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Katrina Maria Jun 2011
Eyes sliver open languidly, feel out the corners
Stretched, palms pressed against white walls
Pull the covers high above my head
Building courage to greet the day

Lungs fill with a familiar scent
Smile, reach and caress a glowing cheek
Next to me, he turns, all elbows and sighs
Find him  in a second with tingling toes and fingertips

Untangle the limbs and sheets
Firm and nut-brown, coarse in the right places
Soft in the best places, he's flawless
Dare to disturb the rhythmic breathing


Wake up, I whisper
Coffee, he groans
Amanda Apr 2014
Her eyelids cracked open slightly.

Momentarily, they slowly close again.
Sleep was still languidly dancing across it.

Then she sees sunlight peeking through the little gaps of her curtains.

Dust-motes whisper 'Good morning' as they flit in the buttery-white light.

And, goodness me,
just like
that
her sleepy gaze
met
*magic.
9:39am Saturday Morning.
Hello there sunshine!
x
How are you doing today?
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
HALF A POUND OF INSOMNIA WITH A LARGE DOLLOP OF TIREDNESS ON TOP

Sleep lies languidly
upon the chaise longue.

I sit uncomfortably in
an old wicker chair.

We stare at each other.
Say - nothing.

Neither of us
blinks.

I have counted  exactly
two thousand and 2....3. . .

sheep.
They fill up the room

with a loud baaing.
There is no grass in the room.

But I am more awake
than ever.

Sleep and I
do not see eye to eye.

Sleep annoyed by now
goes to the window

where even the moon is
dreaming.

A  hill
long gone.

Trees snore
their breath rustling their leaves.

"Why do I always
have this trouble with you?"

Sleep snaps
without looking at me.

I try to change
the subject.

"I didn't know you
could manifest like this?"

I venture for the sake
of the argument.

"Oh no...now you've gone
and trapped me in a poem!"

In the early hours
of the coming day

even Sleep
falls asleep.

I yawn
exaggeratedly .

Hum KLF's
"It's three am eternal!"

Each of the now 2000 and 4...5
join in

with a tuneless
baaing.
I love to feel your body next to mine
I languidly run my nails up and down your chest.
Time has been kind to you, you've aged like fine wine
Next to you I feel delirious that you desire me.
I feel addicted to you, my passion is boundless.
Every time I see you, I smile,
Wantonly I want you to defile me.
Craving you like an addict craves his drug of choice.
Your touch emblazones my need, my lustfulness.
How long will our desire last?
Until we run out of breath?
Until we desire others?
I kiss you deeply, hear your heart pound in time with mine,and
I lie in the knowledge that we will never desire another
© JLB
02/06/2014
Parker Louis Jan 2015
I secretly sat at your secluded spot on the lake
I languidly listened and watched the Sunset
writing this while I cease to worry
because I was wrong.

They were wrong when they pigeonholed
you in black and white as one toned ordinary
when you're really vivid shades of hazel
More than meets the eye & captivating
as many shades as in the Sunset
I've been watching from your spot.
Colour me interested because I want to see what hue we'd make mixed together
Yours would compliment and supplement mine
into a vibrant tone
brilliant enough to paint  a whole canvas
with the full spectrum of our shades in our union.
1/19/2015
Antonio Fonseca Feb 2014
Anxious-laughter afternoon
moonlight shadow is still very vague,
a long-silent mourn, quiet sorroundings.

Pale-Blue sky,
overlaping highly with a vast mantle of clouds.

Pale-blue sky,
inflaming my temperament with your mournful sounds.

Crystal,
moment of sweet delight.
Languidly, as I smile,
I see her take off.
blushing prince Oct 2018
myopic frames on a stern temple remind me that once he too wandered recklessly and felt ardent
empowered by time on his sleeve
there was nothing he couldn't conquer and nothing standing between the open air and breathing it in
i suppose the difference here is i grab the breath of air and hold it in my pocket for when i stop being so nervous

marshmallow heart
the road only goes one way and the streetlights hover and coil eternally, you can never meet the epilogue
a drive-thru drink in one hand while you feel your hair tangling into a mess of a beehive, the one that likes to unwind in soft tendrils on a weak pillow
heart racing for the constant fueling of a near empty tank telling you to go further this time, this time
time isn't yours


holding in a cough
i too have tried to drown waterbugs
my cheek pressed against the tiles of a kitchen floor, hand perched languidly as my fingers make circles in the tiny swamp i made in the middle of the room
but i forget laying there until i hear my own soul walk in with bare feet addressing the elephant in the room, the one that hasn't left since i was sick with bronchitis that winter years ago
and i want to tell her to come here, to come back inside myself so it doesn't feel so cold this season of frost but she brushes me off with the temperament of a child
"i don't exist, i never did" the words dawdle back and forth from her back molars to her incisors  
and i remember when i felt like i was dying when i hopped from one state to the next but realizing a little to late that if i were to go back my dread would jump on the back of my shoulders and force me to look it into it's shiny face and show me the mild nuisance of what it means to be alive
so my soul closes the door and i hear the keys rattle and i myself sink into the warm arms of someone i spent my entire life with
a small note on the existence of what it means to have a soul in a universe that is obsessed with facts and evidence
Lyteweaver Mar 2014
There's a shadow hanging over me
belonging to the me
I was supposed to be.
I squirm to lose this shadow
because it is following
a ghost of me.
Looming languidly and large
it mimics my movements with melancholy.
I hide in the dark
so it won't find me.
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
"What do you mean you've never seen Blade Runner? My GOD! I didn't think there was a single person on the planet that hasn't seen that. They showed it to us in elementary school as an example of a prophetic, foretelling, social commentary."
"Well, I never was a fan of fiction or science, even though somehow I've still managed to live my fair share of both."
" Do androids dream of electric sheep? What are your dreams?"
"Electric...sheep?"
"Yeah, that's the title of the book the movie is based on, but like, I'm honestly curious about the second part. It's a better ice-breaker than your deprived childhood".
"You wanna' know what I dream? I dream of a world soaked in gasoline, and a lone, shadowy, figure masked by deceit and decay, filling the air with a rotten sulfuric smell as he festers in his own filth. I can't see this guy clearly, but I know him. I know him in my head and my heart and he just stands there, idle, in a place where he can see the silhouetted skyline of the entire wretched city. Trapped between his forefinger and thumb is  a match donning a dancing flame for a hat, performing a flamenco routine for two wild eyes.  Eyes that indicate a sureness of what to do, but make no use of intentions. They seem to sort of flip between question and answer with each dimming and brightening of the match's beacon.  The question appears to already have been answered, but has yet to be acted upon. He's tinkering with the notion.  Is this due to hesitation in the man's mind, or is he simply toying with the already squirming city? The final act is inevitable, yet the ulterior option, to extinguish the trigger, still stands...". He pauses.
His new partner's face has lost most of its color and his mouth is propped open with a jack made of sheer horror and curiosity.
"Well JESUS man! Aren't you gonna tell me the rest of it?"
"The rest of it is: I wake up".
He languidly looks around, takes a pull from the bottle, and proceeds to pull his mask over his face. His partner isn't sure, but he thought he'd caught a smile crack before his mouth was covered,
  "...and not like a haha I'm yankin' your chain kinda grin. This ****** meant it", his partner would recall later to some buddies in a bar.
"I wake up and wonder whether I'm the man, or the match".
He slams the magazine into his weapon and rips the slide back to load up the first round of ammunition. He exits the vehicle, and heads towards the disheveled building that has more or less sunk into its foundation. His new partner shakes his head, wipes his face with his paws of hands, pulls on his mask, and flicks the *** end of his cigarette whose embers have already begun to eat away at the cotton filter out towards the woods. He catches the light from the buckshot of the cherry out of the corner of his eye and imagines that match spinning towards the city.
"What the **** have I gotten into..."
Excerpt from a story that is being written some time in the next 30 years
Sonorant Sep 2021
A pearl mansion, three stories tall
Soaring on a halcyon hill.
A stretched view to read the world.
A throne with riches to fill.

The comfort of a swain.
But carnality in silence
An everlasting reserve of cake.
A bottomless appetite in defiance.

A quail in a cage, the keys in her hand.
To pluck the plume languidly.
A daffodil to determine fate:
“I love him. I love him not.”

To spoil their fly,
To reap their fall.
Their loyalty hazily sewn
In grounds of her royal hall.

Heels encased in crystals of tears.
To lien their names
And shine her shoes
Perched high on a golden bluff.

To shutter her windows
On cloudy days.
To be a star in the night
Despite the moon’s wane.

Eternal seasons of the self.
To watch feathers move
Without the burden of wind.
The quietude of stillness but to fill the void.

To reign solely as a dreary majesty.
To kiss and then walk astray.
Or perhaps earnest denial
To pacify the pain.
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
his touch lingers
caressing intimately
feeling his lips
graze the breadth
of me

mesmerized...

scent of him remain
in deep recesses of
my mind

enthralled...

as if, he's still pulsates
within; each ****** ignites,
every glide excites

I sigh in beggary...

as whispers in thoughts of
him dwell deep; tongue
penetrates, body relentlessly, seeps

loving me from my hair follicles
to my toes...

in thought, I languidly pose

mesmerized...
Marília Galvão Mar 2015
With chords, thoughts and moves
There laid two flying creatures, they
had abandoned their shields at the front door
when the wine started playing down the walls
soaking pole to pole, they drank it
with arranged wings, the two seagulls.
Little did they know
how falsely wary were their bodies already soaked

The blue one fluttered to the north air
She looked to the sun and knew
Too late, the shield was no more in her care
When the rain started falling from conflicted clouds
in the absence of her rig
the seagull languidly tried to cease the drops.
No logic to coat the sense
All the way deceived by her ghost defense

With blurred movements in the sea carpet
there came to her sight
a savory brown trout murmuring wine memories
to the seagull and the only drive in her mind:
dip into the water;
gently slip her claws through the fish;
fiercely devour it;
until it's no longer a wish

For long she was flying up and down,
viciously all around,
the blue seagull would see images of the trout
in every fish when she was drowned.
Little did she know
the true brown to go down her throat
was by then a far away memory
of the one seagull soaked in wine
And the moves, thoughts and chords.
Amitav Radiance Mar 2015
Gentle breeze flows languidly
Through so many lands
Listening to many stories
Of the earth, trees, rivers and birds
None can stop the wanderlust
Visiting new places
Meeting new faces
Touching their lives in some way
Privy to the world of many hearts
With a whiff of freshness
It awakens them from a stupor
Breezes though the corridors
With new hope and aroma
Revives the life that feels meager
Gentle breeze touches the core
And changes the silent world
Give a whole new meaning
To the ones who believe in miracles
Blow away the worries
Gripped tightly in your palm
Let the gentle breeze leave you happy
With new hope to live life, freely
Paul Rousseau Feb 2014
I scrutinized the miserable wretch harnessed to the table
Polished my knuckle with his murk, malice, and fable

                             Placing a centipede on his stomach as it shuffled to his eye
Languidly impending horror as he begged me to die

                                I put pressure on his abdominal with the ball of my hand
Took a breath to my diluted lungs as the boy’s jawline ran

                          Tantalizing screams of dread, poor boy fastened on steel bed  
I protruded my hand deep and to his intestines, it fed

                                          My malignant clasp ripped and mangled as it went
Like the centipede too, itched and mangled as it went

                                 And as his entrails to, like sizeable centipedes they went
In a ****** stream of fluids crawling and sprawling as they went

I bound up with glee as my poor wretch lay be, and I swung him head-toe to a pit
Where billions of legs crawl, but human ones not at all, a realm where arthropods permit
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
Flecks of violet, patch-quilt  loofah skin of  sponge-green iris, gold dusted
Emerald  eyes... wet stones in flesh tone, parachute baskets; paratroop lids
Descend... thin paradigms slip ; adrift upon a Seam of Tears. A saline Sea - with
Glass floor; lensing starlight over mint pink trampolines
covered in tiny copper filings,

And two Black Pools that Expand.
Two Sunbathing Night Blossoms -

Dead center. Unmanned...

Her cheekbones encroach upon Cataracts of Vacancy.
Lipid lathes of Lethe ; lips departed... red zeppelins, moist and mute . pontoons
Plump and mindless. Bee stung -
Open.

Soft mimes, glide
Over bleach and stain; over -
bone white; glide
Over Nicotine sigils, hiding -
in off-white
Enamel...

like anonymous petroglyphs for Dentists.
or Rosetta Stones for a lethargic Tongue.



II


Theta-wave turbines, throw rods and spark nods ... as others speak.
She resembles a dream-catcher’s mitt.
Words hiss now, and solid mist, twist the tell o' gram.
Into Fable's Armada !

Fog.... fog rolls in...   She rolls in, Beneath  a New Between. of Chasms
Hazardous grammar spasms, stammering -
Deaf tones of Diction -
All This ....In the Good Ear.
An Ear Of Cornucopias Delete.... The Dry Cob
Of  Annulled
Speech. [ but Morphine ]

Maybe a half-dozen kernels of distinct cream ; velveteen vague...
Or vivid - pleats in pure radiation.
?
Perhaps,  varicose inanities are expiation enough to drown a Kraken ?  Maybe God Happens ?

Let Ampule be the Judge.  Let Pack Mules be Priests.

As Others speak, Our Lily,  decrypts languidly left of linear... dislodged -
from Lexicons ....with long Odds, Against...
She Relents, Relentlessly-  And Utterly

Utterly Regardless...

She aborts pregnant ( .... )
pauses.

All this Fog rolls in... Agnostic.
She Robs
The Cuckoo... She De-bones the Soup
with Disjoint Comments.
And Scuttles
The Broth.

She's all Starlings and Polaroids.... Savage Pinwheels  and Aurora Vandals.

She's  All Plasma...
And Rapture -
with No Handles ...

She's Both Ends ... Burning
NOooo Candle .

A Wee Atlas; Shouldering A Loss
Ever Since Her World  
Was  Dismantled ..  A  Burden ( ... )
Lily
Phantom
Shrugs  

And Random Drugs..Atlantis.
AD Letwixt Oct 2018
Sands and seashells as white as moonlit night
And water tugging slightly at the small boats
Trembling in the wake

“Far across the silvery sea”
Those little waves whisper to me
“From ocean dark and brooding blue, cross horizons bleeding red
is a land where the mists travel languidly through
and dangerous things betwixt the paths you tread.”

“There is a city that some say glows in the night
Whose towers ***** to glorious height
Domes and great structures stand below
Upon white stones, blue moonlight does glow.”

“If you swim out during the brooding storm
And torrential city make, with towers of black swirling wake
The sea will take and change your form
You will enter the depth and the depth will enter you
And sea imbued, you emerge anew.”

“On the second day, and the crest of red rising light
When Phoenix fly against the night
You will be ****** from water by the fiery wing
And to a new land take you as Phoenix songs it softly sings.”

“There you will encounter the dangers and things of strange delight
And the white walls of Elyse, whose light is cast upon the height.”
Valsa George Apr 2018
In my garden
A climber grows
From the trellised platform
It strays its way
Trespassing into others territory
Annoying the plants
Growing close

Its emerald leaves
Of bright glossy sheen
With serrated edge
And prominent veins
Trembling and timorous
When whipped by the wind
Is a real delight to view!

Close to monsoon
It is in flower
The heavy clusters
Droop down in weight
A medley of white, pink and red
Languidly swaying in the breeze
Giving off a faint aroma

Early morning I see them
Tear stained
I wonder what makes them cry
Do they lament their transient fate?
Or are they sad,
Molested by amorous bees?
Recently we got a few showers of summer rain and my climber is  in full bloom ! The aroma wafted through the night wind is exotic!
Verisi Militude Oct 2010
After smoking my first pack
Of cigarettes
(Cheyenne Cherries, $2.09 at Marathon)
The novelty wore off pretty quick.
It didn’t feel cool anymore,
Didn’t make me feel important.
The cigarette was just something
To stick between my fingers,
**** between my lips,
Inhale and feel something
(feel Hell)
In my lungs.
A prop.
It was just a stick
With a red, smoldering ****,
A piece of tobacco
To play with before the ember
Ate way down to the filter
And singed my fingertips.

Now, I think I light up
(Cheyenne Cherries, $2.09 at Marathon)
Because the smoke is so
******* enticing. It’s beautiful,
A kinesthetic work of art
(like a ballet),
The way those silver
Tendrils curl so languidly
From the tip into the air,
So graceful, so smooth.
When I smoke
I can’t help but to imagine
I’m watching a group of dancers.
Or something.

And I think I light up
(Cheyenne Cherries, $2.09 at Marathon)
Because there’s nothing better to do
Half the time and at least
It flouts the boredom
(for a few minutes or so),
At least it interrupts the
Relentless monotony of Life.
Kurt Vonnegut mentioned
Something about smoking
Being a noble form of suicide.

Well, so it goes.
b Oct 2013
Cig
After smoking my first pack
Of cigarettes
The novelty wore off pretty quick.
It didn’t feel cool anymore,
Didn’t make me feel important.
The cigarette was just something
To stick between my fingers,
**** between my lips,
Inhale and feel something
In my lungs.
A prop.
It was just a stick
With a red, smoldering ****,
A piece of tobacco
To play with before the ember
Ate way down to the filter
And singed my fingertips.

Now, I think I light up
Because the smoke is so
******* enticing.
It’s beautiful,
A kinesthetic work of art
like a ballet,
The way those silver
Tendrils curl so languidly
From the tip into the air,
So graceful, so smooth.
When I smoke
I can’t help but to imagine
I’m watching a group of dancers.

And I think I light up
Because there’s nothing better to do
Half the time and at least
It flouts the boredom
for a few minutes or so,
At least it interrupts the
Relentless monotony of Life.
Kurt Vonnegut mentioned
Something about smoking
Being a noble form of suicide-

Well, so it goes.
UPON thy purple mat thy body bare
Is fine and limber like a tender tree.
The motion of thy supple form is rare,
Like a lithe panther lolling languidly,
Toying and turning slowly in her lair.
Oh, I would never ask for more of thee,
Thou art so clean in passion and so fair.
Enough! if thou wilt ask no more of me!
Fallen Angel Mar 2015
Her sweet chocolate blood
languidly screams
in the rain as she recalls whispers of love;
she aches as the sky sprays her with tears
like a storm in a dream.
She falls to her knees with her hands on her mouth
the feel of his last kiss remains on her lips.
His last loving touch on her cheeks.
His last words ringing in her ears.
Her lips he once kissed passionately are trembling.
Her cheeks he once touched with care
are now black from her running mascara.
Her ears he whispered loving words into
are filled with the rushing of the ocean.
She’s breaking, and she know’s
she’ll never get him back…

His bitter chocolate blood
languidly screams
in his room as he recalls whispers of love;
he aches as he stares at his paused screen
Call of Duty left forgotten.
He punches a hole in the wall with her necklace clenched in his fist
the memory of the night he gave it to her engraved in his mind.
Her last kiss tasting of sugar cookies.
Her last touch as she played with his hair.
Her last words ringing in his ears.
His lips she once kissed passionately are trembling
His hair she constantly played with
is now a tousled mess from running his hands through it.
His ears she once whispered that she loved him into
are filled with the ringing of silent bells.
He’s breaking and he knows
she’ll never take him back...
I don't know where this came from honestly....
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
        coupling the ends of streets
        to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
        put out the neon shapes
        that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
        Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
        From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
        detail upon detail,
        cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
        (Where it has slowly grown
        in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
        trembles and stands again,
        pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
        "Boom!" and the exploding ball
        of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
        turn in their sleep and feel
        the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
        Along the street below
        the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers.  The water dries
        light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
        of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
        scattered or grouped cascades,  
        alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
        you will dine well
        on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
        Scourge them with roses only,
        be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
        whose face is turned
        so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted.  No.  I mean
        distorted and revealed,
        if he sees it at all.
AD Letwixt Oct 2018
the river Eyn, between outstretched hands
flows to lands farther than
ear has heard or eyes have searched
and they say the land twists and shifts
at her end
'til one is sailing up again

She flows like drowsy eyes in midafternoon daze
languidly stretching back and forth before the haze
the foggy mists that sit atop her skin smooth surface
shade from daylight
her sailors sleeping to sail the moonlight

I stood atop my little ship
to see the faces of passers-by
who watch the ships from shoreside

On each face I looked so long
but always obscured was the evening sun
what tree or branch, or mist or shade
I cannot see what faces made

Dreary drowsy eyes begin to close
she will close them, Eyn
so I might sail the moonlight
midnight's rays of clear and blue
and bathe pensive in cerulean hue.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
Nothing So Sensuous


Last night, I went back in time and met Alice Liddell in 1862.  
Alice Pleasance Liddell, known for most of her adult life by her married name, Alice Hargreaves, inspired the children's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, whose protagonist Alice is said to be named after her.  See her, greet her, in my banner photo, and all will clear.
~~~~~~~~~

nothing so sensuous
as to watch a woman,
nay, a woman child,
brush her hair
in the mirror.

sensuous,
more than sensual,
all my senses
affected.

luxuriating in a gift that
cannot be
bought,
her head titled,
then thrown
from her chest as far back,
your eyes see waves
of chestnut in
slow motion,
the smile on her face
for the knowing that
she has
sorcerer succeeded
in capturing
all of you.

mesmerizer,
she languidly strokes
her hair,
though it needs it not.
no, she brushes you
to your
knees,
your eyes,
see her eyes,
in the mirror,
the woman's sensuality
maddening.

every sense alerted,
you body fired,
far beyond
merely stirred,
she has you,
and then she asks...

would you brush my hair?
have you ever been in love?
have you ever had to tell someone
you no longer loved them
though you still did?


you answer:

Oh yes, Oh may I?

yes, with you totally, at this very instant.

yes, for I
must leave you
and return to
my time, my age,
150 years from now


the only way
I can do that
is to lie to myself,
no, I do not love you
that much,
not that way,
pretense,
for the agony of this


impermissible desire

is such ecstasy,
that I can
only dare to
write of it,
in my time,
lest I fulfill
it in ours.
A true story, a true adventure. If u want to time travel with me, then u must come to NYC, for that is where I depart.  All expenses paid for time travel.  You come here, we travel. Must be 21 and over and bring proof of age.  They are Fussy, about that!
Also, must make reservation well in advance. Small time travel machine accommodates only 15 people....and currently the only "destination" is Victorian England.
DM Dec 2013
I tried to let the rain wash away my sins
and all they did was smear.
Big ones, and not-so-big-ones
swirled languidly.
Not angry.
Not raw.
Just,
leisurely.

I expected gaping maws
to open across my skin,
but none came.
I fell to my knees before
the great make-believe keeper of heaver
but my lips held my tongue prisoner
while my pride sawed at my throat.

There are no sins if there are none to speak of.
ChinHooi Ng Dec 2022
Eve
I like a quiet night
like this one here
I can hear my own footsteps
clear
occasionally a small car
drives by
not too fast
not in a rush
the street lights on both sides
light up the width of the road
not for the long journey
but for the season of cold
stars are high and distant
moon has been asleep
traffic lights at the crossroads
languidly they alternate
green and red not matter what
shining on the thin layer of unbroken snow
the night would be suitable
for couples
asking each other for warmth
witnessing the crystalline
spell of winter.
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,--
Their bases on the mountains--their white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet ****** from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
Olivia Anderson Jul 2014
My favorite feeling is coming out of a restaurant
cheeks are flushed, and eyes are lively
everyone is high on a strange syrupy feeling
how it makes you feel so sleepy, yet so awake
clattering of plates, clinking of perspirating glasses
the soft glow makes everything seem more beautiful.

It’s there I see you, for the first time, I really see you.
Small smile and all, amid the roar of conversation
time doesn’t stop; it become preserved in memory
it becomes a part of how I will always remember you

Your breath lulls me in, calls to me
sweet words pull out of your mouth
like bubbles escaping languidly
for a moment, all is dampened as if we’re under water
sanguine, hearty, I am happily trapped
in this space with you
May 2014
Michael W Noland Sep 2013
There I stood
In a long hallway
Stretching thinly
To a lit point

Lined with doors
Opening as they closed

Its prisms transposing
Euphoria as it shone

Lifting my chest
It dragged me breathless
Down its stretches

As I was reflected
In my own projections
Of sentients

Until innocence
Was all there is

And that is
Where thoughtless
Narrative lives

Where languidly it gives
Wordlessness meaning

And that is
Where fraughtless
Intentions can win

Acting replacing thinking

Incentive in Zen
Awaking and thinking again

Was is and gonna be
Everything I believe
Even while deceived
In sets of themes

Numeric categories
And the tragic stories
Of grander things

Things of grandeurous dreams
That I wring out in the sink
While winking
The well wishes away
In splashes
Of graying
Paint

My hate
Is displayed
In the mourning
Of Mondays

And with relatable monotony
And some mundane

Everything goes back to the same

Or at least
That's the philosophy
In the lazy
late afternoon light
when everything seems dreamlike
she comes to me.
Smiling coyly she undoes a clasp,
her robe slips off the shoulder.
I watch the fabric water like
flow over her body.
Hanging on her *******;
heavy with the ripeness of youth,
it pauses
then slips over her ***** brown *******...
One bouncing, then the other.
Following her curves,
past the hollow of her navel...
exposing her crowning glory,
her woman's furry triangle
so warm and moist and welcoming.
Like an admiring hand,
the falling cloth
traces the wonderful curve of her ***,
and down her long, smooth legs
to pool languidly at her feet.
She undoes her dark hair
shakes her head and lets it fall.
In all her glory she stands before me
eyeing me hungrily...
No seducer but prey am I.
This is my take on Ovid's Amores 1.5
JR Rhine Dec 2016
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.

A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.

When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.

I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—

A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.

What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?

Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—

delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.

Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.

The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—

The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.

A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.

Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Heather Mirassou Jan 2010
Almost naked except
A dangling Marlboro cigarette  

Expertly stroking his lover
Fingers caress a slender body

Methodically engulfing aroma
The sweet smell of ***

Swollen lips surround
Waves of rapture quiver

Eyelashes and eyeballs flutter
Sinking into oblivion

Head bobbing like a pendulum
Savoring lingering lust

Inhaling smoke languidly
******* every undying toxin

Heather Mirassou
Copyright, Heather Mirassou 2010
Meggie D Jan 2014
Silhouetted against a blank
Wall, lips curving
Dangerously;
Be still, my tender
Heart, your rapid palpitations will no
Longer be rewarded. In
Dreams your
Existence thrives within my own,
Five fingers wrapped
Around
Five fingers.
Slowly we were twisting, devoid of
Grace.

Once you were in full bloom.

A thousand repressed seeds,
Little
Whisps of hope sauntered effortlessly
From your lips,
released;
I was the warm summer wind, tugging each
Delightful murmur free,
Languishing in
The wealth, the weight of those promises, the scent
Of a new beginning..
How soon it became Autumn,
Your leaves tinged
With brown
Crumpling up, one
By one.

Those sweet seeds
Quickly made a home within the belly
Of a love ravenous
Fool, dissolving as
Steadfast as acid corrodes
bone.

Away, away....
You drifted purposely,
Without purpose.
Languidly, you attempted to brush away
The words, the very sentiments
That have stuck
To my ribs,
Like oatmeal.

What lives within the
Contoured ridges of your soul must be one hell
Of a mess.
Taite A Feb 2011
you were not the saint your yellowed hands
and stained, creased eyes would make you out to be.
you told me you had kissed some other girl and that she
was nothing like me and that’s what you liked about her.

you called her chaos and said that every time i locked my
thumbs together the bones began to decay. you said that you
hated when my hair covered my eyes because i never wore it back.
you said my voice never rose above a whisper and you were right
even though you never asked me why.

you were lying when you pretended that you were something
better than me. your ankles had grown together from the years
of letting them hang languidly and some ugly weeds (wildflowers)
had held them there. every word you spoke was folded carefully like
an origami bird that you spit out from the back of your throat, polished
in a sugardrop gloss sticking to the seams. you knew the presentation was
just as important as the message and maybe i knew it too once.

i started off planning to write about me but it never works out.
Liam May 2013
Rest with me
melt languidly into my arms
persistence reprieved

Allow me
grant this moment to pass
productivity be ******

Trust in me
my passion is passion
ambition denounced

Give yourself to me
I understand your value
progress so ill-conceived

I am a dreamer
I fulfill her destiny
*I am the place time comes to die
igc May 2015
There's nothing I resent more
than my unreasonably cold heart.

A Paradox

Able to languidly thaw those around
while selfishly maintaining
it's frozen exterior.

— The End —