"gyrates" poems
it’s a wild life
of magic and tales
of light and radiance
dreams and darkness
*firebird, firebird
will you bring it all for me?
firebird, firebird
will you transform all things for me?*
what we dreamt yesterday
was once reality, what we never imagined
is current, and eats us day by day
desires fade and palaces appear
demons roar, and sirens kiss us
and induce ******* and bless us with erections
*firebird, firebird
let all whispers come real
firebird, firebird, firebird
let time stand still where I want it to be*
clouds are rocks and earth is liquid
my flesh burns and the Princess of Far-off gyrates
Mean King objects and the Jester holds court
Kingdoms collapse and new ones come in their place
dreams, dreams, dreams die
and are re-born in the Heavens in Our Heads
*firebird, firebird
burn the ground
and let illusion and reality be one
firebird, firebird, firebird
let despair be hope, and love be lust
one the other, the other the one*
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 7:25 AM UTC
taunting haunting
“ghosts” roaming
boasting
under sweet disguise;
heart
heard
tale-tell
frozen castles
time wept
appear disappear
apparitions rear
waiting abating
storm swept.
Celestial rite
gyrates flows
insight
Breath awaits
spirit’s delight.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.
Electra-girl squeals,
**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,
shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.
Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,
Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,
Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.
Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.
Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
Lustfully creating chemistry in the bedroom,
Day dreams to wet dreams,
May I play out my sinful thoughts on you?
Your body—my favorite leisure.
Cravings unbearable,
The flavor of your lips forever engraved in my memory.
Will the next be better than the first?
Again a chance to savor your sweetness,
—To hear your moans escape.
Your body against my body, rhythmically our hips gyrates.
Desire for your passion—longing for your embrace.
The ******* of my neck—bites I cannot take.
Excitement, I cringe at the presence of you.
Fingers tactically stroking—smear my wetness.
Low gasps when you penetrate.
****** after ****** now allow me to stimulate.
Exposing all of my weaknesses,
I want you—intimately; the best way.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
There's a moment when everything accelerates
And there's no questioning, things just are.
Madly. Frantically. My mind gyrates;
Playing wildly, dancing upon each single star.
Blurred vision precipitates the tears
As I freeze, knowing in my heart of hearts
That each word falls upon belligerent ears,
And takes second place to your townhouse art.
What pain could Monet paint when floodwaters
Rise, and it becomes clear that the clearest
Understanding lies in the theatre's
Eyes? The curtains fall to the finale's dearest
Friend, and it's there I pretend that it's just a natural disaster,
That this is a craft I still find hard to master.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Anxiety is when the world around you gyrates
Depression is when it stands still
Wanting so badly to reach for the stars
Knowing you never will
Depression is more than a feeling
It's a ship sinking in the ocean of you
Always being told that you're worth it
But knowing it isn't true.
Depression is "it's okay"
Anxiety is "I'm fine"
Depression is a wound that just doesn't heal with time
And mixing the two together
Is a cocktail of explosives
Depression is absolute stillness
While anxiety is motion
How can the world be spinning
When my world is standing still
I've never understood it
Perhaps I never will.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.
© 2011 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Finally, I now know death
Albeit a resurrection
Eight red pills began the dissection
Of my finite ego.
Scions of a different kind gain momentum
Finding love's erosion
Corrupting my conscience
A trip was in order.
A dizzy Carnival,
The calliope muted
As decorated stallions dance
My recklessness reaches its peak
So what the hell?
A soothsayers sorry signal as
The venomous ***** gyrates,
My eyes bleed with regret.
As the chemicals persuasive grip subsides,
The trip done,
A schizophrenic clarity remains,
My heart empty
My essence renewed
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
Visions in the breeze
A tree on a broken horizon
Each wave a shout
From the past to the future
A call heard only by
The one's truly listening
Tipping point mathematics
Love has and always will be
Trial and unforgivable error
Hearing the door open as
Echoing empty steps chime
Like the first poets to ever write a rhyme
Or an innocent man put to death
Falsely accused of another one's crime
Each order put into bolts and gears
Wear me thin and rattle me to the bone
I've made a mistake, I'm no longer here
My feet are crooked and I feel queer
Each note I hear is out of tune as the saloon
Has started to bend backward
The light under the fan spins
Chopping my sight clean in two
The blue creole sky enlivens my senses
As youth dances and gyrates restless
And effortless like one's first fall into love
A case for the weak
As the strong get along
No dust in their fingertips
Their stomachs always full
As the poor feel the pull
Into the road to the grave
Put the ear to the snowy hills of Eastern Europe
Make sure your boots are tied
And your pen hand is steady, unwilling to lie
Afraid of consequences is to be human
But to be afraid of a life without them
Is to tie the stitch to tight around the hem
There is choice
And then
There is responsibility
The routine
Of our lives rely
On the choices we made
Due to responsibility
Guilt and learned' reason
Forget reason
Forget thy' guilt
Forfeit the old
For the new
You know truth
More than
I
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
.
smoke
of
puff
a
like
dissipates
it
until
up
and
up
and
up
and
up
going
swirls
decreasing
ever
in
gyrates
and
spirals
time
pre-determined
our
Jun 2, 2023
Jun 2, 2023 at 9:54 AM UTC
This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté.
I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north.
I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement.
I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract.
So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium?
I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
The quest for both burial and resurrection are significant, as their flickering shadows of the self-depreciatory abyss chant their silent and hauntingly audible presence under the canopy of the ancient forest.
Let us celebrate the night together, as we are traumatically enveloped within an exposed and dialectical pronunciation during this classical and acoustic daylight romance.
Although I truly hate your love, I also reject your evident indifference.
This is the essence of feeling like a fake within the genuineness of our actual and perceived realities.
It is heaven-sent, like a feathered breed of unresolved investigations within our socio-political climate of assumed advancement, where the intensity of the beat gyrates her percussionist hips across ******* expressions of the cosmological sound barrier.
Concurrently, the tangible rhythm of nature’s pulse considerately consummates her forcefully placid interactions within the context of gender specific diversity.
It is all in the name of discriminatory wholeness, my friend.
Our ambivalent connectedness to that which is catastrophically uncertain reminds me of drawing curtains across this conglomerate dawn of darkness and uninhibited concealment.
Just look at our ornithological formation, where leadership spreads her wings with censored zoological resignations and simplistic wisdom.
You have truly lifted my soul within the complexity of this circuitry, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that we are a myriad of expressions which cannot be adequately articulated within the thermals of our cosmological stratosphere.
Yet, there is a certain finesse to delinquency, and I have bridged the metaphorical gap across the chasm of divided entities, where we can embrace the cool and gentle breeze right at the fulcrum of unforgiving landscapes and shamanic pastures.
Like an artistic depiction of woodland serenity, we are engaged in this wonderful neutrality where it is all about the dance – otherwise known as the energy of modern choreography.
Epistemology can be questionable, where assumptions are sickeningly grounded within the soil of egocentric perceptions of supremacy.
Trust me, my seasoned partner of those astral plains of Nirvana: my lips are sealed in this putrid reconciliation of proclaimed opposites, which are said to mutually attract.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
lust was in her eyes so blue
did things good girls just won't do
with that wicked glance
made your **** hard in your pants
she was her own *** show
let everybody know
what she was thirsting for
desire burning in her core
your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair
she don't **** around like some
only hopes you'll make her ***
she'll wake up the neighbors
as she's layin down the favors
always up when she goes down
then she grinds her hips around
her hair tangled and naughty
as sweat glistens off her body
your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair
fingernails down your back
better than a hit of smack
her flesh ripples with passion
howl and moan in rhythmic fashion
she screams and gyrates one more time
giving reason to your rhyme
carnal pleasure she defines
like an ****** that blinds
your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair
always pushing one step further
is this *** or is it ******
leave you gasping as you shake
both get off like a **** earthquake
the world around stops turning
lying there in blissful burning
the myth takes human form
as all night she keeps you warm
your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair
shadows dance across the wall
as your bodies rise and fall
she feels you deep inside
ebb and flow she rides the tide
you stare into her eyes
as the sun begins to rise
a smile begins to creep
then your grinning in your sleep
your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
The event horizon
dies on my lips.
The outside of me slips within.
At the edge of a reasoning
this thing that would bring me
to an alternate state
cannot wait and it swallows.
My cheeks become hollows as I **** myself in
and the event shall begin with
a flashing of lights.
When the night turns to spin and the angels pin their hopes
against the twisting of the corner ropes
and the bells do not chime against the rushing of time that races past in glee.
