Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
You say You want to breed _

me

You want to put Your seed _

in me

You want to get me face down _

naked

just don't need another Mr. _

Fake it



my brown skin spoiled for Your _

tongue

my heart beats a rhythm to Your _

drum

my essence is in sync with Your _

sensations

my love GPS is linked to Your _

vibrations


You can read my body's _

mysteries

You produce the scenes in my _

fantasies

You command my loyalty and _

attention

You wish i'd obey Your _

direction


the only gift You want is to _

control

i am the award You want to _

own

my belly burns for Your blue _

fire

my skin tied in Your knotted _

desire


Winter 2016
John F McCullagh May 2012
to contemplate your beauty
is this poets' guilty pleasure,
but, as we're taking separate trains,
this joy won't last forever.
The play of light upon your face
as you read some Lovers' twit
gives you an aspect of Kabuki
in the station's dark abyss.
Your perfect, doll-like, features
painted porcelain by the light
An oasis of sheer beauty
amidst the station's urban blight.
Too quick, the moment passes.
I board and you remain.
For, you see, I'm headed Westbound
aboard the downtown train.
You reminded me of one I loved
in another place and time.
The girl who is forever young
and never far from mind.
This is a composite of images encountered yesterday. In the course of my travels I encountered a stunning beauty waiting on a train platform, An Asian girl with an I phone who  was rendered pale white like a kabuki mask and a girl with perfect skin and impossibly perfect doll like features.   Here they are made one.
Ben Dec 2011
white
                red
                            black
graceful contortionist
             hidden
               faces


samurai?
demon?
princess?
zebra Jul 2018
come sit on my words
dear reader
like outdoor furniture
for thin hips

while spooky poets peer up under gaudy umbrellas
nervous about making a good impression

all of your hosts
snuffed candles burning-out
for metaphors and alliterations

begging
one poem at a time
for a light
that we will never see

go ahead
antagonize me
you, who live in an idealized passed
fear the future
and ignore the present
while i hide like a little girl  
behind the bare legs of poetry

that will show you!

my head a hanging web
that feels words like cosmic storms
tumbling stone heads
onto boulders of terracotta shards

my ink smells like stinky saliva
a dragging wet tongue of ambiguity
a kabuki fight to the death
unwinding paper machete viscera
and plucking out make-believe hearts
while gobbling fortune cookies containing  
jokes, platitudes, and fortunes
that never come true
in a dreamland of *******'s

i'm trying to break something in you!
Mike Essig May 2016
Today is made real
by changing yesterday.
Time is not a line,
but a field within which
we particles dance,
and dancing, alter all,
making the past future,
creating active history,
performing our lives
behind living masks.
Austin Heath Feb 2016
Trading in our hearts,
unemotionally here.
Turning to the sun;

We don’t find answers,
we don’t even find solace.
We dance like they do,

like impressionists.
Our art still has clear borders/
Performances end.

We take our masks off.
Pointing out our own flaws, yet…
hmm… Something like this.

Talking at myself
again and learning nothing
new of importance.

So, dance flower dance,
tear your roots and die trying
to amaze us all.
Austin Heath Nov 2016
Dance flower dance and
When it rains you might drown but
“freedom” has shades now.

To the mower you’re
just taller now. Just taller.
I had dreams last night,

took ill by morning,
I was on a bus headed
somewhere new to me.

I didn’t know where,
I just knew I was scared and
wanted to go home.

I hate this so much,
and I can’t even give up.
I haven’t earned it.

So dance flower dance,
tear your roots out, die trying
to impress us all.
bulletcookie Jul 2018
digging in dirt and finding stones
so round they pretend a marble
a perfect gift for one that had none

what then ten thousand years this human drama
compared to fluted knocks of Kabuki glaciers
grinding on this whetstone of earth

a millennial movement of giants
hoed out valleys, rivers and sound
long before our first step dance

these same kanji, mound their costume dress
having played an early performance
leaving a staged terrain over tectonic duress

we come barrelling into history's Geo
rat-a-tat tapping our ratamacues
after all, knee bent, as a pea seed of Clio

-cec
Francie Lynch Oct 2019
You don't wear black face.
You'd never do such.
You don't wear white face;
Do you Kabuki?
Mime, non? Mime, oui?
But every March,
Millions of others,
Attired in green,
Some painted like Celtic warriors,
Affect terrible brogues,
And get sotted, some must disgracefully.
That's what the Irish do, think they?
I won't wear a yarmulke on Yom Kippur,
Not a burka on Eid al-Adha,
Or lead the parade
Up Fifth Avenue.
Slainte
Don't know why the world thinks the Irish are drunkards. I go to Ireland every year, and the only drunks I see are North Americans, whites and blacks, gays, straights and all others not mentioned.  Even the phrase "Paddy Wagon" is an ethnic slur.
Jake Spacey Sep 2015
cant shake a feeling, im reeling
like straw slurping and ice cream brain freezes
sweet and lovely but unrelieving
that face on you, unpleased and making me queasy
ill take that spark, light my cigarette and try to forget
with whats left, it wont be easy

my stomach coils, will this ever be ending?
smoggy chemicals and glue between us peeling
pulling back my skin from bone
so will you be home? im mailing you my pieces but signatures needed

and sure enough, i got it back- i drank it way too fast
like two puzzles, exactly the same but painted differently
cardboards not to last, the best things are made of glass
shattered by high frequency, shards cut losses
for now its just a rash, this too will pass
one must acknowledge the mundane
before one can expand to the spectacular
accept that the world is a veil
a sham set in front of a backdrop
one that has rarely changed
beyond exit stage left for a core set of actors
until we seperate fortune from fame
it will be the same masks laughing back at us
that have laughed at every other disaster they have been master of
dave camos face cant really look like that?
Anais Vionet Jun 2023
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé

It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.

In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.

Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”

That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.

Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Adumbrate: “to partially outline and obscure”

Slang: “dupes” are off-brand knock-offs of famous luxury brands
I’ve been known by many names
And been called a plethora of things
I desire your soul’s music
For sweet melody my core sings

***** and **** they say
Demon, monster and sinner too
Please, for the love of God
Believe lies, they’ve whispered to you

But they only see the facade  
The kabuki painted and worn
I’ve danced so many times
My costume stained and torn

Look beyond the mirage
I wish only for you to see
What everyone else ignores
The one and only me
Auntie Hosebag Nov 2010
kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.

Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.

It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.

No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.

No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.

Agreed.

Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.

The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat.  Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.

Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.

Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.


11/5/10
First ever version of this was written for Jane Walsh in Houston, somewhere around March, 1978.  It's been revised many times since but I think we all agree it's Jane's poem.
Brycical Aug 2011
He looks like a kabuki dragon
acid trip, only on his left half.
After ordering some coffee,
this man, of intimidating height
continues his conversation with the blonde.

The green ink covers his face,
and slowly meanders to the left of his body.
Hairless, the glasses and earring
make his exterior look like a pearl.
As he talks with his hands,
the green moves like leaves in a jungle
that swallowed the gem.

In a single swipe,
his paws could crush mountains.
Both hands envelope the coffee cup
as if it were a tiny kitten he is leaning in to kiss.
Despite his brutish appearance,
I can tell he is a gentle creature.

His deep voice is soothing,
as each sentence hums  
though it causes the coffee shop to shake.
I wonder if gods sound like that
or if all the smoke this dragon man exhales
has deepened his chords.

I’m nervous this living mythical figure
will catch me staring,
though I’m sure it wouldn’t be the second time
he’s had to ignore it.
I’m envious, knowing his journeys
and personality are etched into his skin
for the world to see.
But only he knows the translations.

So bold,
so confidant to wear not just love
but pain and life-lessons on his skin.
Perhaps I’m drawn or inked to him
because I could never be that open,
and honest without saying a single word to anyone.
John F McCullagh Aug 2018
It was something of a medical miracle;
First, an acid attack had destroyed one girls face.
Then another young woman died and
her parents donated her guise
so the first girl's could be replaced.

It was a delicate operation,
detaching the face of one dead.
It became  as pale as a Kabuki girls'
It looked like a death mask they said.

How strange then was the sensation
when the patient was UN-mummified
To see someone else in the mirror;
The face of a stranger through her eyes.

She was glad to once more appear human
though the donor was somewhat older  than she.
She would live out her days in the face of another-
but then, We are all wearing masks- aren't we?
A delicate operation attached the face of a deceased 31 year old to a young woman whose own face had been destroyeed
zebra Mar 2017
she viewed the sword blade
coming out of the floor      
and whispered      
i need this            
pulling her ******* down      
    
watch me drill my self to death
for you my beloved      
her ***** swollen      
drooling      
******* and eyes radiant      
as she sauntered to the upright blade      
carefully placing her **** over it      
looking at me sweetly      
saying      
i should do my ***      
don't you think      
smiling      
yes please do it slow my love      
i want to savor you my darling      
          
at first she stood over it      
on flexed tippy toes      
careful to position herself just so      
running her soft fingers over the blade      
willfully cutting them      
and slowly bringing her slender slit hand      
to her lips          
with pink tongue licks    
like blood diamonds      
in cherry red saliva      
swallowing          
and then smiling      
standing over the tip of the blade      
          
she said      
holding my self up is such a bother      
im sure if i let go      
gravity will help      
this blade  
slide right through      
tender little me      
ooooooooow      
          
i asked      
do you want drugs for pain      
no she  protested      
i need to feel  
every stitch      
every tearing inch          
    
she lifted her arms      
like a ballerina      
forming a rainbow arch      
looked straight ahead      
unflinching      
and descended slowly upon the blade      
our eyes transfixed upon each other      
her face resolute      
perspiring      
giving way to a hideous twist        
she a contorted kabuki      
a raging storm    
languishing    
in hooked embrace    
of Eros and Thanatos    
a charmed grotesque        
          
trussed in a gauze wrap      
****      
**** the little *****      
she called to hell      
blood and a little excrement      
slid down her milky thighs      
a helpless resignation          
          
am i pretty yet      
she quivered      
as she released her stance        
and let gravity      
do its ghastly work      
    
shall i finish this she asked      
for dark thrills embrace          
yes do it i called out          
tears falling like sapphire mist    
undo yourself with grace    
          
she extended her arm towards me        
with her sweet blood drenched hands      
and then in slow motion      
she fell through the blade      
up her center      
like she was      
buttery gruyere      
blood gushed      
face ivory white      
twisted      
the floor washed    
in pomegranate and rust      
puddling at her feet      
          
she whispered      
im dead soon      
let me have      
jelly ****      
i slipped in her mouth        
she looked up tenderly
aglow like      
midnight on fire          
          
i grabbed her drooping  head,
forcing her downwards      
impaling tremulous mouth and throat      
her eyes fluttered      
and blinked      
as she drank me      
    
and then a long stare      
eyes wide    
a grateful gaping horror  
before leaning into the blood stained floor      
a slumping spire  
dissolute        
thumping like an echo      
          
im hypnotized      
as she looks on blink-less  
a mesmerizing shell        
as if to say        
ohhh my darling      
am i not your sweet clamoring      
***** of death          
still loving you  
in my reckless way      
use me my love            
devour me          
          
she dissolved      
like white sugar    
in the heat of summer balm      
uttering          
her last words      
as if pure spirit      
        
there are those who dare      
to give themselves permission    
to entwine      
desire and death    
an eroticism rooted      
in the irreducible discontinuity of life..      
          
i consumed her entrails      
i licked the blood and excrement from her tender feet      
i ate her tongue and eyes      
i pulled her off the sword      
dragged her leaking corpse    
over my naked  body      
like a blanket          
to drown my self      
in her death      
caressing her till darkness came over me      
          
let them find us i whispered      
in her sloping      
hollow mouth      
our bodies fused in each others      
her corpse melted over mine      
like blood butter      
          
dread on dread      
o so dead      
princess perfect and i in bed
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, although i admit to my paraphilias
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
#death  #***  #adult  #explicit  © zebra    love poems • death poems • sadomasochism poems • ****** poems • explicit poems
ConnectHook Apr 2019
Kabuki monstrosities of cute

   White snivel, and children who sniffle as they walk.
    The containers used for oil. Little sparrows


shopping-malls of Shinto reactors
tsunamis of Hello-Kitty schoolgirl ****


   Pretty, white chicks who are still not fully fledged
    and look as if their clothes are too short for them


tiny plates of aesthetically-arranged trivialities
meaningless Engrish phrases on T-Shirts


     Last year’s paper fan. A night with a clear moon    
       One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion

in herd-like apathy, they download Anime Girlfriend App
the robotic allure of the Orient defined


    To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes
     An earthen cup. A new metal bowl. A rush mat


cramped restaurant-bars with detailed replicas of food
PROMPT #9 : engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise,
inspired by the work of a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings […] write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.”
Rob Sandman Mar 2016
Bolero

Roll….slowly,let me rope your soul solely,
As you feel the Sandmans touch take control see,
Theres a whole lotta atmospheric pressure involved,
Rhymes gamed, flames flamed- new riddles to be solved,
Dissolve yourself in my dissolution,
Sudoku rhymer-kabuki solution,
My approach comes over the crowd like a wave-

Hypnotic suggestions -  your psyche’s enslaved,
Sway,stay,pray - I prey on your grey matter,
Thoughts dreams and scenes flee all become scattered…
A battered suit of plate armour that STILL holds firm,
Come with me as I whisk you away into the firmament,
See stars born and die in mere millisecs,
Come get drawn further every parsec,
Away from Earth a mere ball of dirt,
Some try to escape their fate the truth can hurt...

But we’re all stardust,so return to your beginnings,
Still spinning,no sinning hear the Multiverse singing,
my Bolero whips you tight in triple time,
dance with me hold tight to my rhyme…
Just started this today,
listening to the Bolero's unusual sound pattern
and wondering would it be possible to Rhyme over...
fell out of me so far!,
more to come...
JoJo Nguyen Jan 2018
There is a Soldier I know

Her short cadence
with military precision
is always careful

At every bridge she
breaks step
to avoid foolish
oscillations a peeking midriff jog
pounding shoes
on asphalt pavement
hard could these send infatuated
hopes to destructive swing

Who knows what chasm
fantasized are crossed
Who knows what war
wages and what broken
battle of bulges lost
Why burn another Leader
ego living in some
Downfall Bunker

There is a Soldier I know

Her short cadence
in boots bare run faster
than legged strut

Every night she comes
through a backroom window
protected by a silver
Spoon at best
and every morning she
survives as golden tongue
poetry written on
our wired cages

There is a Soldier I know

Her name is Eden
and her hands are hot
with Dante's inferno

Her adolescent face is cool
and on each ear
a ring of Blue Herons

Every day her short cadence
brings rouge life
to our clay complexion
and every night
her milky whey
lips wonder lost
in our King Lear
kabuki song
W Jan 2014
Near two decades since they arrived
The two geminis that would change the world
Fumblestumbletumble to teenage dream (phone screens are like stars in the night)
Two sets of eyes long for the landscape beyond the foggy window they share

They are specters like all teenagers
Shadows floating down hallways with the echoes of laughs left behind
But magic lies in those lilting giggles
As if to mock Plato himself for ever dreaming of the shadows (and the caves and)
Heads tilt as eyes gleam
Hair puffed with the tempest of their heredity and half-remembered fears
(Assuming fears can be so)
Shakes with the head as the laughter begins
Self aware at the kabuki theater

While in the vibrations of the beat to their dance
The poet's heart throbs and the champion's digs into the ground
Roots to dig and battles to win
Love (they say it's all you need but) in each wrist-flick and hug
Defiant in its drive (to what end)

The air is warm inside when we sit on a couch
Unaskable questions flying like the teenage dreams
And even though the wind blowing freezes
Sometimes the only warmth to thaw the skin comes from a loosened tongue
Or a smile with the unfindable answers shining on each tooth
So they laugh

And I am forever grateful
A birthday present (a wee bit late).
Third Eye Candy Apr 2017
Keep your foot on the gas
Your heart on the brake.

return your map
to it's original destination...

the mad rhino
of your naivete, churning -
heresies
that remove
the mundane
carols
in the vault of
all choirs;
tongue kissing the Pegasus
of polyamorous
glints from god's
monocle

flanking the herd
of Gnostic Ferraris,
chewing the soft shoots of bonsai prairie
roaming the banquet
of aimless,
refreshing the lady's goblet
of godsmack
as naturally a termite
loathes a Queen that can't remember
your name
because she hates
your father...

miles and miles of
pink

accumulate the misfits of your jigsaw.
gaining on the horizon
of your blindspot
feels like an Ecstasy of Selfishness
baptized in chrysanthemums
of compassion.
whose pollen makes a black honey
that fills the gap
between the smell of a baseball glove
and  third degree burns
from your heart's
desire.

you are pilgrim charmed, out in the open heart of serene surgery, on an errand, poppies fed to destiny
on pillows of rice and grey Callings...
you are tapping the apocalypse of previous Edens
witness to the birth of a vague distinction
between your honest mistakes and god's love in the 23rd row,  catching the school play
you wrote in the margins of your error.
a fruit bat with scurvy on picture day... fanning a Polaroid of Duration
in kabuki.

your car, a Chinese beetle hugging the asphalt Rhine of a Blue Melon
tilting on the axis
of an early spring...
your windshield, yielding
with honor
to savage blows
from sunsets
that milk
nightfall.

   mecca, entangled in your dead sea sonnets
is the hole in your shoe
where moons clog
and first steps shave
their heads, smooth

hiking on four wheels , approaching the true form of an open question
head out the window across from mirage with spin in it's teeth.
facing the jasmine of bittersweet typhoons
inking henna tattoos
on both arms
of stopped clocks...

like kudzu, in a difference engine, coiled around a spark

like a widow 'round a foggy recollection of her true love
39 pixels
of a better half
that made you
whole.
Butch Decatoria Mar 2016
Is it insomnia
when I don't care for sleep?

The sort of sleep that is belligerent
interruptions at each half past
in the middle of every hour,
intervals of interlopers
awoken by invisible passersby
floating enemies striking me
with the hatred of their kinesis
cerebral lightning at my heart
or attempts at my suffocation
as I wake to a coughing start,
intruders invading my dream mind
as well as its peace

anything that would hurt me
they revel in my breaking,
I can hear the clicking of laughter
of teeth...

Deserts and all our cities
should have crickets,
yet Vegas feels like its been dying
the quiet now replete
no chirp of the lucky bugs
nor busying of bees with their buzz
rather its the fizzle of neon panic
the beatitude of cheats
the machinations of gamblers' defeat

or sometimes mostly
this deep in the twilight
a swarm of Ninjas, Suzuki, Kawasaki roars
toward their kabuki foot rubs
a twenty gets you a dub
rub you long time
for an hour behind red doors

Try to spank myself to sleep
if not to exhaustion,
but I can still hear the distant piercing
screaming
of latter days & soilent green
the secret war as alien is to any sound
sleep.

They look like people
we look like meat,
the living dead
their sake's flesh
all torn away and beat
up like faithful lovers that creep
seduced by the sluice
of the street / symphonies,
of rocket ship Discovery

Can't turn the volume down
in the black of night
when my mind's eye
is behind a veil
in the dark of 2:22
(in recovery)
and still the aliens
wretchedly wail...

whilst i'm
slumming in attempts at slumbering,
the greys are watching
humans lumbering
               and *******
two twenty two
in the dim
twilight
morning...
Sherry Asbury Jul 2015
Charade

“Stand behind me now,”
I tell the charcoal scarecrow.

Bony fingers tap, trying to refract me
into my darkest madness.

In the dusty silence, trying
to supplant me, is a madwoman.

They won’t know - I hide myself
within myself.

My Kabuki face stands in for me.
Ghost worms wind themselves around me,
trying to pull me from my cherished space.

Never let them see you are crazy -
or they will expect it all the time.
Mike Essig Feb 2017
Be sure to secure your own mask
before helping others with theirs.
Droll instruction, but essential.
Wise advice for all in transit.
In a world of facile familiarity
you will need to clamp it on tight
to make sure it never slips.
Knowing who you truly are
does not mean that others should.
Join in the necessary Kabuki dance.
Let them guess what lurks behind.
They will anyway and usually wrong.
You are so much more and so much less.
Make every day of your every day
a safe and mysterious trick or treat.
Be sure to secure your own mask
before helping others with theirs.
brooke Jun 2016
when when  when
and the more I say it
the more it sounds like
another language, archaic
german or synonym for
rice bowl in mandarin
the more I say it, the more
it fades from minor burn
to casualty, from rhetorial
question to plea, until I'm
sweating out in my apartment
angrily slamming clothes hangers
into the closet, shakily raising my
voice at God like a waspish child
and tearing dresses over my head
proclaiming see? see? I'll never
get to wear this one either.

curling my fingers into the bedspread--
around bottles of tea tree oil and dragging
an old kabuki brush through peach blush
holding my lips this way and that, when?
when will it be enough?


When will it be enough?
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
zebra Feb 2018
you never tell me to go **** myself
unless you want to help me do it
like when you get on your knees
after doing the knife stamp dance
loving my sickness as your own
Your *** a weaving curl

if I asked you to eat worms
you'd run to the tackle store
and buy a box of them
put on blood red lipstick
and tarnish your gleaming pearly whites
you all leg spread
**** on a plate
doing the shimmy
and gobble them down
making your tongue brown
like **** from hell
flashing your eyes like lightning
and laugh making me eat the rest
before ordering me to lick your ***
like Mr. Clean
all **** and span

obedience is our lubricant
each other's darkest secret dreams
baked in the fires of a red-hot furnace
mixing our ashes
and boiling blood

what's next ?
bare feet on hot coals
rope burns
little strangles and tender kisses
cherry blood **** to devour
ballet toe licking
my **** wrapped by you in a square  knot
whos the queen
whos the king
whos the *****
princess of ***** deeds
whos groveling in the mud
begging for a spanking
******* like red raspberries

we are

tears of passion
saliva kisses
each other's kabuki **** doll

hurt me, hurt you
we cry and die
loving like coiled monsters in heaven

when we walk down the street
arm in arm we know
no one could ever have us
like we have each other
sick twisted lovebirds
gargling bloodstones
bending over for each other
at every turn
**** and ****** rings
to pull us along
**** forced open
fingers lickin good
preamble
spicy screaming kisses like nettles
on drunken nights
our *** like dripping buds
black cat perfume
our bed an ancient red alter
spikes for sacrifice
all golden glow

Queen Snakes
voluptuously ******
cuddle in Carpathian mists
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
RED
1.        Dying of a day /     reflections


on surfaces of oceans


burnt umber, blue, and blood

the sinking sun

                       wounded

death is red


before the dark         / ruins...



2.

It is the sensation of ripples
when supple pink linguist
leaves poetic yearning

fires touching
on nape and taste,

lifting countries and new
conquered kingdoms
of skin

gooseflesh and earthquakes
blood as lava

rushes in
     kabuki cheeks
          secret joy begins

red and parched

sudden seas of thirst
parts / our senses / must
breathe ...
(like art)

Magic whispers kiss
because touch enpassioned
is red
    and wish.



3.

Love lorn letters

poetic bliss
     spontaneous wings born


each ache and void
trumpeting words

when distance fails
the hearts which speak

red

the oceans felt
the tides that ebb
hurried pleas

desperations
red

when letters
lose the dying magnitude

the importance
and impetus

that love must free

clarion song
of hearts are red

as are all
kisses (scarlet)
even to air
and dead

begins on such lips

red....
Try starting with 3 and finishing with 1, and the story may seem more clear. Either way, the progression of emotion is the same... any questions please don't hesitate to message me.
the look of words - in any language - across a page
brings to mind the gestures of dances
slow, or wildly free
a waltz, perhaps, or
an arabesque
a twyla tharp choreography or
a martha graham ballet
an earthy folk dance
a Japanese kabuki,
a Chinese dragon or lion dance

some lines of words also look like music
some, like wind instruments
others are a slow walk to anywhere
(which is a dance, too)
the flow of words takes us with it
expresses through music and gesture
so much more than their definitions
are sacred sounds expressed through
movement across a page,
across an invisible divide between you and me,
over a mountain range on elephants,
to conquer a heart

and satisfy a soul


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Robin Carretti May 2018
Rev it up
revelations
Poems
I am starting to heat
Like a sweet ***
The thirst to quench
The sun stays never to be
switched
Like a birth
glowing rich
The procreation bloom

Egyptian words
Do they really need more room?
((One Day Creation))

575 Haiku 24/7
A spiritual touch
of the Rumi
Kabuki
Whom he?
Through me
His poem
Knew my assumptions?
Run around  to Sue-me__
Mooney Cafe George
Clooney

5-Loves too many?
7-Moves money talks
5-Doves peek woo
Love me do
You know
I love Poems
More than you

Loves five fire tribe
and words enlight
The punchy resolution
That's your flight
Shes higher love doves
He craves all her words

((Divination))

To resist the
temptation
Fruit punch someone
got a hunch
One Stanza not a bunch
The Nutcracker Ballerina
Italian Archetypal Piza

Celestial Poems
Mystical poetically
loved
Hierarchy of her
poem potent
well-fit glove
Such words to build
Strength with
dignity such a rarity
Her patience deep set
With such potency
The Republicans or
Democrats
Higher than the Penthouse
or wearing ballet flats
Poems need to be heard
Robin-joy to the world
Double breasted
he's suited

Please no copycats
Poems cheek to cheek
The dancer true
romancer every
poem week
Fred Astaire
Madame and
Monseir fresh
baguette
Poem goes deeper
then the crust of bread
Don't underestimate
the difference
How words can
make lives change

The world so
Parametric
We are all
Programmatic
Poems and loves platonic
Shakespearian force
With style and
gravity
Meet her sexuality
Make the transition
The sonnet sailing
Fourteen lines
Let's not get greedy
((With All Assumptions))
Not to be disturbed
please no interruptions
Poems are our lives
You wear the crown
Leave them
unwanted ones
for the class clown
What poems are about they can be classified as a lot of things. This is not the diamond district or the red district poems are important and basic instinct so precious her heart hearing the right words with no interruptions. And not many assumptions. Perhaps this word of revelations we all need to hear our poems the best communication
Jonathan Moya May 2020
I never thought brick dreams could tumble in the wind.
My wife collects our scattered memories in a undersized bin
like a child on the tide line collecting beach glass and seashells.
She listen for the sound of blood amidst the dying wind
mistaking rustling pages for her breath cycling in and out,
her pulse beating on the surface of paper, cloth and wood.
She searches for artifacts that match/mismatch my cancer-
the progeny the tornado left scattered in the brick and wallboard.

I listen to the wind and rain ping on my ward’s windows
unaware of her scavenging, unable to sleep in the harsh light
that doesn’t erode the pain or the glitter of memory,
the constant Kabuki of nurses, doctor and blood drawers,
the chant of machines that make me mistake
the sterile for the sacred, the soundtrack for the profound.
I see my wife in the mud, inches from my eyes,
putting away the jagged, clear granules of our life.
Butch Decatoria Feb 2021
Dying of fires
The days /
reflections
on surfaces of oceans...
Burnt Umbers, blue & blood,
Mixish
Muted, drowned.

The sinking sun
wounded. Down

For death sees red
before dark fall / Ruin...

It is the sensation of ripples
when supple lips, pink linguist
leaves poetic syllabic pining
—live wires touching
Nape, the meek taste of tongue, shyly
lifting countries to new conquered kingdoms
of skin—
gooseflesh and earthquakes
blood as lava
rushes in
kabuki cheeks
secret joy begins.

Red so parched
Those sudden seas
of thirst
parts /
As our senses / must
breathe...
(like art)

Magic whispers kiss
because touch impassioned
is red and wish.

Lovelorn letters
poetic bliss
Spontaneous wings born
In each ache and void
Loud trumpeting of words
when distance fails
the hearts which beat
Feel speak
red
the oceans felt
the tides that ebb
hurried pleas
desperations
red

when letters
lose the dying magnitude,
the importance & impetus
that love must free...

Great clarion songs
of hearts are red
as are all
kisses (scarlet)
even to air
and dead
         begins on such lips
Red.
Revised retitled.

— The End —