"gyrating" poems
Glistening with wetness,
fingers fitting in like Tetris.
Cream dripping on the mattress.
Pillow firming press against your ****
gyrating to the thoughts of being licked.
Then ****** on like a twisted piece of licorice.
Pleasure leaking from your body through your hips
Desire holding your body captive like a hypnotist
Your skin crawling with desire screaming it's fix
Drowning your finger in a pool of your juices
Your hips ****** and twist,
and mind, lift and dip.
Our bodies working a full shift,
like we were built for each others fit.
You biting on the sheets,
I'm biting on your lip,
****** at the same time;
when our world eclipse-
our-space doesn't exist.
Off to another world,
a briefly escape to,
a pleasure abyss.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Glistening with wetness,
fingers fitting in like Tetris.
Cream dripping on the mattress.
Pillow firming press against your ****
gyrating to the thoughts of being licked.
Then ****** on like a twisted piece of licorice.
Pleasure leaking from your body through your hips
Desire holding your body captive like a hypnotist
Your skin crawling with desire screaming it's fix
Drowning your finger in a pool of your juices
Your hips ****** and twist,
and mind, lift and dip.
Our bodies working a full shift,
like we were built for each others fit.
You biting on the sheets,
I'm biting on your lip,
****** at the same time;
when our world eclipse-
our-space doesn't exist.
Off to another world,
a briefly escape to,
a pleasure abyss.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
Stop,
Drop, and roll,
as my hand roll.
Around your tootie roll.
My fingers scroll, fairly slow.
Way below, your panty's lines, until your tan line show.
your head lies, tongue-tied, down below, your hips-- a silk pillow. Your hips rise, gyrating slow. Looking in your eyes, feeling your vibes, and its off we go. The feeling, you're surprises, you love it though. Hands gripping your sides, moving it slow. Hips above my thighs, I, react as we go, back and fore.....
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Day breaks over a sleepy village
Morning absolutions completed
An excited buzz is in the air
Everyone is a buzz with cleaning
Hundreds gather wild flowers in the fertile fields
Many were in charge of raising the fires
Soon the whole town had bright blooms weaved from one end to the next
The horizon alight with smoke and power
Goddess and God rights invoked within circles round
Pulsating, rhythmic energy racing through each dancing body
Gyrating to the cosmic beat of life
Couples jump merrily together over cauldrons ablaze
High hopes rise and give way for dreams of children
Lovers round and round they twine
Maypole ribbons rainbow hued passing through hand to hand
As dusk falls the Queen is crowned
Mead flows freely through the jubilant worshippers
The moon hangs round with fullness above their heads
Lighting the way for love into the night
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
Different than anything ever experienced, it’s ecstasy.
Her body reacts to his, vibes on the same frequency.
Gyrating their bodies-- her breath hot and breathing heavily.
Her eyes fixed on his, lips, each kiss placed perfectly.
penetrating deeply, pleasure loves company.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
"How does a flower move"
When wind does not blow,
Stalk
Petals
Pollen
Released, sprinkled
Upon the ground below,
Does it dance for the sun
Energy
Food
Nourishment
From above and below
People ask
"How does a flower move"
"When wind does not blow"
"Simple"
Its worms tickling its
Gentle roots, many tickling in one go,
Its pollen falling is its laughter
Seeding the floor below
So when you see
Trees
Bushes
Flowers
Gyrating, moving with out wind,
Know its those naughty playful worms
Slithering, tickling there sensitive roots below..
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
'Neath canopy of paradise
Super troupers' shafts of light
Illuminate his terpsichore;
***** he struts, the impresario
Gyrating on spindle shanks;
Needle thin and knock-kneed
He dances a samba
On stage of verdure;
Midst Elvis blue-black thrusts,
Steel rimmed amber orbs
Seek admiring and desirous glances
From the dour drab hen,
Mousy in her beige twin set
And mottled tweed skirt;
With nonchalant disinterest she exits
The arena; audition over.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 11:40 AM UTC
The room is dark, filled with void.
The only thing between us is the paint and brush.
I turn your head up, lost deeply into your eyes.
My masculine voice commands,
I set you free, explore and investigate.
My body is your canvas, let them be your tool where you get lost in your world.
While I get lost in your lips and my hands explore your body.
In paintings we shall ignite a fire, we shall get intimate.
In paintings I rock your world, I dominate you.
With my lips doing justice to your body while I drill you with vigor and passion.
In paintings, we shall moan, groan and scream.
Feeling your body covered up in this beautiful artwork, the pleasure is exhilarating.
My touch soft enough to caress you, but strong enough to protect you.
I feel you, I see the hips gyrating.
In our world, I am your master and I will dominate you.
Let the paint expression express the feelings that can't be expressed.
Let the pain you feel move you and take you to another world.
In painting, you shall be set free but still my slave.
In painting, I shall drill you and your inner soul.
The scream is inevitable, the pain is the one you enjoy.
The very moment you fantasize.
May the paintings make our body flow smoothly so our souls can talk in spirits.
In painting, you, scream, moan and shout.
In painting, I breathe and I smack you out.
In painting, we get tired and pass out.
In paintings, we *** hard and loud.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC
Matter can not be created nor destroyed.
Is it the same with love? I wonder.
Perhaps just our love.
One does not create it,
rather falls into it,
proving it's existence.
Love is never lost,
changed only.
It is a chemical reaction,
serotonin
and oxytocin.
The dynamics of our love have shifted.
Once drowning in a volatile sea,
I was obsessed.
Then lying on a dry cracked bed
just as damaging.
Where did the love go?
Into you.
Osmosis of love
through parted lips,
gyrating hips.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Chaos has a method of random
And the mind is a whirlpool
Thoughts gyrating to cacophony
The mind and heart are asynchronous
****** in to the vortex of indecision
Chaos becomes the typical jargon
For a mind that reverberate randomness
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
With swirling serves and
Arcing,
Lashing loops,
The Table Tennis King
Of spin,
Attacks his foe.
In gladiatorial combat
He reigns supreme,
Sweeping and swirling,
Smashing,
And feather-touching,
That gyrating ball.
For many hours he’s trained and sweated,
Perfecting skills from very youthful days.
He started in the youthie playing “Ping-Pong”,
To rise, a phoenix, from the local flames.
His coaches now sit very proudly,
Having made him sweat and toil.
With all that stamina-work behind him,
No way will he go off the boil.
At last he stands victorious,
Having made that final ****
There is no game like Table Tennis,
And winning’s such a glorious thrill!
PAUL BUTTERS
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
A deadly combination
Of lust, of passion, of love.
Deadly, poisonous, treacherous.
Worst of all, stupidly contagious.
Compassion for another because of another can’t exist,
suffocated by gyrating passion.
Passion serves one, not both…
Selfish, passion encircles the one consumed, feeding the addiction.
Addicts chase the high because for a little while the world is as it should be
In the eyes of the beholder.
Love sighs as the well runs dry.
Throw down the bucket as you may,
the water will not appear.
Acceptance is the hardest thing.
Giving up? Not at all.
Only people with nothing to gain can
Give up.
Accepting, letting go, moving forward.
The steps of progress in self-realization.
Leave behind the fire of love that
consumes the heart and ravages the mind,
preoccupies the body.
Chase that fire which refines.
I await to wake from this comatose state.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
When you shed that chrysalis of clothing
Releasing the dragonfly wings of your longing
Wholly among the sanctity of your skystrung ribs
Your hips gyrating on the revolutions of the moon
The astronomer in my belly burns to look up to the sky
And see you spreading yourself among the singing night
My fingers, matches skywriting
The contours of your body
With the lingerings of fire
Nails soft scratching the runes of desire
Among the hidden temples of your skin
A secret language you twistup and rumble
In like the sea swallowing a storm
Inviting me to wade in your waters
Till the lighting comes
To reunite you with the heavens
Let me lick a long crusade
From summit of spine down
The long whirling dervish of your legs
Relight wildfires only to douse them in all
The tsunami of your wet
And wash you in the convergence of thunder
As it rumbles among the fault lines of your bones
Till we rattle the pearly gates loose
And quake the caverns of hell
Grind yourself upon me into
Something so much
Sweeter then stardust
Break your body open
Into a firefly and ignite
Upon the rough embers of my wings
This friction will elicit a diction
Spoken only in vowels and the
And in the crescent arch of your spine
As we sling ourselves skyward as fireworks
To rupture open the night
Suffocate me on the whirlwind mane of your hair
There is a lioness behind those lips waiting to devour me
A sacred hunting upon moonlight to take me in the dark
Don’t you see
All of this is yours
The rumble of the earth
The heavy breath of the heavens
The match
The candle
And the sweet rush of the burn
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
What happened to dancing?
And I mean grooving
Moving to the beat of the music
not that
back to front, raunchy, distasteful, vertical *** on the dancefloor foolishness
I don't want any of that unclassy bending over
***** pressed up against a stranger, up in my face,
I mean up in my behind business type of dancing.
None of that too-close for comfort, get-a-room type of grind
I want some of that smooth jazzy, hold my hand and spin me around moving, and
I want some of that 80's finger-snappin', and some of those Breakfast Club hip-shaking, arm-gyrating
What I don't get is why
The moves from ***** Dancing seem cleaner than today's so-called dancing.
I want to be able to go to a club
And have enough space for myself and you to be dancing like we're dancing at home,
with the privacy of our rooms
I want to be able to dance, and let us return
and have a much-needed cultural dance revolution where it doesn't have to be something your mama won't be ashamed of.
I want some of that jiving, and more of that 70's finger-pointing, and fast-feet moving
Man, I just want all of us to dance without it suggesting anything more than smooching.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Through the blaring noise
And the gyrating hips of clubbers
Did I see you in all grace and poise?
Leaving a trail of lustful passers.
Above all else I heard a soft purr
As a moan escaped everyone’s lips
Did I softly hear you murmur?
“Would you like a kiss?”
And in that moment I fell
Like one of your numerous suitors
Did I not once often tell?
Lust is love’s awful traitor.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
’Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
2.8k
'A triangle on the mount of mercury
is certainly an auspicious sign'
Thumping percussion of a native beat
in my head, a gyrating hindsight
The evening streams down pouring
streaks of grey and mangled orange
Walking past a bicycle chained to railings
front wheel mangled into a rough square
Squaring a circle, huh? How did that happen?
two thumps and a sonant beat...and again...
I see you sipping latte by Nero.
Mangled, stream out of your eyes
many coloured triangles
rushing, wheeling at me.
Vibrant beat, gyrating bottoms.
The mercury is soaring. Ululations.
The night-witch has charmed the city in her cloak.
Stars, oh, I see mangled triangles out of her hat.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
A good girl
That likes to sin
Kneeling with a grin
His finger on her chin
With hands clasped
Behind her neck
Arched back
Head slightly tilted
Feet apart
No slack
Knees spread wide
elbows aligned
With her shoulder line
Red collar
Silver lining
chained linked leash
Tight grip short reach
The pressure enticing
Her body writhing
His body coinciding
Like a tight fit outfit
Mid-cut tye-dye tee-shirt
With matching
******* g-string so tight
They look like they don’t fit
And it’s the dopest
The moment feeling like
Hocus Pocus
Silky smooth skin
******* Satin thin
Slippery fingers
Sliding in
Hips gyrating
Her space
Penetrated
By him
Fingers Saturated
The way she moaning
You would think she is
Singing a hymn
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
See the dancers gyrating
Sliding over the pole
Lustful men leering
Eager to hunger, watching
Private dance for the few
Parting with crumbled money
Sweating in craving desires
For what they can never touch
But I silently see the movement
Of an ****** motion of beauty
I see the eyes of unknown passion
Something that can not be mine
Even through my scars of ruination
They ****** for printed paper
Money is no longer a commodity
Only to witness serenity in motion
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
the polished hand of admirers heralding a new poem
they have come so often to rub their eyes on your ink-stained page
leaving behind papercuts of emotion with which they grieve
for the words you spread on their sweaty palms
the polished hand of admirers...
wet with anticipation of the latest beachside laughing clown
he is a walking breathing cataclysm written for her comforts
written in adoration's delight and true loves of her tender hand
she lay in amongst your pages on the bedspread
like a spilled wine **** to the tongue of sensibility
like a spilled wine that intoxicates and leaves
watch her swaying hips fade away into darkness
she will bounce and glide on another man's stripper pole
if you fail to call her back...
the polished hand of admirers heralding your waking thought
muted cheers as your pen makes wicked strokes on empty page
like a dancing blade carving your wooden words
till they sing like beauties breath on cold still air
till she is your warmth wrapped so delicately in your twisted bedsheets
she mutters a cough as she puts flame to cigarette
and smiles at your attentions
she is a living poem
that you write ink and page
the polished hand of admirers will never see
how pure simple ***** girl is so intoxicating
how lush and enticing her gyrating beneath you really is
the polished hand of admirers like you go to bed and sleep
while your dreams are of her dancing swift and sweet
theirs are the dreams of pens cutting on page
like a dancing blade carving wooden words
© 2016 mark john junor all rights reserved
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
uttering that tenor growl
that only we salamanders know,
I will stir from my salamander bed,
slide from its clinging preservative oil
into the eerie orange of tonight’s hellish glow.
Then we will meet at the shore
of the black stagnant puddle our home,
like a monstrous bootprint
stamped in the mud of our forest.
We’ll slink towards the woods,
slowly gyrating our limbs over leaves twigs sticks
roots and stones five times our size;
a struggle to heave ourselves before
the looming, glowing trees.
At last the heat of the ash trees,
the entire forest swirls in flames,
crackling at our feet,
engorged by the unbothered blaze.
We’ll wait a pensive moment, then take
our first few steps into the burn.
Feb 5, 2010
Feb 5, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
Hahaha
Quincy Valero, once again on crutches
He always manages to do this to himself
This time he was in his required exercise class and dislocated his knee
I just laugh at this
When we were younger he got roaring drunk and began doing an inebriated salsa
"SALSA KING!"
We all chanted
All of a sudden one leg wen one way and one the other way
He screamed in pain
It was a hairline fracture
Another time he had a lovers quarrel with this girl he was seeing
They fought all the time
Like all the time
And one night in a furious rage
Quincy punched a wall and fractured his hand
A few weeks later I had a pool party
And Quincy had to wrap his damaged hand in a plastic bag and hold it at a 90 degree angle the whole time
He takes all these injuries to heart
He's the kind of guy who has always got to be moving
He's always gyrating, talking, laughing
And when he's even the tiniest bit immobile or disabled
He goes into a short period of depression and self pity
It's just funny to me because just when I think he'll be okay
Some how he manages to just get himself hurt
The clutz haha
Even now, I'm talking to him
He hurt his thumb the other night at a party he threw two days ago
LONG LIVE THE SALSA KING!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.
A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.
It’s only Rock’n’Roll…
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC