"gorging" poems
#
Each body part
sizzled in pure pleasure
in the blissed wake
of your oral efforts
brought forth the waves
of rapturous delight...
Spurs poetic inspiration
in equal liberation
of desires to please.
Bodies transpose
in fluid motion
as brazen eyes meet.
Savor the voluptuous image before you.
Indulge your eyes in my carnal halo
before they roll to the back of your head.
On all fours
knees between your thighs
tips of swollen breast
caress your chest
tasting fresh honey
upon lips in a kiss.
Ripples of ardor
hover
by wet trails
of sensual kisses
suckling towards
the apex.
Breathe in
the slow motion pace
that pulsates eagerness
to the fore tumescing bulge
leaking with anticipation
of viscous lava.
Tickles of silken hair
against flesh edges closer.
Emerging subtle grumbles
in deep resonance
betray your impatience .
Hands tightly twine
in tangled hair
to maneuver
the treasure hunt.
Licked lips pause
at the sight of fire
burning in
glazed gazes
before engulfing
the throbbing member.
Plump ruby lips
greet velvety texture
in a slow deep dive.
Tongue curls around
the flavor
in a dulcet embrace.
Moans release
as grip tightens
in my hair
settles the
rhythmic pace
to taste in an
oscillating dance.
The masculine aroma of heady musk
lingering there, arouses my appetite.
With my enthusiasm
attuned to
your preferred rhythm
suckling, slurping
surface and dive
in measured unison.
Break of breath
allows tongue
freedom to roam below,
licking, soft kissing
the tender hammock
of testicles.
Tongue and lips escalate higher
to mount another assaulting dive
deeper in the depths
of the cusp in cavity.
Wetted fingers
probe even lower
circling superficially
as gasp escapes
your heavy breath;
flaming eyes lock.
Finger dips in
with expert finesse
gorging hardened growth
within a wrapped hand.
Thighs tighten
with rocking grip.
Head thrusts onward,
drilling forward
in each dive.
Salvia slips
fingers grip
lips dip
Engorged swell, flesh tightens in an intensity
of volcanic eruption ...
HALTS
assault
Pace retracts.
Loosened lips kiss tip.
*“Soon sweetheart, your time will ***
inside me as we surrender to synergy."*
#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
Yeah.
Awake past midnight
An insomniac in a world of sleepers,
Creeps with god-awful
Dreams
Where’re the dreamers?
I see
Empty minds & broken hearts
Carriers of virulent Dark
Our shadows
Gorging on the world
Our souls
Lost in Oz
Praying to a wizard
Who’s a known fraud.
Fracking a
Way to never-was
We who claim to know
Love
Prey
Hand to mouth / hand in glove
The bare-knuckle
Fist
Fights to exist
To matter then still better -yet…
Who in this hell knows?
This place is estranged
Yeah?
Can’t wait to see tomorrow
Now that I’m awake
I Just couldn’t wait…
All I want is
Peace on / for Earth - today!
Oh Gaia - namaste.
So yeah...?
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
we hail from synonyms
replicate those isles of dirt
jagged colossal terrains of earth
which sprouts to scrape
the wisps of pearly clouds
where marble and stone
splintered scorches of gnarled bark
where the soft paws of preying lions
roam within the sea of swaying golden grass
where each stroke of a feathered wing
flourishes the air with its mighty swing
and the threshold of mysterious beings
idle in mischief of deep blue seas
and those salty shores
swallow the iron hulk of ships
and ferocious savages of nature's call
groaning in mourn for her body
her crevasses and pools of spilling
crystal cerulean water
where the malachite moss
sits in stone of endless time
and trees groomed of wind and sun
prideful beneath the drink of the setting morrow
she yearns for the claim of her shape
for the purity of her waters like blood
her parched throat of sandy desert lands
amputated into wells of gorging oil
she suffocates from her very existence
a poison to herself
and as the days wan to a fast massacre
to her own suicidal mission
to feed our negligence
we label:
humanity
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio
Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters
Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war
O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos
And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear
And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street
Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
break me on the wheel
while the wheel spins
argentia road
and all i see are crows
gorging in the open field
and severed cornstalks everywhere
this night
i burned your clothes
beneath the palest stars
to cherry embers for my bed
love, i dreamed of empty graves
and the undivided moon
such a fragile thing
to sigh for the sake of breathing
no more, no more
i am claimed by blood-soaked hands
and my resolve is dead
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
Her beautiful fleece
Glistened like gold
Woven in silk
Like the finest of tapestries
Her open ready smile
Pursed ruby red lips
Lying betwixt two
Soft white ivory pillars
The honey that lay within
Succulent, and exquisite
Freely flowing
Upon my gorging tongue
This well of pleasure
Sated my pulsing tongue
My own lips moistened
At this taste of delight
My hands gently caressed
Two soft buds
That soon flowered
As my lips brushed over them
We were soon
Face to face
As our tongues danced
In harmonies of desire
Like the waves of a rolling ocean
She was like the ebb tide
That washed over me
Echoing my own dance of seduction
I could sense my head
Begin to explode
As her tongue
Created my own delicious eruptions
Tsunamis of pleasure
Ebbed, and flowed
Culminating in a silent scream
Of exquisite ecstasy
Revealing a unique desire
The butterflies of our souls
Our gentle wing beat
Had discovered the nectar, of our deepest desires
by Jemia
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
I hate the word "perfect".
Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.
They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.
Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.
Perfection
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.
Perfection
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.
Perfection
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"
Perfection
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.
Perfection
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.
Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.
I hate the word "perfect".
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
*** for me!* I shout
She flashes her pearly whites
the brightest smile I've ever seen
(She likes it when I talk *****
gets wet off it ... soaking
the streets
flooded in every nook
rivers gorging car tires
thunderstorms are our communion
*** for me!* I shout
and She moans like a god ... boisterous
my legs pump faster now
Her cries are electric
I can't help but feel the jolt
louder baby
She indulges
and I come
full stop at the corner of Broadway & Covert
one day...
She will tire of my obscenities
all my **** you's~
in a final flash She will smite me
and when I reach home
He will be at the gate
crooked finger a compass pointing to hell
*** for me* I will cry
reverent in nostalgia
I will have played the game past the final quarter
still taunting His existence
but I'll smile
content in knowing
that every action has a consequence
content in knowing
that I learned that pre-god
pre-conservation of energy
content in knowing
that life taught me to run in thunderstorms
and the first time I shouted back
I felt enough energy to risk hell for it
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Hunched, gorging on the pain of others
Innocents, betrayed by acts so like your own
For what? Some twisted pleasure?
Denial? Or simply masquerade?
Foul incubus, disguised by pilfered light
An electronic reinvention of your tale
Wallowing, greedily perusing torment caused by proxies
Judas! Betrayer of the Light!
You'll be unmasked
And truth laid bare for all to see
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
Death lies at a bottomless cliff
Gorging the valley till the earth splits
And marrow spills through black haze chatter
Between bones of ancestral desires
His voice came through to me one night
A wisp that seeped past glass and flesh
To trickle deprecation
And lay my fitful mind to rest
"All you are, all you to blame
No innocence
You gorge yourself to death
All you are, all you to blame
No innocence
Where men exist"
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
After decades and decades of distance
I've found you
The sluggish, torturous moments of the laps
have finally passed.
Time has bruised me, pounded me, bled me
to the core.
Hours spent as a pack of wolves,
howling for a soul.
I've hunted, starving in my travels.
Searching for you.
Me, a pack of hunting dogs not just stalking
quietly through still woods....
but bolting with snarling furled lips....
exposing razor sharp fangs to sink deep within
the throat of the love I long for.
Hold tight until the struggling gazelle gasps its last.
The hunt is over,
the heart full from the gorging.
Purring in each others company.
While resting tranquilly on the aromatic clover.
Riffles unable to focus, our stripes blending,
as our bodies merge.
The great cats we are, no predator to fear.
We slumber and bask in our regal glory.
Our cat eyes fixed on each other!
© Crystal Erickson 12/14/07
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
life
does not come from
breathing
alone.
1. to exist: have objective reality or being
indeed, it is the struggle
of life
to discover what
makes us real
or to be a being
2. to exist: be found, especially in a particular place or situation
is it not
the goal
of each of us, as humans
to be found.
in a place where happiness is
drunk by the gallons,
eaten at feasts,
gorging our stomachs:
swollen with happiness
as for me.
i am lost, itching
to exist again. to find my life
i am breathing
underwater.
but
i have no anchor
.
.
.
and
i
will
refuse to sink.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
***The caterpillar is busy doing its job
Gorging away at the leaves
It has the duty to grow rapidly
Chrysalis gives it a new identity
A beautiful butterfly comes to life***
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
*Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?*
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
talent --
that double edged sword or
sleepless dove with derringer wings
the ability to break yourself open
let others look inside your chest
and find the notorious self-doubt
pimpled succulent you keep fertilizing
because old habits never actually die
and the huge romantic idealism
of the old farmhouse heart
with crooked creaking screendoor
white paint chipped windowsill
the enduring softness of eyelashes left there
flies gorging themselves growing fat
from the dishes in the sink and
prickly leg hair still clutching the drain
sentimental tractor asleep in the barn
next to the weak ego rusted crowbar
the ivy-moss growing thick out there
perfect nostalgia really misplaced for
sepia tone memories i was never part of
a heart full of tongues and cute thighs
and backs of knees that i've never seen
lungs under clavicles filled with patient
lovers breaths never breathed
digging deeper with small fingers
for smooth freckled scapula flesh
that has never found warm pink rest
inside my cheap cotton sheets
-- i know that i have some
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.
No normal pangs of hunger -
gorging beast within my face.
Heaving it up in sacrificial abjure,
a rejected fall from grace.
An act of complete surrender -
heavy pressure in my chest.
The beat continues beating;
Yet I fear it will arrest.
Mirrors turned to enemies;
A smile turned to grief.
A day without ingestion
becomes a dangerously sweet relief.
Abandoning dreams to disappear -
affliction taking hold.
Imperfection sought to fix, with
restricted weight controlled.
It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 1:15 AM UTC
You’ve tamed the beasts -
my lovely Lord -
the twisted troll
the chucky doll
the banshee keening on the marsh
You whipped me to the temple
(they say you were too harsh)
these cravings flame insatiable
a harpy gorging fatty flesh
i ****** the thorns into your eyes
and cackled as they bled:
behold God’s raving jest!
then found you loved me best.
like wild waves and wind
You stilled at Galilee
such savage ache and violent lust
You lull with tender potency
once more a child
quiet, wide-eyed
my head rests on
the Master’s knee
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
1:12:25 9:20am nyc
Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended
feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly
all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty
so,
***Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being***?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
Tales marketed at the edge of all existence,
formulated by mass hysteria
and poverty
spit from the grinded ideals of our fathers
but our fathers were twisted and aged-
but our mothers,
our mothers
whom were convicted as the criminally insane
and held at a lower standard
knew the future,
they knew we would crumble,
that we must crumble.
For it has been predicted since ancient times
that mankind would fall
but the fall was blamed on Gods
and those of a higher power
because they could not believe
that man would wound himself,
slowly poison himself until he drags
his black and blue skin across the lands
and eats all he sees,
gorging himself till he bursts
and drowns our cities in his impurities.
Funny,
built like monkeys we are fools,
but more to the liking of our pink skin
we are pigs at heart
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****
(for the glorious M.F.F.)
Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden
all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.
We never able to make up
our minds whether we
liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.
Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating
the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is
the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."
But despite being armed
with this knowledge I
pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...
lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.
Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when
summer hath no ending
and everything was only
a beginning
and there was such a thing as
leprechauns' *****
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC