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K Balachandran Jul 2013
The antique shop,
a cauldron where memories
from far and near boil and froth,
where chronological order
didn't matter, time stood still,
part real, as much magic,
different lives from distant lands and time
rolled in to one.
Here they met, by chance,a man
and a mysterious woman,with an eye for unusual,
among what was  on display were
things a conman would seek
and also favorite stuff fit for  kings,
artifacts and articles they must have used
or hankered after.

Past uses these museum pieces
as baits for us, secretly preparing us
to surrender before future,
unkind and rude in mind;
he changed roles as both con and king,
there was a constant yes,
she was the mate in each
he couldn't take  eyes  off her,
and she asked what he looks for,

"The famous ****** quilt,
that was to be mine twice before,
I missed making it mine,
narrowly every time"
He wondered how did he
make up that story so quick.
"I can take you to the quilt,
but it isn't here" she said
not a bit  hesitant
He was flabbergasted by
the turn of events,as if
a hidden scripted move shows the way
They left by her car,
she was eloquent about
the effects of the ****** quilt.

As they stood near the ****** quilt,
in this room he thought was part
of an antique shop, the place looked deserted,
and her eyes shone when she suggestively said
"Want to test the effect? Don't be disappointed"
It wasn't. How could one  imagine, that
the quilt can be so voluptuous.

That secret shook him out of his shell,
she had  nothing to do  with antique of any kind,
just another visitor like him, and the quilt
was an ingenious plot she hatched
in keeping with my sudden flourish,
the quilt, was a new addition in her bed
patch worked in silk, light weight,
it wasn't a blanket, but ****** in its very touch
it was them, the moment of adventure they found
had brought the rapture,who would regret?
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)

Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.

“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."

"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****.”
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.

Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!

The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.

Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”

They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”

Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Where I live in Colorado, there are still old rusting mining relics all along the mountain roads.   What tale could these relics tell about the Gold Rush days during the mid to late 1800's?   The "Ghosts of Buzzard's Breath" is one of those tales.   By the way  -  "Buzzard's Breath" is a real town in Wyoming (no kidding).      Jim Sularz
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
When I rang in the morning, amma asked ‘who is it?’

‘who is it’
In the same voice that she used in the olden days
Worried that she would have to serve coffee and snacks
When Jinu, Pradeep, Riyaz came calling

Amma, it is not the nair boy nor Pradeep from pallippuram, nor the Muslim boy Riyaz,
It is your son

‘who is it’

Amma, this is me,
What else shall I say?
Your son.

What other title do I have

Your Youngest
Born in old age
One who is supposed to look after his amma
Who left home
Who lived as he pleased
Who married without consent from those at home
Who failed many exams
Who used to wander around with strangers
Who used to drink and shout obscenities at the clergy

The butcher knife in amma’s chest

When again the question ‘who is it’
Falls in my ears,
Amma, what should I say?

The dark one of yesteryears became fair
Because of not going in the sun, amma
I cannot become dark even if I pretend, amma

I drank and drank and got all swollen up, amma
I smoked and smoked and became tired, amma
I shouted and shouted and became hoarse, amma
I read and read poems and overflowed, amma..

When amma asks again ‘who is it’
As though she didn’t know anything

I felt like answering I have become Thadiyantavida Naseer, having read too much news
I felt like answering that I have become A P Abdullakkutti  having hankered after whatever I heard and saw
I felt like answering that I have become MA Yusuf Ali, tallying accounts again and again
I felt like answering I have become Kunjhalikkutty, having lusted after everyone I saw
Who is it, who is it, when the voice cracks asking, what more am I to say

Amma, who are you?

Why do you start as though you heard the question ‘who is the father?”

Do crows still visit the breadfruit tree on the northern side, amma?
Do you still scold, ‘hey breadfruit tree, you little minx, do not fall before you are grown enough!’, amma?

Is amma listening?
Do you understand?

What about Biran?
After his girl got married,
After his boy went to the gulf,
Biran doesn’t come
He is prosperous now,
Good fish are not available nowadays..



Was the tamarind tree fruitful this year, amma?
Did you dry the tamarind to make it into cakes to preserve it, amma?

Cannot down a morsel without buttermilk
In the morning, when I looked, all sourness was lost
moreover, the milk got curdled

Amma, wont you get up fast
Don’t we have to go to church?

There are lots of people there
There are lots of people there

I have taken the matchbox
Buy two candles (small, cheap ones)
Come, I will be here
It has been long since you lighted a candle for your father



I wrote my name
At the tip of a huge tree in our genealogy

It sways in a gentle wind

Brethren with whom I grew up
Say that it is because
Of  intoxication

People say it is acting the fool
Some say that all that is needed is a beating



On the roots of a huge tree in the genealogy, amma,
You sprout little greens of new awareness

Still even in heavy winds

Your children, fruits of your womb, who knew the labour you went through
say it is because  you are not in your right mind

People say it is acting the fool
Those who watch recommend tying up

Amma,
for me
and you,
what is consciousness,
trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma
Sequestered May 2016
And then...
A diffident embrace,
Hankered after bedeviled yearning.
Instead, butterfly kisses,
She planted 'pon breathless lips;
Scarved my neck
And schlepped,
Into mystery miles of misty memories...

But now...
That yesterday lingers forever,
Leaving evocative footprints
Left behind by flirtatious fragrance,
That oft beguile my pathway,
Into memories of her;
Whence fantasy atones reality...
Asim Javid Apr 2016
Holding her hand , walking on the streets.
Realizing the life in those skipped heartbeats.
Exuding the attar, she dulled my senses.
Tremulous tattered talks due to spooking menaces.
Then she talked in her asthenic voice.
And suddenly everything was just background noise.
All I could do was , stare in her eyes.
And I glimpsed into her soul beyond visible lies.
She was the configuration of pain and hope.
Inside, she was in a scrimmage and clinging with a mope.  
Zealously & tenacious , inside , she was a fighter.
I hankered to describe her beauty in my words, as a writer.
But to describe such aesthetical effigy I constellated nothing, not even a single word.
I was stupefyingly stuck , like a fallen wingless bird*.
of recent days
the solar panels
and wind turbines
couldn't ALLEVIATE
the cold indoor climes

thereby causing the folks
of Texas to freeze
under the many inches
of thick snow

how they all hankered
for that old fashioned
coal generated
electricity
which would ALLEVIATE
the boreal conditions
atrocity
topaz oreilly Nov 2012
She purchased a Trilby hat in lieu of a Stetson
Her shoulders seemed to stoop
whenever she lit her famous Sobranie.
The rolling countryside always felt like despair
more bramble than Strawberry Fair
She found herself in New Brighton, bracing the sea air
a sought job in a Mobile Fish and Chip Van
was assuredly the Lisa Presley way.
But her heart hankered for Hull, the dare was brazen
to  partake in a  Photography class
to record civil disobedience.
Perhaps a suitable hat
would be a beret
for that inveighed look
our dear Sandra McClain.
Their sacrifice a forgotten story
Their braveries are fables untold
In lives they hankered not for glory
In their graves they won't be old.
Lines of them lying under stone
No medal they won no star
In end they've found a silence zone
Where their memories the soils blur.
Someone was too young to die
Still dreaming a life of bloom
Yearning to reach the blue sky
Now sleeping in the casket room.
Youth so cruelly deceived them
Little was written on the white page
Blown away with the war game
Years cannot make them age.
Out of focus, out of lens
On unknown memorial just a name
Let's bow our head in silence
Lest we forget them.
Silence Sep 2013
I wanted profunity, you gave me surface.
2. You never really loved me
3. You were never taught how to love
4. You became your insecurities
5. My silent cries for you were too heavy for my heart
6. Our hearts hankered other things..except eachother
7. My prayers about you never reached heaven
8. You woke up one day and decided that our love wasn't worth war
9. Its not that you don't want to love, you just don't know how to
10. You were never content with my flaws
11.  I wasn't what you prayed for every nightfall
12. I just wanted to be loved
13. Writing about you became useless
14. You could not live up to the man that existed in my dreams
15. Loving you somehow killed me
16. I had leave
17. I needed someone who knew how to stay
18. You're still searching for me in every woman
Choo Min Jan 2015
I know you would never love me
I know perhaps there would be someone else who loves me truly
Yet the future does not concern me now
When I know you will never be in it
Could you spare me a loving touch
even though I postulate nothing more than a passing glance

How does attraction work
the unknown machinations of the fragile cage
and the weeping bird inside it
singing of sorrow coursing through mauve streams
inundating the body whilst weakening the mind

Once I hankered after the thought of love
but now I just think about you.
neither could totally renounce
the feelings they shared
the tie between them
made in childhood days
it held a cohesive twine

on separate journeys
they did travel
until their mid years
yet they hankered for
each others company  
the bond between them
ne'er came untangled

perchance their destines
bought them together again
whereupon they rekindled
and renewed their lasting flame

sweethearts at childhood
sweethearts they'd ever be
the sweetheart link
they shared was of
a perennial deed
Ester and Daryl's story.
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.
grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city
bonded with blood brothers
felt born to run along backstreets
in brilliant disguise that did cover me
frequently blinded by the light
of the full moon

casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town
which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room
while immersed in book of dreams
describing better days on a Cadillac ranch

where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark
celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july
or other glory days in darlington county
even though I ain’t got you.

livin’ in the future
mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire
for you, this fire in me craved human touch
desire - roaring into the ole factory fire because I wanna marry you
because the night populated with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)
in imagination of my american skin
descended from when adam raised a cain
before last to die forecasting kingdom of days
now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.

now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down
meeting across the river
if I should fall behind
on the downbound train as living proof
within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99
alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun
defending this lucky town established on Matamoras banks
from an incident on 57th street

thus celebrated as local hero every independence day
when with ****** incorporated firing point blank out in the street
that staccato new york city serenade from no surrender outlaw pete
originally from nebraska.

it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night
within my hometown
once my father’s house, now my city of ruins
where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?

one step up
into the pink Cadillac
hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket
teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere
a red headed woman

racing in the street toward secret garden
to save my love – with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)
offering reason to believe roll of the dice real world
and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel
housing souls of the departed
please save my love and stolen car
for sherry darling – that spirit in the night

she’s the one among souls of the departed
no longer stopped by state trooper
precinct based along streets of philadelphia
some crackling like streets of fire
straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth
along tenth avenue freeze-out.

requiem per terry’s song – what love can do
accompanied by e street shuffle
performed in somber tones
rumbling down thunder road
for souls of used cars
two hearts crushed

along this hard land
for: the ghost of tom joad
the last carnival homage to wild billy’s circus story
the price you pay when you’re alone
working on a dream
now wreck on the highway.

we take care of our own from youngstown
when heading of to the promised land
the rising distant mystical eden
where you can look (but you’d better not touch)
espying the river of salvation

joining eternally the ties that bind
a tunnel of love
or like the wrestler
pinning opponent tougher than the rest
like laborers working on the highway
chiseled like this hard land!
Though among the chosen,
Judah opted to cross floor,
Out of his way
Heading to the path of the fallen!

In a spectacular way
Breaking loose from
The tight grip of the fallen,
Mary Magdalene braved
The ardours track of the chosen!

Heedless to a heavenly
Crown at hand,
Judah  hankered
For a monetary reward.
Giving attention
To soul's worth,
While Mary Magdalene
Gave a red card
To her cherished perfume,
Though to procure it
She saved hard.

It was with a kiss
"This is He
You should not miss!
Now, mission accomplished,
Give me the 30 Birr please!"
Judah betrayed Christ.
Repentan, while
Mary  Magdalene
Washed Christ's feet
With tears.

Regretful Judah
Put a noose around his neck,
While ,Mary Magdalene happily
Saw the resurrection of
Christ before a daybreak!
We have to take a step in the right direction
into the abyss of envy he
*fell

it gobbled him down in its
well

the desire to be the class
act
tormented his resentment
tract

they of quills superb of
skill
outshone the poseur's paltry
till

he hankered for what they
held
yet alas his penning so bad in
meld

at espying their brilliance of
verse
the ground swallowed him up as a
purse

jealousy he'd never ever
subdue
of the green hue there'd be an enduring
*due
no diminution in tiredness arose
gnome hatter how off tin ma dis bows
Zoe let his bot tee succumb,
     via mental application

     of autogenic phrases
     and/or counting crows
cuz upon awakening,
     aye immediately wanted ta doze,

thus this artful dodger hankered to expose
extreme cockamamy idea incumbent,
     where corporeal essence gets froze
zen, the scientific procedure named

     emergency preservation
     and resuscitation (EPR)
     more familiarly known
     as suspended animation

     pursuant under the appellation cryogenics,
     where living tissue no longer grows
old, a wishful yearning
     approximating immortality i sup hose,

yet this copacetic drowsy
     generic human struggled in vain
     trying with utmost effort to stay awake
     Swiss to hobnob among urbane

feeling helpless (fearing
     he might be narcoleptic),
     nonetheless aye didst train
intent concentration

     (and/or feeble exertion mustered)
     to swat away worrisome thought
     this hypochondriac,
     could be afflicted with mononucleosis

since lassitude less likely sprung
     from overcast and rain
knee skies, which type weather
     generally energies me
    
to conjure a quatrain
sometimes complex versus
     written straight away plain
panacea hit upon finally

     to ward off sleepiness,
     whereby literary endeavor
     boosted by a strong brew
namely fair trade

     manufactured coffee chew
zing among socially conscious entities,
     and hoping to do
some dollop of positivity

     without fanfare I eschew
to fulfill personal hue
man conscientious anonymous impact
     that some benefit will en sue.
I am swiss cheese I am somebody who is trying to relocate their shoulders, thrown about in a misty sin of congratulations
I am a sipless vulture attempting to be pure but coming out vinegar
juniper berries and sickly **** of packaged rawhide
inescapable landslide
unexcused, for what its worth
an imaginging roller coaster disaster, so far from my fathers, mad from too much beer and wine
hankered down by mood stabilizing pills
jipless, jockeyed, jiving to bizzare melodies
a sipter esphicator, ready to lunge into the excesses of butter beer
singing jollies with dumbeldore and other queers
misplelled, misplaced, outcast, on the bench with other pupils
and the carnivore sinks its teeth into its kills
shanking and shaking, singing in the bathtub with katy perry
muse the blues with cherub rock, loathing dylan, asking for more cohen
juxtaposed on top of everest and demanding a double feature
dickless angels
turnabout, shout, the end is near, abstract, understand the notion, the fear
and scream helpless hopless empty bottles of beer
nectar and graham the hector, a mellon bunnie with rabbid ears
run for your life!  the fires of eternal flowers and bounds of life
seem sophisticated at the time
Turnabout, the beats are out
and the real madness, the real madness, is here
Jonathan Finch Dec 2016
A single pebble
crushes;

do not minimise
destruction.

Pellets hold
the small, squeezed grain of bone –
a startling nakedness erodes
it, scars the air
it lies in;

frail and suffering
hung flowers
that hankered after warmth
ooze still their stilled perfections;

and
the innocent beetle
suffers mortally.

Grandiose, magniloquent,
the pebble forfeits nothing.

We are naked, Anne, and caught.

Inside ourselves a pitiless resilience
remains, bounds up, is shot.

The orchid in the spring
still sees it here:
as cruel as me,
as loving and perennial as you.
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.

grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city

bonded with blood brothers

felt born to run along backstreets

in brilliant disguise that did cover me

frequently blinded by the light

of the full moon



casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town

which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room

while immersed in book of dreams

describing better days on a Cadillac ranch


where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark

celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july

or other glory days in darlington county

even though I ain’t got you.



livin’ in the future

mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire

for you, this fire in me craved human touch

desire - roaring into the ole factory fire

because I wanna marry you

because the night populated



with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)

in imagination of my american skin

descended from when adam raised a cain

before last to die forecasting kingdom of days

now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.



now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/

local hero and I’m goin’ down

meeting across the river

if I should fall behind



on the downbound train as living proof

within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99

alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun

defending this lucky town



established on Matamoras banks

from an incident on 57th street

thus celebrated as local hero every independence day

when with ****** incorporated



firing point blank out in the street

that staccato new york city serenade

from no surrender outlaw pete

originally from nebraska.



it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night

within my hometown

once my father’s house, now my city of ruins

where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?



one step up

into the pink Cadillac

hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket

teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere

a red headed woman



racing in the street toward secret garden

to save my love – with thee

angel rosalita (come out tonight)

offering reason to believe

roll of the dice real world



and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel

housing souls of the departed

please save my love and stolen car

for sherry darling – that spirit in the night



she’s the one among souls of the departed

no longer stopped by state trooper

precinct based along streets of philadelphia

some crackling like streets of fire

straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth

along tenth avenue freeze-out.



requiem per terry’s song – what love can do

accompanied by e street shuffle

performed in somber tones

rumbling down thunder road

for souls of used cars



two hearts crushed

along this hard land

for: the ghost of tom joad

the last carnival homage


to wild billy’s circus story

the price you pay when you’re alone

working on a dream

now wreck on the highway.



