"gropes" poems
*Blue clouds gaze the wrapped sun
frozen kisses in my blood
travelling a thousand miles
to meet up with you.
There is none else walking
down this path where memories
wake up and dance
inside my armored heart.
I peeled off each kisses embrace
out of my parched lips.
I shook off the tree,
where your scent had blossomed.*
***Every step down this scarcely trodden path saw...
Each peel fall with helpless, damsel-like grace.
Brown leaves shone amber touched by fingers of the sun
Invasion of warmth through my greyed bony carapace.
Gentle tremors reverberate within with subtle anguish.
Sweet scented portal that took me back,
To the illusion of time where we once were...
In drunken stupor...laying under a star strewn canvas of black.
Senses that spoke of a great fantastical tale.
You are still here... In this cloying void with no one around...
Only that scent...your scent tugging on my core
Invisible tendrils berthing my feet back on ground.***
*Alone and wanting don't want to be anymore.
I want to feast my lungs on your skin once more.
I want to vibrate under your touch again,
In anguished anticipation and sweet pain.
I hurl your name to the echoing wind,
Blowing ferociously over the closed passage.
Only to find that I'm but elongating
the distance between our fading wishful stars.*
***Fading far only to find that I'm lost yet again,
Still harvesting a basket full of ripened hope.
Traversing planes with warped, slanted doorways,
Frantically seeking purchase on knobs with fevered gropes.
Heavy layered breaths inhaled too shallow...
Tracing missteps to decipher what it all meant.
When all is moot...weary, weathered and futile,
Forever I'll be bathing in the familiarity of your soothing, nectarous scent...***
Dajena M
ryn
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Party
He gropes her ****
She grabs his ****
He reckons she wants it
Bad Bad Bad
He was a ***
She was a farce
Her husband saw & he’s
Mad Mad Mad
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
*This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******
How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.
But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.
What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.
For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.
How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******** Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.
But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.
'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
*(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.
It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.
O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
it *****
that ****
the **** that *****
that lives inside my head.
it gropes around
for things to smite
with ****
because it *****
the more I try
to smite the ****
the more the **** smites
my thoughts with ****
the **** that smites
my thoughts when I
try to smite the ****
that lives inside my head
***** like ****
that smites my thoughts
when I smite the ****
for smiting me.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Giggles escape between her fingers,
she breathes warm gold air,
and lets pink clouds melt on her tongue.
On a friday afternoon she paints her nails black
and they dry pink.
With her pretty pinky claw
she lines up her rainbow of skittles
and lives in each colour for a moment...
Red blooms on her favourite feather lenses
sweet Orange coats her tongue and teeth
warm gentle Yellow caresses her soft skin
fresh vibrant lively Green fills her lungs
dark seductive Blue vibrates in her ears
dangerous Violet spins her, her glasses fall
Black holds her tightly, she gives in.
On a saturday morning her black nails scratch
at the foreign bracelet on her wrist.
Squinting in the harsh light,
she gropes blindly for her
favourite sunglasses.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
he asked me why
I'd absorb his ardent spirits
and chain want of soul
he knows why
I demand total control
...to convey my lust for pleasurable pain
this ache in thighs
denies an uttered sigh
as I cry inside with lust
strutting before him in nylon and pumps
he jumps through hoops, leashed;
he begs and flex, hungry for what is next
while I slap his hardened ****
tick tock its almost time
unwind and rock
to tease and please
I think not;
as heat of breath
taunts each slap of ****
his moans go unclocked
...as he loses control
Mistress, please he begs and moan
how long? watching hardness grow
long, strong in fits of hunger
he whispers and drools,
Mistress!!!!!
...your sweet ambrosia I know
eager beggary to be unleashed
ready to pounce
unload every ounce
but, I won't as I blindfold
and ring his ****
fore, his time is still
on the clock...tick tock
I smile, while he gropes
in the dark...leashed...now bark!
tell me! are you hard enough?