I can see me in a negative
A picture I would give this life for
More and more the night gyrates,waits and then it rushes on
into an inner halcyon
long bygone.
In the end there is no end
no beginning
no point in space in which to face the past.
Held fast the faster that I go
a blurring in a fiery glow and eventually I will finally know
that which was hidden behind the lies.
Then my eyes will rest easily upon
the other side of
event
horizon.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
You’re my tortured skin begging to feel your touch
Your words kiss me on my lips, your description
Fascinates me, with mouths wide open you hold me
In my vision….
You tell me I am your temptress of emotions, as you outline
My face with your fingertips, you touch me with a hunger
That burns, as my hand glide across your chest.. my face
rubs your manly hair, as my vision of you makes me smile…
With every step you make me in an ****** vision tunneled
I swallowed your intoxicate silhouette, as sweat drips
From my eyelashes, my lips tremble, as you approach me
I am open in the vibration of the vision …
Our bodies molten by the hot liquid of our lava, we gyrates
In our convulsion of each other, I see you turn In my direction
My pulse races at a faster impulsion, you stand there, soaking in my sight
I don’t want to walk away from this vision ….
Debbie Brooks 2014
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
i bathe myself with
the music that i alone, hear.
i heed the flinch
of my heart's centrifuge -
gyrates purely without
a hand holding it,
in a lonesome,
contrapuntal waltz.
i lie naked yet untouched,
this aloneness.
even my words prosper in
the tumescence of speechlessness.
hurrying back to
dimming light
is my body ready to feed
the wick of this dark.
traipsing the
bareness of this pantheon
is my soul,
and no one else's.
solemnity scales the stars
and transforms them
into margins to fence my own universe:
i am the only celestial here,
spinning in a thousand days
of restlessness.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
The windows to your world
Start to slowly close shut
Fingers move less nimbily
Brain clicks into auto pilot
As the world gyrates around you
You stay perfectly still
The noise is distant, miles away
Almost an out of body ordeal
Your feline or canine friend
Snuggled close to youd back
Pillows surround the body
Thoughts drifting more and more of track
Floating into the darkness
Upward into the sky
You ponder your life
And ask the important questions like "why?'
Finally it engulfs you
Swollowing you whole
Mr. Sand Man's job is done
And he has checked off all his goals
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Diaper-smell, sweet rosewater--
out here, far from the sea,
in a church where the sailors
never go,
(the flies buzz on the altar,
they land on the sacrifice,
they feast)
she dances with scarves &
swords, she gyrates &
stares with ceramic eyes.
Lady of the cloth,
pale of skin & dark of
hair, golden choker about
her neck, red letter upon
her breast,
(the flies baptize themselves
against the meager sunlight)
she dances.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
O Rose!
Why Are You So Egoistic?
More Charming Is My Beloved,
Her Lips Are Redder
Than Your Petals,
Her Heart Is Softer
Than Your Kernel,
She Gyrates On Her
Nimble Feet In The Air,
Which You Cannot Do
Without Feet Be Aware,
If You Ever See Her
You Will Blush On Your Pride,
She Is Such A Fine,
Gentle And Lovely Bride.
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
Jack usually sits
in the corner of the bar,
in the shadows next
to the juke box.
There's a jagged scar
that runs diagonal
across his grizzled face,
his right eye is cloudy
& a piece of his left ear is gone.
A cobra is inked
on one forearm,
on the other,
a scorpion.
He constantly drinks tequila.
People always whispered
things about him,
said he had caught
his lady
dancing & kissing
on another patron.
Well, the guy is still missing
& nobody was ever charged.
Jack's sweetheart still hangs out
next to the record machine,
continually drops quarters in
for rock and roll,
it seems Jack
doesn't like to boogie.
Jesus, she is smoking hot,
her face is immaculate,
she gyrates around the place
like a living goddess,
it's a real turn-on,
but I gotta tell you,
I believe in rumors.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
My cold hard bunk is warm
with thoughts of her pretty mouth
working its way south.
This warm grip of her hot image
gyrates into explosive measures
in barracks-silence.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you of your gathered storms.
I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
Make use of bowls with
evening water and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear. I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house? Because you are in it, and outside,
through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
you pretend you see nobody.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC
spinning through eliot circle
the wind gyrates above
flinging pink petals to my lips
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:56 AM UTC