we take care of our own from youngstown

when heading of to the promised land

the rising distant mystical eden

where you can look (but you’d better not touch)

espying the river of salvation



joining eternally the ties that bind

a tunnel of love

or like the wrestler

pinning opponent tougher than the rest

like laborers working on the highway

chiseled like this hard land!
Marinazinya Jan 2018
He opened my limbs, slowly he poured his warm breath between me, so warm that it felt like a candle wax. Hankered so he could stroke in one of his fingers. Derided I was that I wanted to sink my teeth into him. Rainy his tongue was,that the drops felt like glaciers, moved by the tongue delicately that couldn’t move my corpse. Pricking every sense that I had left..... Ou he was divine

Devine that I splattered his image with my sap, finally he gave me a savor taste of my encephalon .
In the midst of thy
dimwitted beauty
o ' earthened
-thoroughfare
how seriously, I am
at a scrutiny, if what
I want a soul mate thou
is in ameliorate - fashion,
soulest heart's desires mate,
He's my ideal fit to live without
and that’s what I stand in need of,
My true soul mate is my mirror,
the one that shows everything
that is holding me back-
the one who brings me
to my own tender
LOVING care!
So can I invert lifestyles?
into his lest do whatever
it takes- let thee blessing
corset be what I say or do.
There are hundreds of
ways to kneel and
kiss the ground.
Through my cling
for him, I want to
express my
sweet embrace for the
whole cosmos,
the whole of
humanity,
and all beings
to caress.
By  existing for him,
I want to dig up
For him more,
wholeheartedly.
Just I come
next to him
into loving him,
The way thou art love myself
I will be able to woo everyone
and all sorts o' order, disarray
Aside from unfit for the world
And of the world
[And I am beaming joy..
Yea glad with all my heart
That thus so blithesome
I myself can I be freely ache free]
A real understanding o' amity
What I really starve to do
is what I really aspire to affect to .
Whence doing well
what's purposely longed swell.
Whilst called for,
HOPE aught not get the worst of
Hard times
Nothing but good times
therefore,
Whether economics
meets waterloo breaks through;
comes to us,
Abundant mammoth o' thine mercy
open for us,
I feel functional,
and molded
deemed,
in the manner to be fond
of each other.
Discern to versed what I ache for
and if I dare to dream
of joining our heart’s pining
God's entwined love - waiting!
Because, all this time,
I've hankered to love you and you alone!
Yukon pots sib bully challah me Jude
dish hiss literary panhandler schlepping
along virtual figurative boulevard Asia
brogue kin bloke rattling tin cup aware
how quickly passersby dodge away as
if I got some incurable fatal disease,

which choice donning schnorrer roll
barley bread within these genes, and
leavened during years as flour child,
now dem years, where boyhood
penuriousness found prior once pip
squeak punkish kid, now scavenging

analogous to Dicken's poverty stricken
London), one lone backstreet beastie boy,
(albeit naive, innocent harmless, et cetera),
quite vulnerable to elements (periodically
tabling something wicked that invariably
came my way), but Justine Nick O' Time

plucked me out the maws obviously saving
worse fate than death (still waiting for Godot),
asper living scrounging for measly morsels
to stave off starvation, a smidgen moldy
stale vegetable, way overripe fruit crawling
with maggots (ah...protein), or ziplocked

airtight sweet treat, yet most scouting around
to treasure handful of grub met yours truly
with defeat, especially competing, (asper
survival of fittest), a ratty matted pack of
wild hungry animals (humans indistinguishable
among hordes), and singular primal sounds

comprised soul fully bellowing warning, and
no matter these poor looking mangy ravenous
skin and bones managed mustered guarding
spit of territory issuing threatening guttural
growling, a warning other predators took
seriously otherwise, they (ragtag motley crue

most often banded together) could find their
defiling ranks decreased, the weakest among
scraggly bunch taken down with ease, which
ruthless occasions found yours truly secreting
his bonafide bony hide, lest he get snapped up,
without warning one fell swoop, would mercilessly

clutch this forever pencil necked scrawny geek,
and attempt squeezing livingsocial daylights,
but not without fighting spirit, ("FAKE" Irish
seeps out), perhaps suffering minor cuts and
bruises, whereat remembrance, when long dip
hearted dearly mother enforced telling extremely

shy lad (barely resembling wasted weasley wobegon
whippersnapper scratching out illegible words
writ with blood (tragi-comic farcical ploy)
imagining philanthropic stranger whisking
(after sharing whiskey) one speck of flotsam

within jetsam amidst whirled wide web deriving
cold comfort (southern, when heading to warmer
clime during) bitterly cold nasty not so short winter
(lasting a bajillion years) hankered when sizzling
dog days o' summer return with vengeance.
Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen
born at Monmouth Medical Center
in Long Branch, New Jersey,
on September 23, 1949.

His nationalities include hodgepodge
of Dutch, Irish, and Italian descent.

He grew up Catholic in Freehold, New Jersey.

I dedicate the following poem
to aforementioned musician,
whose figurative guitar finger
kept on the throbbing pulse
resoundingly reverberating
across American heartland.

this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.
grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city
bonded with blood brothers
felt born to run along backstreets
in brilliant disguise that did cover me
frequently blinded by the light
of the full moon
casting silhouettes against darkness
on the edge of town
which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room,
while immersed in book of dreams
describing better days on a Cadillac ranch
where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark
celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july
or other glory days in darlington county
even though I ain’t got you.

livin’ in the future
mine hungry heart hankered
and felt like I’m on fire
for you, this fire in me craved human touch
desire - roaring into the ole factory fire
because I wanna marry you
because the night populated
with girls in their summer clothes
each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)
in imagination of my american skin
descended from when adam raised a cain
before last to die forecasting kingdom of days
now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.

now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down
meeting across the river
if I should fall behind
on the downbound train as living proof
within light of day magic jungleland
policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99
alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun
defending this lucky town
established on Matamoras banks
from an incident on 57th street
thus celebrated
as local hero every independence day
when, with ****** incorporated
firing point blank out in the street
that staccato new york city serenade
from no surrender outlaw pete
originally from nebraska.

it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night
within my hometown
once my father’s house, now my city of ruins
where tis moot to ask
does this bus stop at 82nd street?

one step up
into the pink Cadillac
hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket
teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere
a red headed woman
racing in the street toward secret garden
to save my love –
with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)
offering reason

to believe roll of the dice real world
and to prove it all night
from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel
housing souls of the departed
please save my love and stolen car
for sherry darling – that spirit in the night
she’s the one among souls of the departed
no longer stopped by state trooper
precinct based along streets of philadelphia
some crackling like streets of fire
straight time mandate
for those armed to the teeth
along tenth avenue freeze-out.

requiem per terry’s song – what love can do
accompanied by e street shuffle
performed in somber tones
rumbling down thunder road
for souls of used cars
two hearts crushed
along this hard land
for: the ghost of tom joad
the last carnival homage
to wild billy’s circus story
the price you pay when you’re alone
working on a dream
now wreck on the highway.

we take care of our own from youngstown
when heading of to the promised land
the rising distant mystical eden
where you can look,
(but you’d better not touch)
espying the river of salvation
joining eternally the ties that bind
a tunnel of love
or like the wrestler
pinning opponent tougher than the rest
like laborers working on the highway
chiseled like this hard land!
The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once nonagricultural,
pastoral, rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home while
veritably sequestered, quarantined, positioned...
sprawled atop spaciously shingled roof
countless years (B)efore (C)ovid-19
scanning distant horizon
for unsuspecting barenaked lady,
perhaps said goo goo doll sunbathing

catching rays while maybe listening
courtesy iPod to WXPN
one among several favorite stations of mine
one hotmail (male) buzzfeeding
avast fancy feast
home sweet home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
deceased parents then at their prime
both transplanted Brooklyn
Borough citified folks,
hankered to escape urban jungle
quickly acclimated livingsocial in the country.

Aforesaid domain didst span,
once assumed, encompassed, incorporated
one hundred plus acre wooded estate
(analogous to fictional land inhabited
by Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends)
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man.

Soon after aforementioned builder/realtor
bought expansive land
blueprints soon drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity.

Impossible mission to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition

analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
hired brawny hands to maximize
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
which prospective homeowner
doth figuratively hammer away.

Their choices limited indeed
maybe there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look
just the same sporting lawn
anticipating family with young children
ready to play kiddy game
such as: Ring-a-ring-a-rosies
A pocketful of posies
A tissue, a tissue

We all fall down
The king has sent his daughter
To fetch a pail of water
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The robin on the steeple
Is singing to the people
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down
The wedding bells are ringing
The boys and girls are singing
A tissue, a tissue
We all fall down.
Travis Wilson Feb 2021
Black and white and sepia tone
Clear distinctions to classify emotion
Passing moments, unclarified commotion
I'm sad to watch it fade away
Though I didn't feel much today
Tomorrow I'll find the filter
And I'll be sad today will wilter
Classify it with surroundings
A specific period sounding
Tie it to a visual anchor
Cars and clothing which we hankered
Markers now invisible
With these memories be indivisible
And I'll love those filters then
For the emotions they lend
Travis Green Apr 2022
He had me incessantly sizzling
Feeling feverish, dizzied
Wishing for his thrilling heat
Reel me into his powerful ignitable flames
Of amorous affection
I craved his exquisiteness
Seasoned with sweetness
I needed his irresistible treasurable physique
Pressed to every part of me
Held captive in his galaxy
I pined for him to drink down my gaytasticness
Like tequila sunrise
I hankered for him to take me
Into the deepest depths
Of his vessel where I could feel
His perpetual passionateness
Lost in all his astonishingness
In his relentless impressiveness
I was well away, aching for
His everlasting embrace
To feel his flaming hotness
His electric thoughts
Sink into his bright, fiery, and spicy sauce
A diabolical, inimical, piratical,
and venal worm,
whose cut throat devious shenanigans
found yours truly to squirm;
his addiction to money (mine)
sated until he ****** me dry
analogous to nicoderm,
yet impossible mission
to smoke out the most minute germ
converting life savings of mine
into bitcoin cyber currency.

Horrible reality of being hoodwinked,
preyed upon human vermin
immediately upended high jinxed mien
floundering ten thousand leagues
under the cyber sea
analogous to Titanic submersible.

I always feel myself surprised
to what length con artists (scammers)
expend themselves, when they
(he, she) could be
productive citizens of society.

In plain English,
yours truly got blindsided, extorted
interrogated, needled,
tricked, and frankly zapped
courtesy fobbing off
honest to goodness verity
springing from computer malware
kickstarting me to be virtually robbed
in broad daylight
with the fullest consent of
self anointed aspiring poet,
(steeled against irony

as if liberating money
in both saving
and checking accounts – two of each
emptied out as if expunged funds
belonged to somebody else),
when delivering a sucker punch
that cost me more than
thirteen thousand dollars
inviting such thoughts
to overdose on prescription medication.

Hence, the shonda rhyme
of utter literal pennilessness
decries hatred linkedin
proclaiming scathing wretchedness
upon the talking head
(with a clipped dialect)
ensnaring unsuspecting victims
(lower case in point -
writer of these words),
when Macbook Pro laptop
got rendered non functionally disabled
thank you ghost in the machine,
wherein reigned indubitable chaos.

Hence, loss of nest egg
(found me cracked up)
regarding resultant monetary liquidation
fall of the crowded house ushered
disquisition without hesitation
briefly describing my death
originally due to fetal positioned
congenital psychological affliction
and today's painful aggravation,
when countless Benjamins
gussied up as hobgoblins

joined human league
averse to plaintive benediction
thence, this with mine jetblue
skinny legs like a chicken
his (mein kampf) got dealt mortal
(who gives a hoot) blowfish
rem mains disintegrated
by mailer daemons usurped dereliction,
whereby sanity given eviction
in the subsequent fiction

that makes feeble attempt
to evoke stricken gumption,
where eons ago nihilistic thoughts rode
roughshod to wreak humiliation
upon prepubescent initiation,
whereby the antithesis of jubilation
kept the author (yes, yours truly)
like a trapped mouse
in a cat protected kitchen,
where no cheeses cur heist
could rectify or bring libation.

Noah hide dee ya what mailer daemon
possessed this earthlinked
live nada so hotmail
to splutter so much persiflage
as evidenced above and in the following.

Ye might well categorize
the palaver as pure llama
heaped dung attempting
to sneak into yar consciousness
as some esoteric badinage aspiring
to convey that this doodler
with words adroit
with the english language.

Temptation to bid fare thee well
bah humbug anguish
cuz down the gullet goes lethal drug
e'en without any farewell hug
after smacking lips polished
off deadly drink from mug.

Within reverie long fostered hankered freedom
at last attained to exit silently
terrestrial real estate oblate spheroid
during hulu heralded century 21,
which would deliver
(ants sir) rectifying eternal senescent deliverance.

Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness
and goodwill toward men/women
served as a mere pretense
extant the global arcade.

Nothing boot charade, enfilade
(albeit with limp poetic/
prosaic pugnacious), facade,
gilded hilariously inside *******.

Ever since he kickstarted lifelessly,
his noggin oddly plunged quietly
resting as a deceased shutterfly
tonight under vaporous wisps
as somber mood prevailed
amidst the cloistered silence imposed from
the shunted cremated preference
re: symbolic (logical)
figurative burial of Matthew Harris
subsequently reincarnated as soft dust.

Potter's field here I come,
one harried styled swiftly tailored
faceless book earthworm member
joined the rank n file
of his slimy brethren n cistern
when a mortal male
(crushed courtesy cruel
cockamamie crime) ceased
to live June twenty first
two thousand twenty three.

I foresaw how miserable fate worse than death
resolved, albeit at loss to kith and kin
of beloved brother, father to deux
darling grown daughters and husband
since July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six
now left destitute and widowed.

Immune to antics of scallywags,
the grim reaper undertook requisite business
and swung a his scythe with effortless breath
and started coffin.

He exhaled little billows of cold air
while awaiting the hearst
carrying lifeless body
of none other than me doppelganger.

Prior to imagined demise, I took special pains
to select an ideal piloted kamikaze pilot plot.

A mossy glen with a mill by the pond
of my boyhood swimming hole
served like the ideal welcome mat
for the return of this native son
long gone from his family estate of Glen Elm.

At pinnacle of storied fame
death struck (with welcome arms) unexpectedly
while dodging the madding crowd
off hucksters, punsters,
and xenophobic bummers
jostling to get a glimpse of renown author,
where paparazzi seemed
destined to track me down.

As the advocate of countless essays
on inalienable rights
for all creatures large and small,
no pause from the hounding
local populace offered peace of mind.

Until now!

The prospect of dying
never scared this non-believer.

Cessation of consciousness
essentially served completion of life
in corporeal form
and reconstituted physical being
into grist for other organisms to flourish.

Karma and glorious unique characteristics
comprising each of our respective charisma,
dogma, and persona
(generally comprising an enigma
to the world) absorbed
after contract with cosmic creator lapsed.

Brief occupancy on this terrafirma
as inscribed in genetic code
(merely a blink of an eye
in the universal schema)
gave this now deceased dreamer
notion to maximize enjoyment of each day.

One need not globe trot
(and boast of espying exotic places),
but could experience inner harmony
by imbibing the present.

Simple pleasures that abounded
in the wild or evoked via creative imagination
of august writers supplied
ample sustenance for satisfaction.

Contemplative and introspective mien
prompted Eros to be discerned
in the grand canyon of Mother Nature
in tandem with personal motive
to indulge like-minded thinkers
since the beginning of time.

Any given day frequently found thoughts
turning over every figurative
jagged rolling stone
when the veiled, shrouded, cloaked...
characterization invoking angel of death
might silently spring a surprise visit,
which metaphysical thought
interestingly enough gave sigh of relief.

Why?

Upon termination of enjoying existence
in living color, the eradication
of this pet peeve of mine i.e.
anxiety/ panic attacks
interwoven with inxs
of obsessive compulsive behavior
would dissolve into basic elements
of earth, wind and fire.

No iota amount of matter
marshaled the non-entity dimension
would assume command.

Those former psychological trials
would thence be relinquished
from their parasite role
and recompose cells
of one mortal man (me)
into matter to be recycled
into raw materiel
for other organisms to feast upon.

Basic constituent cells
of **** sapien in question
would become necessary seeds
for some other manifestation
for plant or animal development.

Godaddy maggots sans fancy feast,
a best buy per this former
foo fighting beastie boy,
whose nihilistic outlook
promulgated within his in utero psyche.

Gestation as an embryonic fetus,
the potential live, googly eyed,
earth-linked, wannabe hotmail prodigy
harbored no oshkosh bug gosh
pinterest to remain
in the world wide web of bad company.

Hence, nothing could mollify measly
mumbling linkedin kibitzer,
albeit progressive matchless
who unwittingly opened
the red box of Pandora.

Molecular features
would assume novel combinations
thru said degradation of flesh,
yet improvisation of biology
would wield wasted corpse
that once epitomized an articulate,
civil, enumerate, glib, invertebrate,
kind male into novel marvels
of unpredictable genus and species.
Written three years ago tomorrow,
yet superimposed (likened to
emotional palimpsest) upon
mental state of yore
recent post traumatic stress
triggered courtesy war
torn legally tendered greenbacks,
where enemy bonded, heisted, and netted
mine life savings, he
(who fabricated conspiracy
implicating Citizens Bank employees,
whereby I fell for
hook, line and sinker)

unfailingly didst surrender
willingly (figuratively suctioned)
hand over fist funds galore
at my expense did score
leaving me dirt poor
subsequently inducing scribe
of Schwenksville to be more
assertive and contact attorney general
in an effort to restore
forfeited cash confidence man wrested,
plucked, and extracted banknotes
wrenched stashed nest egg
tucked within secret hideaway under floor.

Psyche still particularly riven
upon heels of liquidated change
spurring yours truly
to rattle his virtual tin can
since series of unfortunate events
doomed harried luckless
Perkiomen Valley troubadour reincarnate
begging (he gently seeketh
financial succor viz gofundme) for largesse.

Even before scamming imbroglio,
I experienced disillusionment
regarding mein kampf and hard times
getting older and just scraping by
courtesy skin of my false teeth.

Impossible mission to avoid senescence,
nevertheless, yours truly sought
to hold back hands of time,
when pubescent metamorphosis occurred
(two and a half score years ago)
aging petrified me, and imposed
(Uriah) heap of great expectations
and unwanted responsibilities.

In short, I did not want to grow up
forced to don mantle of adulthood
instead hankered and hungered
for fictionally nostalgic boyhood,
whereby every day
in make believe webbed wide world
exemplified hunky dory nirvana.

Aside from experiencing adolescent depression
demeanor of yours truly,
said Lilliputian severely withdrawn.

Scapegoat my middle name
bullies identified perfect bullseye
analogous to trumpeting antagonists
me as carnival barker calls out:
step right up draw an arrow from quiver
take aim at mine plainly affixed target.

Deplorable basket case loathed adult role
idealized mythical boyhood
refrained eating - courtesy anorexia nervosa
deprived growing body necessary sustenance
scores of Earth orbitz
round sun since puberty,
now vehemently decry
growth process sabotaged
self stigmatized stunt(ed) man
I stand on tippy toes,
(with nails that grow askew),
a pygmy among giants.

Sadness ofttimes eclipses
hijacked and jackknifed joy
aware emotional faculty
thru conscious facilitated meditation
can jar infinitesimally
long log jammed **** friggin
invisible obstruction along battle creek.

Linkedin with recovery coach,
I experienced then
(that day being July 20th, 2020)
around high noon cathartic enlightenment,
which revelation heightened awareness
how when just a lil lad yours truly
exhibited socially withdrawn mean mien
mollycoddled by overprotective parents
placed no demands upon their

sole contemplative introspective,
and ruminative non prodigal son,
yet upon edging into adulthood
(and magical age of eighteen)
self same idiosyncratic person (i.e. me)
faulted for supposed antipathy
toward those who conceived yours truly;
I honestly confess lack of genuine interest
exhibited toward other family members.

Absent marginal positive self image
infinitesimal if ever present
within grown docile scaredy cat,
his informal assignment
gently suggested and accepted
with little objection
courtesy Maggie Jaramillo
brainchild social services
Creative Health employee.

Daily repeated self affirmations
(ideally more than once)
rapidly jotted down
ennobling exercise prompted
by aforementioned magnificent therapist
strongly suggested technique
to seed empowerment
fostering joie de vivre.

These waning days of
mein kampf and hard times
flicker with cautious optimism to wax poetic
versus referencing anecdotal
personal gloom frequently cited
sprung from raw bits
since powder milk biscuits
unknown to yours truly;
thee focus of disproportionate
maternal and paternal affections

unwittingly, unmistakably, and understandably
triggered sibling resentment
no matter brother where art thou
among self and two sisters
not deliberately, but inadvertently
created, fomented, incited, loosed...  
genies of envy, jealousy, ornery... out the bottle
an immediately recalled realization
during my formative years
never known to yours truly then
only recounted decades
ex post facto courtesy mother
some months prior to her death.
Impossible mission to avoid senescence
nevertheless, yours truly sought
to hold back hands of time
aging petrified me, and imposed
(Uriah) heap of great expectations
and unwanted responsibilities.

In short, I did not want to grow up
forced to don mantle of adulthood
instead hankered and hungered
for fictionally nostalgic boyhood
whereby every day
exemplified hunky dory nirvana.

Scapegoat my middle name
bullies identify perfect bullseye
analogous to trumpeting antagonists
me as carnival barker calls out:
step right up draw an arrow from quiver
take aim at mine plainly affixed target.

Deplorable basket case loathed adult role
idealized mythical boyhood
refrained eating courtesy anorexia nervosa
deprived growing body sustenance
scores of Earth orbitz round sun since puberty
vehemently decry growth process sabotaged
self stigmatized stunt(ed) man
I stand on tippy toes, a pygmy among giants.

Sadness ofttimes eclipses
hijacked and jackknifed joy
aware emotional faculty
thru conscious facilitated meditation
can jar infinitesimally
long log jammed **** friggin
invisible obstruction along battle creek.

Linkedin with recovery coach,
I experienced (today July 20th, 2020)
around high noon cathartic enlightenment,
which revelation heightened awareness
how when just a lil lad yours truly
exhibited socially withdrawn demeanor
mollycoddled by overprotective parents
placed no demands upon their

sole contemplative introspective,
and ruminative non prodigal son,
yet upon edging into adulthood
self same idiosyncratic person (i.e. me)
faulted for supposed antipathy
(lack of genuine interest)
toward other family members.

Absent marginal positive self image
infinitesimal if ever present
within grown docile scaredy cat,
his informal assignment
accepted with little objection
constituted the following:

Daily repeated (ideally more than once)
self affirmations jotted down
(courtesy brainchild
of yours truly, yet prompted
by unnamed magnificent therapist
employed by creative health services)
strongly suggested technique
to seed empowerment fostering joie de vivre.

The waning days of
mein kampf and hard times
flicker with cautious optimism to wax poetic
versus anecdotal personal gloom frequently cited
spring from raw bits whereby yours truly
thee focus of disproportionate
maternal and paternal affections

(an immediately recalled factotum)
unwittingly created sibling envy
dur my formative years
never known to yours truly then
only counted decades
ex post facto courtesy mother
some months prior to her death.
Travis Green Apr 2022
If I could have held onto his flourishing, firm body
I would have clung to him to embrace
The enchantingness of his masculineness
I wished for his long and astonishing kisses
His exquisite white teeth sliding against my pliable neck
And bouncy blooming beanbags

I needed to feel his warm, bewitching chest
Let his blazing breathtaking slang stream into my throat
I hankered to kiss and touch his body hair
Blow ****** air against the surface
Smell his tantalizing sweetness, my weakness
I longed to love him in all his wholeness

Rub his thick luminescent thighs and long, lithe legs
Cover his feet with my supremely skilled hands and mouth
Arched stellar shoulders, how I revere their peerlessness
I eagerly anticipated stroking his solid-wall arms
The fragrant flat frame of his sleek stomach
Drift away in his embracement to impassioned matchless paradise

His extraordinarily rare charm romanced me endlessly
I was utterly dumbstruck, lusting for his seductiveness
Unbelievably fascinated by his luscious landscape
Of macho muscle, craving to concede to his exhilarating thunder
Feel his skyrocketing sensual sparks
Like hot, unstoppable gunshots penetrating my heart
Travis Green Apr 2022
When I stare at his picture
I am filled with fathomless feelings
Wishing to spend one long and steamy night with him
My body pressed to his, caressing the sensational
Surface of his solid caramel brown chest
Lick his delicious ripped abs
Like luscious pancakes smothered in rich sweet syrup

I know it didn’t make sense
To imagine doing these things to him
But I love his smoothness
How his lustful masculine lips
Reminds me of a glorious morning dew
A prodigious profuse beard
That takes me into a peerless perfumed forest
Of ebullient immeasurate dreams

He didn’t know how much I hankered
For him to linger in my bloodstream
The touch of his masterful matchless hands
Against my lustrous maple brown sugar skin
The treasurable magicalness in his **** honey brown eyes
Delightful dark eyebrows flawlessly
Arched to my heart, fashionable black
And yellow drip that highly enthralls me

I didn’t know an essentially sexalicious man
Could be so super good to my soul
So intensely intriguing when he flexes
Hot stellar cologne streaming over my feminine body
His biceps are extraordinarily breathtaking
His marble black beard beguiling
His tattoos creative and A-grade

He makes me feel unparalleled ecstasy
I can feel him touching me without being around me
He drives me crazy, makes me so wild with excitement
Craving to taste his perspiration
To rub his gracefully massive muscles
Feel him melded to me sexually
His immersing kisses so sweet to my physique
Enduring all of him, feeling his thugness inside me
Rendered helpless in his prepossessingness
Travis Green Feb 2022
I was all mixed up
When he held me near to him
What was he doing?
Why was I so stimulated?
His magically strapping body
Was so surpassingly attractive
It felt so gratifying to be constrained by his masculineness
Having his sturdily superb hands on my flesh
Stroking my *******, biting and licking them
As I glided in his invitingness

He consoled me right
Gave me his powerfully mesmerizing passion
Allowed all his animalistic wildness to run wild within me
Showed me his freaky side
Cherished me like a uniquely emerald and iridescent pearl
Regulated my gayness
Allowed his muscles to make music with my masterpiece

I hankered for his masculinity to swirl around in my mind
Give me that wild kind of high
Make me erupt in the embracement of his impassioned arms
Let his breath float over my shoulders
His ****** hands slithering up and down my stomach
I was incarcerated in his amazingness
Feeling so immensely juiced in his smoothness
He conquered me deeply
In my mind, I was his fragrant lavender flower
His sweet, delicious Reese’s Pieces

His kisses were suffused with complete lust
He turned me out even more
I was gayer than before
I looked into your ****, lively eyes
Dwelling on if it was all a dream
But he was facing me
So ******* seductive and powerfully made
Travis Green Sep 2021
It was your masculinity
That I maddeningly ached for
Anxious to drape your muscled flesh
With **** wet kisses
Place my sweet scarlet lips
On the sanctuary of your fervent abs
Regulate your brick made chest

I hankered to drink
Your burning hot dreams
Feel the deep intensity
Of your dimensionality
The delicate dopeness
Drifting in your poetry
On my heavily drenched chest

I hugely hungered to be
Your lickerish gift
Giving myself to you
For you to finesse my vessel
Make me even moister
When you explore the source
Of my core with your heat generator
Travis Green May 2022
You were my new conquest
The one I craved most of all

I wanted your red-hot sauce
Your crash-hot body

Lay you on my soft, cozy bed
Move my tongue gently all over you

Taste your vast, spectacular magic
Feel your shudder and utter sweet passionate words

I hankered to dine on you more
Make you surrender your inner world to me
Travis Green Jan 22
His enchantingly attractive manliness
Made my head spin
The more I gandered at the grandness
Of his gangbuster gorgeousness

He made my man ***** throb
With red-hot thoughts of his machoness
Meandering through my mental space
Regulated me like no other

I was so deep into him
So lost in his appealing slickness
Imagining him all over me
Stripped naked, penetrated
By his tasty thickness

Draped in his unparalleled enchantingness
I hankered for him to pound me
Without hesitation
Take me to a thousand treasured places
That led to unadulterated ecstasy
Travis Green Feb 2022
I desired a future intensely with you
I dreamed of us streaming in great happiness
Lovingly kissing every chance we had
Grasping one another to feel the fervor
There was nothing else to quench my soul
You were the only one in my mind that I wanted to flow with

I thought about you on many silent and solitary nights
I wished to see you when I knew it was impossible
All I could do was listen to slow jams to while away the time
But you lingered in my mind more than anything else
You were the greatest love I extremely hungered for
I wandered in parallel universes, yearning for your masculinity

I hankered to roll with you wherever you went
I wanted to be down with you
You had a sophisticated style that I dug
All I could think about was loving you
It would be hypnotizing if we could vibe together
We could smoke a rolly and relax into the night

— The End —