"imperturbably" poems
Bruno
he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:
Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor. I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity. I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy ***** just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations. No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.
Caspian
Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies. Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion. Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.
Roland
He’s like a Mayan calendar. Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious. He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco. Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples. You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.
Sol
His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy. The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle. His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency. The weight of his words, the upward convection of their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant. He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.
Richthofen
He is manumission, no more the faded vision of body incarnates ghosts. He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant. Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency. He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******** of pornographic wit. The incongruous incognito with no moniker. Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
I’m tired of this old secret.
It drowned in the endless churning of my
washing-machine mind
long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,
languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate
dryer of a heart.
I’m too familiar with its satin surface —
the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,
the corresponding bump underneath,
the different textures (now worn faint
and smooth) that once marked
the subtle variations in shade —
and I’m tired of its constant presence
almost unnoticed
cradled in the palm of my right hand.
I’m tired of it.
And so I step back
and swing
my arm in one great resolute arch.
When,
satisfied,
I turn my back on the distant thud
that marks its far-off landing,
my hands find their way into my pockets.
It is still there,
lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint
and empty wrappers.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Bruno
he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:
Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor. I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity. I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy ***** just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations. No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.
Caspian
Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies. Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion. Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.
Roland
He’s like a Mayan calendar. Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious. He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco. Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples. You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.
Sol
His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy. The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle. His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency. The weight of his words, the upward convection of their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant. He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.
Richthofen
He is manumission, no more the faded vision of body incarnates ghosts. He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant. Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency. He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******** of pornographic wit. The incongruous incognito with no moniker. Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 1:51 PM UTC
They tell me in man
lies the source of evils
as weakness surrenders
to ineluctable lures.
That he pursues aims
of personal interest
out of egocentric greed
prompting justice, inequity.
That he turns blind eyes
to the sufferings of others
unable of compassion as he
steals their earthly blessings.
That he imperturbably drains
natural resources to his gain
careless of consequences
apathetic towards environment.
That in the name of telluric power
he does not hesitate to drop
bombs and fire guns
on discriminated innocents.
Watches his fellow beings die rejoices
for the success of his missions,
Yet I know, that for each
malicious creature there is one.
That preaches good and acts
accordingly, finding strength
in the marvel that is
his own existence.
That appals before ignorance
repels individualism
conceives humanity as one race
believes and strives for equality.
That sees the struggles the tragedy
of the less fortunate born
on lands of war sickness and poverty
lending a hand of empathy.
That cares for his surroundings
cherishing the boons granted
to all living creatures
endeavouring to protect, his world.
That is dismayed by injustice
abhors violence and abuse
engages courage to protest
incessantly crying out, for peace.
Delights gifting strangers smiles
tender looks of presence whispering
brotherly, You are not alone.
A kind word, a loving deed, a revolution.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
Now, for all you imposing and esteemed lives
For all those imperturbably anguished public
Let me disclose this parade
Never have I recognized
The substantial alternative
Of a true decompressed life
So long, and goodnight
My opulent guests
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC