pleat, pleat, pleat,
Fix that drape,
Cantankerous petticoat,
Is all bent out of shape,
The mirror jeers,
That's a singularly inelegant drape,
What are you gawping at,
It's time to undrape,
Watch those ankles,
Stop dancing like an ape,
How hard could it be,
To simply undrape,
In walked Mum,
Her mouth agape,
Laughing uproariously,
Got me shipshape
Steve Page Apr 2021
Long distance gazing
exercises the imagination
filling the mind with out-of-reach thoughts
and within-our-grasp possibilities.
You need to pace yourself however.
Over-stretching can cause you to topple
into sorrow.

Short distance grinning
close up gawping
is bred from appreciation
for the unexpected
and creates opportunity
for shared mirth
and reflected smiles.
Over-stretching causes face ache
and further laughter.
Apparently Jenny Diski (writer) included 'middle distance staring' as one of her pastimes.
Anderson Ritchie Jan 2012
Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.

Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,

When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.

When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.

He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.

the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.

He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.

The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
.
The barrel hit the bottom
with a sound something like 'thwelp'.
The first was a 'thud' on mud,
the second definitely a 'Help!'.
Slim rolled from the wreckage
doing his best to look nonchalant,
and failing.
Its hard to look casual
sprawled face down in the dirt,
a help speech bubble floating overhead.
But he did his best
picking himself up slowly,
no-one else was going to do it.
Remarkably, or not, he was unhurt.

Kelm found a rib-cage,
the remains of a large fox,
and he was delighted.
Do barbarians dream of culture nights?
Kelm had, and he liked hitting things.
He had lost all interest in fishing,
in Bruce, in dolls, in girls,
even with the story he was in.
Because now he was, as stated, delighted.
He had his very own
Ex-why-low-fone.

She reached the bottom
blind panic in her open eyes.
She saw the figure of a man
picking himself up slowly.
“Poet!” she shouted at him.
“No” Slim said off-handedly
though he had a few select words.
“Then … I've killed him” she wailed
“Badly?” asked Slim
“No. Rather well actually. He's dead”.
Then she spied the sword
stuck fast in a rock, at a jaunty angle.
Aesthetically pleasing in fairy tales.
And a tiny figure grimly holding on,
reached up for a better grip,
touching the Green stone in the hilt.
Jerrica and Slim were blinded by a flash.

The tingling increased
and the sword felt power
surge through its length
and explode in a bright light.
The connection was complete.
The sword sneezed.
It knew him, he knew it.
Neither of them particularly liked it.

The moment he touched the stone
he felt the tingling feeling
and he felt the connection hit
like a brick wrapped in wool.
His head exploded in pure light,
the sword sneezed
and his future was sealed.
He felt so powerful and … elastic.

“What can you see?” shouted Slim.
“Nothing” Jerrica replied
“Which way is it going?” Slim asked.
They had sunspots, flash-spots,
dancing on, in and through their eyes.
They both needed a *** ***.
But as vision cleared
a shape, a shadow, a form, a man,
greeted their returning sight.

The poet stretched and kept on stretching.
He took stock, he looked great.
From 6 inches to 6 foot
in a matter of moments,
he had grown up.
He took a look around him.
Jerrica and Slim were gawping at him.
The sword felt warm in his hand.
And very smug.
He was a sword wielding poet,
he spoke.

“I do thank thee kindly Princess.
For being my friend and rescuer”.
She blinked quite a lot.

Her body was telling her what boys were for,
but her mind was really not quite sure,
and what if there was no known cure,
but he did make her think thoughts impure.

Seeing his effect upon Jerrica
he smiled in that Poet's flirtatious way.
She blushed even more.
“What is its name? Slim piped in.
“What?” the Poet asked.
“The sword, what's its name?
Fairy tale swords have to have a name”.

Tink, tinky, ******, tong, tung.
Kelm hit the bones with a stick.
Each cracked bone had its own tone
but lacked volume.
He used a bigger stick
and invented bone-shaker music.
He even became famous
with his own backing band
The Clandestine Trolls.

He held the sword
and asked it its name.
It maintained silence
in an embarrassed sulk.
“Aw c'mon” crooned the Poet.
Silence replied.
“Come to think of it” said Jerrica
“what's your name Poet?”.
That got him right in the logics.
He looked back in baleful silence.
The sword chuckled.

The singing bowl woke up,
aware of the presence of Magick,
it started to gently hum.
The sword started to hum.
With its own resonance
aware of the presence of Magick.

Startled Jerrica stumbled
falling through the waterfall
that had with immense interest
being watching proceedings.
Her arm flailed
and knocked the small plinth.
Jewel encrusted, humming, alive,
the bowl landed upside down
on her head.
And the connection was made.
Tingling Jerrica, tingling bowl.
The sword joined in
with a song of joyful union.
Quick as a flash
Jerrica was up on her feet
smoothing down her attire.
A princess neither flounders nor trips.

The Poet had had his hand extended
to help her to her feet.
She looked and smiled
'thanks but I'm ok' at him.
Their eyes locked,
their hearts threw away the key.

Slim got the familiar feeling of
I don't need to be here.
He looked at the smashed barrel
and thought philosophically
'something to tell the grand-kids!'
He headed for a tavern, any tavern, anywhere.

And our hero and heroine?
Well ..
they lived fairly contentedly ever after.

Except for the incident with
the anarchist fortune cookies …
but thats another story.



© Pagan Paul (June 2019)
.
Finally! The last part of this story typed up and posted.
Please enjoy :)
.
All we are,
delightfully lost.
Is that all it is?
Heading feet-first into sunsets.
Whirlwinds.
We crash, grab,
forget to blink,
rely on breath alone.
Here words tumble in a torrent,
recycle in your mouth
and back out again.
Clichés cannot die.
On a loop,
a worn-down yo-yo.
I roll them out for you
on a goldenrod carpet,
you skip across them
as though they are red-hot coals.

What set you off
like a sparkler in the night?
The sea brings us love,
vice versa.
Waves like mounds of sugar
embrace your torso
in a way I can only dream of.
Camera exhausted
under the weight of today,
puddles of polaroids,
enough to smother the floor.
I smell snapdragons,
candy fizzing
on both of our tongues.
Soaked.

Fade to black.
Your language
is blossom
slinking into my ears.
Wet sand
slips in a mustard waterfall
through our fingers
and I trip over my T’s and P’s.
I’ll keep your smile
locked in my pocket
for black-cloud days.

A triplet of cartwheels,
sticky palms
and panting as if
you’ve run a marathon.
Give it a go…
I try and collapse,
a soppy sprawled mess
gawping at the sky,
before blue eyes
smash into mine
and I fall again.
Dripping.

In-between seconds.
Flaccid strands of hair,
frizzled spaghetti
clings to your neck.
The blonde grenade
I keep writing,
cannot control
but adore to see explode,
catch the thirteen
or more little fragments
of you,
keep them ‘til next time.

When you leave
I can follow your footprints,
mementos back home,
tread where you stood
and exuded light.
We sit cross-legged,
water dribbling over our toes.
I memorise your heartbeat,
you plonk your head
on my shoulder.
Minutes wash away.
Stop the clock.
Written: September 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time over the course of four days, part of my dream couple beach/sea series. Out of all the poems I have written, this is the one I am most proud of, although it is similar to other poems in the same series. It is very easy for me to visualise the beach, the couple and the sand etc. A few pictures and a video online inspired the piece. There may be very slight edits in the near future. Feedback greatly appreciated and always welcome.
Josh Morter May 2013
The eyes are the doorways to our thoughts and hold in all that we see
They can make out the figure of a man in the distance watching as he draws closer
They can notice how he's walking and can spot what's in his hand
They can peer through the trees to observe a crime. They can avert themselves so they don't have to take stock of what they witness.

They can examine the crime scene or inspect it for clues
They can glance across to a colleague whose
gawping at the sky
They can survey the database and scrutinise suspects
They can ogle a coworker and behold her beauty whilst they study the facts and peruse through evidence
They can scan all the records till they see a match
They can look up the address and bring them to the court
They can glare at the perpetrator whilst he gazes down at the ground as he is taken away.
written on 06/05/13 by Josh Morter ©

Got bored and wondered how many synonyms about looking I could write in a poem... Turns out couldn't think of a ridiculous amount. Please alert me to any sights I may have missed out on.
betterdays Aug 2014
dagger beak
and garnet eyes
feathers stolen
from the stormy seas
scalded legs
and gawping mouth

tis
the gull come
to call
with mouth a
begging, shrieking gape
alerting  
the whole **** clan
to clamour and fight
for the measliest of bites

once proud fishing birds
are now just feathered,
scroungers, grifters, ****..
Though magpies they are,
love birds they be.
And oh so, drawn to shiny trinkets.
Content was he,
yet his offerings of humble stolen objects,
that could stop her gawking could not
stop her gawping,
for ill affordable gold.

Though magpies they are,
love birds not quite.
happiness was of material dependance
in particular her new flame;
an open window and a pendant.
She fled for warm jewels
but found only cold steel.
A pursuit for prettier rings
befalls a neck that is wrung,
by bigger predators
with human hands,
and by greedy choices
that shun the real gold in others.
Terry Collett May 2012
I used to be a dancer
during World War 1
your paternal grandmother said

as she sat next to you
on the seat in her
back garden in London

and your grandfather
would come and watch
with his army friends

and afterwards
he’d come
to the stage door

with flowers or chocolates
or just stand there
with that awestruck look

on his face
and she looked
at the flowers

that your grandfather grew
along both sides
of the garden

and she smiled and said
Look at him now
sits in the same room

and says nothing
or moans about the bills
or how the country is run

or the noise of the traffic
by the front gate
and you sat there

on the seat
in the back garden
in your new suit

and with your hair
cropped short
and that fifteen year old

I’m bored as hell look
on your face and you said
Why did you give up dancing

you must have been good at it?
and as you looked
at your grandmother  

with her white frizzy hair
and stocky build
you couldn’t imagine her

as a dancer on a stage
with men gawping at her
especially not your soft spoken

quiet grandfather
who sat in his armchair
by the fireside

in a silent mood
occasionally reading a book
or giving that

I’ve seen too much
of mankind’s foolery
kind of look

and your grandmother said
Well after we got married
I fell for your uncle Fred

and beside I wasn’t that good
a dancer and your
grandfather didn’t want

a wife of his
to be peered at
or have her legs

gawked at
by other men
and then she was silent

and watched
a white butterfly
go by

fluttering its wings
but
she said softly

getting up
from the seat
and doing a small

Can Can dance
the shows not over
until the fat lady sings.
neth jones Sep 2021
grateful to the grave
       I plank right out
my bed a cross pounded
foundation of maul emotion
fast out kipping
not in keeping
a widowing and not a kingdom
              milling out gawping
a fish mug
              tourists chugging at the gallows
dread heaves ugging repulsions
          my sleep is a gagging panic

livers of the hours
   the minutes are a live toil
     difficult digestions
       the sour beat n' breath
a particle flecked arena

   this slumber is harmful charge
(a battery matter)
capable of a faulty
              reversal of surge
depleting sleep
          not a springtime emergence
   ejected from the unconscious

         : a drained agent
reduced and submissive for duty
nivek Aug 2017
flesh on bones
muscle and sinew

squidgy eyeballs
gawping

bikini clad mermaids
men acting like boys

the beach naked
of the tidal sea.
at the back of the shop

   gawping around
   like a little lost boy

     you
trying on a dress

****

     a bit revealing

but not too revealing
and an utter bargain
for what it is
  
   you said

   I see your feet shuffle
under the curtain

Christmas is coming
so I think don’t buy it
   I’ll get you it for Christmas

     your face will shine like tinsel
a gigantic grin
job well done from yours truly

     but you step out
into the light
   body wrapped in blizzard-white

a blaze of lipstick
and my heart

roly-polys

twirl
   gorgeous

really
   yes

     you think so
as you check your exquisite figure
   in the mirror
  
yes yes

   wear it all day
   all of tomorrow

oh my
   steady now
yes yes
Written: September 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, similar to recent previous pieces which focus on small, almost trivial events that can cause a smile. A link to my Facebook writing page is on my home page here on HP.
NOTE: Many of my older poems will be removed from HP in the coming months.
Sin Dec 2015
Have I told you how my words stop
At the opening of my mouth
And my heart feels like time has ripped it out
When I look at a picture of you

I can't cry at the feelings I have inside
Just sitting there gawping at the now
Holding tight everything that I had
To know you left me on pain

Did it feel exciting with him
Does he know how your neck likes to be kissed
Or that passion needs a gentle hand

My face is streaked with tears you gave
Now falling upon the photo of what used to be mine
So many questions I have for you
But the biggest is

Did love just get up and find the breeze
To carry it onto another heart
For all my world I gave you
And all I'm left with is
Nothing
John Bartholomew Nov 2018
A light that shines when all others are out
That midnight treat, an escape, a desperation technique
Conversations with an immigrant whose stories are bone chillingly scary
Now keeping tabs on a fridge full of Solero's just wondering if his daughter escaped the screams, the gunfire and if she's now unknowingly buried
The drunk arrives, ***** now gone, gawping at the top shelf
Tried it on, alone tonight, 2 minutes with page 7 just might help
Dome roundabout, A41, a place to stop, from Harrow to Tring
Filling up on a Wednesday, hoping the same man isn't now serving
Air in the sky now 50p to fill the tyres that let us travel
If it wasn't for these rubber soles our lives would be stuck in gravel
But you're hungry and are willing to pay the price for a Ginsters roll
No change for the bridge named after our Queen, how dare they give it a toll
It stands out bright that expensive castle on the hill
Ten pence a litre more to fill the car but hey, you just want to get home and your willing to foot the bill

JJB
I go to church every Sunday, which is like going to the gas station once a week and really, really filling up - Anne Lamott

It's a pipe dream, but for me, I've always wanted a Tesla. I would never have to go to a gas station -- Maren Morris

I just like people. I'll hold a conversation at a gas station. It's not about the fame and the fortune, I just like people - Lionel Richie
Aaliya Jul 2017
The sky prevailed,
Once so cerulean and clear,
Like the droplets of every tear,
That ever descended from the face,
Of the Syrian race.
To now be so full of grey, motionless smoke,
Is the new up rise
They look up with disoriented hope,
As they attack whilst passing by.
Syria, why do you bleed?
A country so worn, so torn
Ruled by a ruthless tyrant
Syria, why do you bleed?
For the media, the money you feed?

As blood filters the once fresh soil
That you lay upon
The roots are scented
With the flesh of your warriors
The flowers bloom
Their petals red
The stems so vividly green
Intricate patterns dotted white
With a fate so black
Like your flag
But then it is demolished
The strikes rain down
A kind of rain that nature fears
Nothing to offer
But gawping mouths
A rubble-ridden house
And last words.
Flying upon the grounds
With the force of hate
Resisted by nothing
This is their fate.

Bodies now lay upon the surfaces
That they bloomed from
Yet again to be suspended
For burial.
No memorials.

This which seals the providence
For those who fell in this political trap
And yes, all they are destined for
Is eternal mishap.
Travis Green Nov 2022
I wanna be in your breezy bewitching universe
See your scenically sweeping scenery
Teeming with transcendently tantalizing divineness
Enthralling and sparkling star boy
I love how you shut down my vast striking playground

Capture the vernal spectacularness
Of my lush, wondrous feminineness
Be the smooth, seducing ruler
Of my lovingly made kingdom
Command and romance me

Make me jolt when you stroke
My sensitive, sensual spot
Feel me reach out to you
Wrap my bare satin arms around you
Feel my fingernails claw your magically broad back

Grab your prodigious potent ***
As you push your flawlessly destructive
And illuminating shaft deep
Into my sleek splendid innerness
Take me to more extraordinary destinations
Beyond your blazing skyscraperesque captivation

Make me embrace your contagiously
Engaging splendaciousness
Inhale you deep into my lungs
Let your crunkness stun my sizzling hot buns
Solid smooth finesser
So fantastically fresh and self-made megastar
With the keen swift motion

You got me seeping into a brilliant
Million streams of your rude and nasty passion
Coaxing and thrashing pleasure
Deep, unalloyed joy
Unequivocally aesthetic and treasurable *** king

I feel so close to you
When you build blissful, thrilling dreams within me
Be the young and energetic architect
Of my magnificent and prolific land
Look into the seamless limits of my gayness

Make me breathe heavy
Make me shudder more than ever
Confound me, pound me, guide me
Into your sinuous supreme wildness
Sing crazy loving R&B to me

Toy with my core
Let me see how you get down
How you grind in my insides
Mesh me with your moistness
As you lick your tongue

Make me so ******* thunderstruck
Constantly gawping at your piping hot
Game-changing machoness
Tatted up sumptuous thugness
You tug at my heart and soul

Rotate my inner space
Face to face, you ******* away
With the breathtaking sight of your nakedness
The way you make dangerous overpowering magic
With my ****, compelling ***

Groove like a brutal true G within me
Make me meditate on the rhythm of your frequency
How your remarkable bomb-proof body
Slithers like a slimy sneaky, and gigantic python
My rocking romantic warrior

I exalt the drawing power of your suavity
Boy, you knock me down
Got me feeling like an insane, deranged hoppy
While you groan on and on
Give me unspeakably wicked feelings

Make me hunger for your roughness
Feel your manhood do ultimate feel-good damage
To my creation, feel you glaze my gayness
With gobs of your hot, juicy **** sauce
Travis Green Dec 2023
He is such a **** beast
A hunk of succulent meat
Juicy enough to eat up
To succumb to
To love on and hold on to
Locked in his macho arms

Gawk at his broad muscles
His bare, seductive ***
Magnificent tattoos
He doesn’t know how bad
He consumes me

Has me so hooked
On his rhythmical movement
When he peruses my innerness
With his thick love stick
Rams me deeply

Kisses my back
Holds my shoulders
Makes my head spin
Makes me beg for more
Drunk in love

Living for him
My love rod dripping precum
Feeling his spit
All up in my passion pit
Making me weak
With his fiery, delicious kisses

Make every part of my body moist
Torment me, plunge deep
In my dimension of decadent sweets
Feel his tornado of action-packed heat
Vibrate through entireness

Control my motion
Make my toes curl
Swirl my world
Make my ***** bounce back on his magic stick
Draped in his sweat
A slave to his handsome sexiness


The way he forcefully ***** me
Makes me never wanna run from him
He has me so sprung on him
Gawping at him as he conquers
Every inch of me

Make me moan sensually
Feeling the freak in him stream through me
Give it good to me
Keep that big *** **** inside me
Claim me as his irreplaceable treasure
Hold my throat, slap my exquisite *** cheeks
Beat it up; make me erupt
Cover me in his explosion of incredible bliss

— The End —