...I tease and taunt him some more
**** now hard as a rock...lash of whip...whack
...in your corner...I'll be back...after Jack laps wet ******
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
The rivers channel rain
The way I channel pain
I begin to see the futility
In denying pain's utility
Pain takes on a ****** nature
And becomes my intellectual savior
I shatter the mirror
And swallow the shards
The pain becomes clearer
So my ******* get hard
Glass fills my lungs
They're profusely bleeding
From words that stung
Being my daily greeting
***** shoots out from my gun
When I cut myself for fun
My hose starts spewing
Once vultures start chewing
It's the only way I can cope
When it's pain that gropes
I live in a world that mixes *** and violence
I live in a world that mixes *** and silence
Where the painkillers
Become the pain creators
And our life's filler
Is being pain traders
A bull has charged through my library for a decade
At this point every bovine movement cuts like a blade
He creates pain that lasts
When every day becomes my past
I had a dream
A sorcerer controlled my body
But he only wanted pieces of me
Bones started snapping out of my skin
Blood spurting everywhere
I awoke to ***** down there
I guess life isn't always fair
When I dream to avoid stares
The real pain comes when I care
When the privileged boycott
The impoverished boy's cot
He learns to ********** in the streets
And gains an appreciation for feet
Feet that trample
The pain is ample
When people powerfully push him away
So he decides to go against the grain
But there's no peace to be attained
And all he's left with is pain
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Your name sounds like a hurricane in my chest, exits my lips like debris from a storm that ravaged the land of my memory.
It sounds like the culmination of pain, like the breaking of the earth, like the ground swallowing my joy, like the sun fell from the sky and burnt my peace to a crisp, like a tsunami drowning the remnants of my hope, it chokes and gropes at my serendipity.
Your name sounds like dying light, like the stars being ripped from the sky, like a moon that will never see the sun rise and a sun that will never see the moon smile.
Your name sounds like the saddest story ever told, like living your whole life alone, like your body not wanting itself, like a child that will never be loved.
It sounds like a weeping man, like everything he ever loved being taken from him.
It sounds like armageddon in my soul, like my spirit being shattered by the quakes of your hate, like the butterflies in my stomach taking their last flutters, like the day the earth will stand still...like the end of everything I will ever know.
Your name sounds like the birth of death. So you'll have to forgive, for the fact that I keep it locked away in the abyss of my forgetfulness.
I still wanna see my tomorrow.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
through graceless steps and cleavaged twirls,
girls shared repost with other girls,
and the upper lips of the ladies curled,
as the married men all swooned.
they got bored all too readily,
so drunk their liquid steadily,
synthetically coloured blue and green,
she'd seen the latest advert.
and the boys in their polo shirts,
drunk and high on testosterone,
they took pictures on their camera phones,
and called each other gay.
the male claws began to itch,
for the feeling of **** and the feeling of ****
and the dancefloor was badly lit,
so they knew they had a chance.
sweaty hands and fluorescent teeth,
moved through crowds to find their niche,
and the necessity for niceties,
was shortly overruled.
uninvited gropes from behind,
on bellies of those who looked like they might,
be easily persuaded to bed that night,
without heavy rhetoric.
then came the bartering stage,
those awkward five minutes in which to arrange,
the consummating details, the exchanging of names,
the reality of night.
there were many things to factor in,
tales of lost friends still waiting,
I said we'd share a taxi home,
and she can't walk alone.
and after the barter is all complete,
the scorned pick fights in the street,
the end draws near finally,
so the masses all go home.
some walked home solemnly,
whilst others share the company,
of people they'd knew they'd never see,
after the night is through.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
It is, and is not, I am sane enough,
Since you have come this place has hovered round me,
This fabrication built of autumn roses,
Then there’s a goldish colour, different.
And one gropes in these things as delicate
Algæ reach up and out, beneath
Pale slow green surgings of the underwave,
’Mid these things older than the names they have,
These things that are familiears of the god.
2k
I pull fingers through my beard
untangling the night
while my mind gropes around
for anything sublime
I realise there is nothing deeper
than the love that cradles its child
all the way to dreams
tumbling out an untangled beard.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
we stroll the orchard
where grapes prune
and apples dutch
the burgeoning ****
of our memories...
we remain shimmering in true dusk. there
on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies
of a sliver of first bone
with tornado lips
and cotton
random.
we cajole our misfortune,
and rise at noon; without laughing -
we ****** our hags from the raven
that feathered our cap.
we elapse with the dead
in the basement of our rendering.
a little ahead of ourselves
or dead, no matter what.
the orchard glooms a demise
in the calm tourettes
of our syndrome...
both alone in the teeming all-spark
of our glorious sundering...
our Mondays say less than
our Present Day -
and a yarn of plight and sunstroke
gropes at the barb
of our bee stung
innocence
we chide the withering
for all the Withering -
and all the good
it does....
besides.
we wrath glide the plum
then have at Life.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample ***** where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.
now " who could that be ? "
agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
I’m the sickness,
the grotesque singularity that envelopes and gropes that sick nectar.
The sickly substance drains so subtle upon the cut edge of lips
and the pillar draw strings stitched and bound between cardiac flesh.
I’ll cleave,
cut and seethe,
suckle upon the sin I glower as I twine
and tug at those piano puppet strings caught in twain with every heart beat,
just trigger happy nerves spackled in misunderstood concept called love and impulse.
Pluck the collar cuff at your guttural sing and sentence,
those ballots fluttering from between pearl teeth,
I’m stealing those breathing gasps and loving longings;
they’re all just flecks and fragments of lackluster human baggage,
just mannequins treading sluggish,
fractured splinter frame and hinge fickle.
I’m the socio experiment,
the fiendish distaste of a chimera,
the zealous of corrupted cold hearted,
faux feeling skin wearing thing.
Just a copulation of electrical splatter and liquid tissue,
inorganic animal,
snapping jaw and glass shard fangs.
I’ll rile and reeve between the click and snap of your heart beat,
coddle the smoke of prey’s scent,
I’ll parasite the life blood that courses and holds beneath your emotional connect.
My cancer’s a slaughter fed consolation,
ever feasting malignant circumstance,
it rallies a thousand eyes,
irises blood thick,
fragments my moral conscience with teeth riddled limbs,
claws that chew and tear.
A multi-armed fiend,
segmented soulless and black tainted blood lost long ago,
all that remains ***** is the tissue wearing skeleton I claim domain,
fragmenting the soul into steel shards,
all’s just razor edge mechanical once the human feel falls to ash amongst the clutter of bone.
You’ll find the soulless circuit board in the gulf of your cancerous conscience,
as the human corrupts to cancer
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
My love, glides with cunning ease
Mockingly, provoking, faintly…
An incubus feeding off those who tease
As a freezing breeze gropes the unclothed remains saintly .
My greedy yearning, desires nothing less, but to drain
To fill the vast pitiless appetite of bittersweet sin.
That sultry incubus is the only to blame
Each hasty face, each unknown sigh, recognizably invited in.
My crimson intimacy, defies a settled truce
Between two famished predators hesitantly hoping
To finally attain the succulent, lukewarm, juice
Attempting, clenching onto composure; groping.
Facing each other, a mirrored image of one another
Unmoved by the lingering aromas of the, Other.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
She is
the Ethereal Wonder
and I am her trusty sidekick
Dream Boy.
Her obsequious protégé,
I chop at the shadows
of the baddies
and glass ceilings
to which she delivers
swift kicks and merciless punches.
In the Dream Mobile,
my eyes are at her hand
on the stick shift,
her thumb flipping the
oil slick switch and pressing it—
the sounds of cars screeching and
careening off cliffs
fail to deter me from imagining
the gloved hand in mine.
Off she darts into the fray,
and I hear
the shocked public
gasp,
and the narrator expound,
“Faster than men less qualified but
more likely to get the job,
as powerful as histories
of suffragettes and debutantes,
able to leap over the confines
of impressed domesticity
in a single bound!”
Into her arms fall
the thankful victims
at the last second,
and the baleful embrace
of malevolence
gropes at thin air
where the Ethereal
Wonder once was.
She receives thanks
with a wave of a gloved
hand and bounties
of humility.
She is no damsel in distress,
she is no mere love interest,
and to be her partner
in this great dangerous adventure
will be the most heroic story
ever told—
And perhaps one day she will need saving,
and I will rise to the occasion—
owing my strength, wisdom, and ability
to all she has ever taught me
of being a hero.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:13 PM UTC
Screams and wails split the air
Hollow faces, matted hair
The dying human race is at its knees
Hunched forms smothered among the fumes
That gathered over many moons
Spread by those who simply couldn’t care
But there is a sheltered place I know
Formed by someone long ago
Where a shaft of sunlight filters through the dust
Through the throttling smog it soaks
The drug on which our planet chokes
And comes to rest upon the earth
And underneath this ray of hope
Upward to the light it gropes
A crack in the concrete bears a flash of green
A lonely seedling makes its stand
Against the twisted ways of man
And unknown and alone it climbs the beam
The miracle of photosynthesis
A silent struggle, pant and hiss
Flowers and seeds rain from wooden limbs
And the trees tower above the fumes
That gathered over many moons
Free at last, they reach to kiss the sky
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
The somnambulist searches
in an insomniac stupor
His glazed eyes
unseeing
he gropes in the darkness
His hands graze fleshen walls
that pulse
as if with subtle breath
Who knows what he seeks
certainly not him
Naked he wanders
clothed only
in a tattered Jolly Roger
skull stained red
caked in dried blood
He longs for something he cannot comprehend
he longs
for the one he lost long ago
Each stumbling step he takes
he sighs
praying in vain
for a hand to reach out
and grasp his
to lead him from his endless maze
of failure
Into a new realm
where darkness dwells in beauty
and love is not an illusion in the hat of a trickster
"This way"
a voice whispers
and he stumbles on blindly
to his doom or to his joy
this is something he cannot know.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
My nights are filled with nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no happiness, or nostalgia, they are simply void. There are no sheep on my ceiling, so instead I count the boys I have passed time with. I meditate on their finger prints engraved in my mind- as if any of them had ever actually touched it. I follow their individual swirls to centres, to lips, and my own fingers comforting them, easing them, helping them forget. This is to the boys who I can remember, who I can separate from gropes and short dances. The boys who met my mouth with their eyes closed. I wonder if they think about the times? The encounters? Do they fluff our moments into their pillows, make room for our memories in their beds at night? Do they swallow instances like painkillers or stomp them out like cigarette butts? Do they even remember? Kissing me in the dark, squeezing their lust into my body in the morning frost? Rested heads against shoulders and wrapped arms around necks and waists? Does he remember my lips crashing against his after pulling off my shirt? Does he remember sifting through my chest like he was searching for my heart? Does he remember car headlights, streetlights, houselights, my lights- my eyes. Does he remember breaking me, remember filling my gaps, remember numbing me with his needle fingers, and does he remember warming me to another life? Do they think, do they realize their words and their touches were the air in my balloon? But there are a lot of hims, just as I'm sure there is a million mes but do they recall, do they think about me? To the boys I have lent myself to, thank you. When insomnia kisses me I know it is empty, I know I am empty, and we are just helping each other survive another nothing night.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
The gravel crunches
as we walk
and it's cold.
We push our breaths out
of chapped lips, and wipe
away dried spit, with nicotine
fingers.
Pigeon feels the baggies in his pockets
full of vicodin,
that's gonna get us ****** up.
His fingers look like earthworms through his jeans
as he gropes for the baggy.
I get that jolt, just thinking about it;
that jolt of happiness you feel right before you get
real ****** up.
I look around and pull out a Camel Light,
because that's all we smoke.
And light up. It's real
white out, white and cold.
The moon's fat as a snowflake
and foggy up there too.
I move my toes,
and can't feel a thing,
****
We crunch through the woods,
catching glimpses of the moon, and the lake
through the trees.
I want to hit this fifth of Henny
jerking in my backpocket,
but I'm saving it.
Pigeon stops.
Me and Gus keep walking.
Pigeon coos.
We turn around.
He whips out the plastic baggy,
In the moonlight the Vicodins look
like those tiny, candy skulls you get on halloween.
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
The crowded streets seemed empty now, beneath the noon day heat,
as the devils and the invalids wait 'til dusk to meet.
Then the sunlight fades and the neon signs, attract the social crowd,
the silence dies and an echo's born as the deadly night grows loud.
A ***** blonde in a ***** coat, leans on a grey stone wall,
waiting to lead her regulars down a dark and dingy hall.
While a blind man steers his cane ahead to aid his weary feet,
he gropes his way to a barstool where he and bottle meet.
The piercing sound of a siren is muffled by angry tongues,
as an old drunk falls in an alleyway clutching his heaving lungs.
The sight of the city from the fifteenth floor turns the heart to a giant pump,
as a ****** high in every way prepares for his final jump.
Dance hall girls line the stage and kick their legs in time,
as the prestige men in business suits order gin and lime.
An aging man with glass in hand finds friendship in the night
bringing back his childhood through the shouts of a barroom fight.
The pain goes on 'til the lights go out and the wolves all head for home
for those who have no place to rest the sidewalk is there to roam.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC