"grinds" poems
Collab, collab! Oh thoughtful collabs!
Amalgamation of two unique minds,
Merging of dual thinking labs!
Cerebral workshop of life's diverse grinds!
Collab, collab! Reinforced true!
Melding of minds and honed crafts,
Mounted up with bolt and *****
Assembled solid in monochromed poetic drafts.
Collab, collab! A trend that's trending!
A fad that now seems ever growing...
Each other's style we will be wearing.
Matching ensembles, yours for the liking.
Collab, collab! More of it please!
Ocean of creativity, pearls ripe for picking,
Journey for two across artistic seas.
Wonder who with next I'll be swimming...
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Stay here
when everything says run.
Stay here
when the jaw grinds shut.
Stay here
when the breath runs thin.
Stay here
when you're out of your skin.
Stay here
when the drink calls quietly.
Stay here
when the voice says spitefully,
"you're not enough"
because
when it comes to this stuff,
running feeds the fire
and true healing requires
staying here.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
Sitting here,
wishing she
were here,
In this chair-
on my lap,
straddling me.
Choker on,
wearing a skirt;
pink lace thong
Hair combed long
no shirt on
tats; jet black lace her back
Gently kissing her neck,
she slowly lick her lips,
But, the rest is
all mine...
Her soft skin
rubbing against mine
goosebumps run up her hand
then scatter through her spine
Thin *******
turning me on
intensely
I need her energy
immensely
Her senses
sense me
her scent
attracts me
The rough material of my jeans
Rubbing against her ****
Buckles your knees
I can feel it
The more I move
the tighter she squeezes it
the stare in her eyes
is her invitation
to my demise;
I have
arrived.
Moaning
as she grinds,
absorbing all her vibes
rubbing herself against my thighs-
Leaving her wetness as my prize
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 7:42 PM UTC
I danced with the devil by the deep blue sea
he injected his venom into me
he waltzed in looking handsome and slick
I didn't know his poison would make me sick
I saw a white dove the devil turned it black
then I knew I could not turn back
the devil held me in his hand,
as my blood dripped in the sand
the devil he has many faces,
appears to people in many places
the devil he plays many games
the devil he has many names
sometimes he'll come with a smile
and your mind he will beguile
sometimes he'll come with a frown
that's when you know your going down
he'll hold your soul in the palm of his hand
as he grinds your ashes into the sand
I am the Devil remember my name,
you may know me as ... CRACK *******
(c) P Skez and Mandy Rigby 16/06/2014
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
Dark hair tied back.
Blue eyes pointed front and center.
Tats two on her back and shoulder
Black stocking satin strap.
Knee-high; hard to measure.
High - heels they just climb forever.
Spread thighs hypnotized his eyes.
Deep breath watching her chest rise
Wide eyes she looks posterized,
long strokes that disappear deep inside.
Deeper sighs I can feel the vibes,
nail marks across his chest,
blood dried just follow the X.
Move slow make her want it more,
said wise speaking from experience.
Handcuffed cause she likes to be a deviant.
Lips sealed, around his **** like she’s practicing keeping secrets.
Hair tied back cause that’s how Sir told her to keep it.
Legs wrapped around his waist, at a right angle, so Sir can reach it.
open wide like Simon says, She reacts so, Sir doesn’t have to repeat it.
Firm grip on her waistline, but there is no wasting time.
Twitching hips, tighten his grips, as she whines,
in joy of the loving being deployed.
Toes curled the pleasure can’t be denied.
Slip slide the more she moves the harder he grinds,
smooth ride the way their bodies coincide.
Deep ****** they combust, as they collide,
come inside her, like a gentleman,
he gives her, a piece of his mine.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
A VISIT TO THE DENTIST
The Green Mile to
The Chair
The snap of hygienist’s latex gloves, then
Scraping, scritching, spitting blood
“Only one” gaping hole
no matter how much chocolate I eschewed
in favor of chewing Trident
(I’m *******
The Dentist
My personal Olivier, and I, his Dustin.
Needle. Lets it set in.
The drill, the smile of the sadist
squealing torture, my mouth on the rack
I CAN FEEL PAIN
but it comes out, “owiusmmorsoss”
(“ow, I want some more shots!”)
Another shot.
I press on: “LA. The 70s. I did more than this for fun.”
Reluctantly, another shot. And another.
As the drill grinds and keens
I pull out my secret weapon – how could I forget?
This is why God
invented the IPod
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC
Her
naughty secrets.
She never,
keeps them private.
The lust,
the thirst,
the desperate
urge to ride it.
Her wetness,
drooling down her leg.
She smiles.
Now,
her legs,
divided.
Such a
beautiful sight,
provided.
She wants it -
so badly;
her body
can’t hide it.
I want it.
So badly.
I lick my lips,
as I,
slide inside it.
Her wet *****
so warm,
her moans,
as I pump,
she grinds it.
Three fingers,
make her ***
And when I use my tongue,
the eruption inside,
coincides,
between her thighs.
Now her stockings
have a run.
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 5:53 PM UTC
There’s this cold, saturated emptiness
That lies within me
Buried in my heart
Protected by the warmth of my veins
But all it takes
Is a ***** to its shield
A blow on its roof
To explode
Envelope my glee with its demons
Blinds the light
grinds contentment
the satanic hug-
I call depression
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Sweet as pipe, sonorous as violin
Wicked as a snake, ill-mannered as Bedouin;
Laziness creeps in secretly body within
And remains there undisturbed and akin.
It is seen when duty or slog does spin
Grinds us till in others found Lenin.
But that is a bad time as made us thin.
Hence precaution must be taken, O Kin!
Laziness, a Bad King, should not reign
Over us from beginning to let out jinn.
Of all vice in the world under discipline
Laziness – a Curse - is like a Saccharin.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.
(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.
but in thirty seconds
i crash.
i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.
i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.
and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****
Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.
my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.
these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
Just disappearing
isn't possible
when it takes
so long for
a rock wall
to erode away
The wind
is the only one
that sees you,
and its silence
grinds down
from the inside out
a mountain
too high to climb
It's hard to forget
swelling words
spoken under the breath
of the voice of silence,
when your hands
are lined with all
that they ever have;
still bearing
every latent piece
that breaks off
tryin' to keep
from the sight
of another
tempest storm gale
moving worlds
So I'm going
way outside
the edge of the inside;
crossing over
way outside the lines
covered by gathered
windblown life fractals
Though I may not
get back in again,
way outside the lines,
or I might not
even want to ...
you can’t go back
the same way
you came,
everything changes
while you're gone
even if you DO notice
Gravity pulls
with the strength
of a turning tide:
you can try
and fight it,
but you can't stop
its running downhill
looking behind
your eyes, trying
to take you back
the same way you
went way outside
the lines ...
Jesse
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
I am Bear Lady
and you are Toucan Man —
Fur and feathered backs
against a striped tent.
Cut-off like tickets,
crowds melting Dali-like
in the distance
from crystalline eyes,
frozen in time…
Wings graze skin and
fur can’t compete.
The electricity of
our eccentricity
is freakish,
yet with every touch,
I feel less like a freak.
My history
of hoop jumping
tightrope walking,
and captivity
dissolve transparently
as I search deep,
deep,
deep,
into supernova eyes —
they outshine
this circus life,
this love for applause,
the performance inside.
As I gaze into
frozen pools,
the broken chords
of carny music
da da da-da-da-da drown.
The morning quiet,
muddled coffee grinds
are sensitive and silent,
chilling me to the soul.
Earth, a peripheral,
to pupils that absorb
mine full-force,
until I can’t see
this galaxy anymore,
save green starbursts,
my light source.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I feel lost at times,
Like I'm losing my mind
Everybody else letting loose,
**** dropping, pill popping
'Booty' on pelvis grinds
Joint sharing, sniffing ******* lines
Unemployed but still no one has time
Everyone is commited,
But nobody knows why.
I feel lost because
The education system taught us
Mathematics, English
And a bunch of other stuff
But not how to apply for a job
Behave in an interview or
Maintain and mindset
That actually gives a ****
How our voting system works,
Whether we elect our leaders
Or if the system is really corrupt
So was it enough?
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
the glass spice jar of rosemary sits in the corner,
bait to prying fingers and
warm dough rising.
a set of hands banish her from her home,
open her up to greedy senses
and hearty-moans.
and then suddenly,
her graceful throat tips,
grinds of rosemary fall into buttered flour,
and she settles around moles of dried cranberries,
specks of shimmering sea salt,
and passionate, cherry pink fingertips.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
banana skin salad in
artificial lemonade
peacocks salivating
mushy rooms belly aching
Oreos are okie dokie
ocean breezes open up me
analyzing any eyes
evaluating coffee grinds
a manifesting apple in me
apple in the Snapple leaking
sticky salamander fingers
static on a broken speaker
attics over broken theaters
salmon eating taco teachers
teaching choco taco preachers
preaching at Chicago creatures
opal rings and oval things
are focusing on yodeling
a social need for opening
in total global offerings
and in a soup or telephonic
happiness in playing sonic
gently speaking thick Ebonics
sickly tonic
Let's be honest, boys
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
In the Boondocks of the Ozarks
Salty caramel smelt of August
Swathes stench of rotten trailer parks
Imprisons barren mid-west dust
Feral fevered kids a hunting
For to cool; shoot up, or drink
Arthritic railroad; tie and shunting
Ferrous old town wretched on the brink
Since the cease of mine and logging
Depletion of iron lead and zinc
Nag horse too dead for flogging
Folks futures draining down the sink
Some respite in the summer heat
RV’s; tourists and campers for trails
Like blackfly plague pick off the meat
Fly fast; escape as another harvest fails
Dark currents pepper darker mood
Intolerance grinds in the daily way
Resentment bread as only food
At someone’s door the blame shall lay
In the graveyard of the Ozarks
Rednecks dance on industry tombs
Burn brown smoke spice. Moonshine sparks
Oblivion; no life. Back to mothers' womb
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
She grinds her worries up with the rest of her troubles
Rolling them up into a leaf double the size of her middle finger
Exhaling the pollution of the world back into the atmosphere
Suffocating the population with a final
**** you.
She grinds her hips against the flesh upon his lips
If her release is the time bomb
His licks are the ticks
And she drags him to her mouth with fistfuls of hair,
With one final kiss
She swallows his despair.
The night doesn't always have to seem so dark,
There's day light somewhere.
Even with the lights out
The sunshine of her smile
Illuminates the answers to his prayers.
Head bowed
His neck crucified between her feet.
He finds God
Belly button deep.
He takes her to infinity.
He takes her to nirvana.
Tomorrow, she can continue to **** the world
If she wanna
But tonight
He's inhaling the weight of the world off her persona
She places Jesus between his lips
Holy Marijuana.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
2 am and i can't sleep
wide awake too tired to weep
funny how feelings
can make you weak
it's a long road, rough and steep
just hope i find the peace i seek.
people are so sweet and kind
if only they could help unwind
the tortured ropes within my mind
could help me break
the chains that bind
only God can help me find
bless'd release from this
pain which grinds
carrying a sack of stones
is no weight to bear alone
it will break my very bones
i want to cry, but will not groan
what I must do is clearly shown
i must be humble and atone.
i've got a message to be spread
been writing vanity instead
when all is done, all is said
when pretense is finally shed
is it truth or lies i've fed
my fire, in truth, is almost dead.
try and understand, my friends
no matter what the current trends
this path we're on
has trech'rous bends
the broad way winds
the narrow wends
but all paths DO have their END.
though i have been torn apart
it is time for a new start
strength comes from
the peaceful heart...
(c) soulsurvivor
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Nothing is as beautiful as the transformation of the human face.
The journey of a smile as it licks at the lips and dances into the eyes.
The adventure of laughter as it opens the mouth and tickles the throat.
The reclusiveness of sadness as it travels down the cheeks and wets them with tears.
The intensity of concentration as it furrows the brow and quickens the breath.
The turmoil of fear as it flares the nostrils and grinds the teeth.
The restfulness of sleep as it closes the eyelids and brings relief.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Ode to sincerity
Unlike a candles flame
Wrath contained,
Dissipates not
but
grows and gains
Wrath contained
A brick in a washing machine
A moth in a closet
Wrath contained,
A plant growing
As Providence's Gardener is perpetually hoeing
With a deft hand doubt's seed Wrath is sowing
Wrath contained,
Is Suffering's Yeast,
To its expansion there's no end
The closed mouth is an open space for Wrath to bend
Sprouts of hope Wrath's malice fends
Away and blights
With its bligthening might
Grinds light to dust
Creeps under the plant *** it must
Break in the foundation it may
Once cheery now morose
Day-by-day Wrath dissembled its host
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
someone notice
i'm wearing this little black dress.
want someone to see my lace set.
need eyes not a compliment.
someone feel this.
lets slow dance
grind my hips.
pretend that its pleasant.
grab these thighs
get aggressive with soft hands and slow grinds.
make me feel that first time
'i'm high' sigh tonight.
someone notice
i put on this little black dress.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC