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SassyJ Feb 2018
Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

I stumbled on you behind the zipper
It’s not a tripper but a ripper
Looking through your eyes can you see me peep
Looking through the veil can you hear me lick
Looking from above can you hear me sip
On the golden lips can you hear that teach
On the frozen tip can you taste the heat

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

(Swahili)
Ni mwangaza unawika
Ni mawimbi yanatunza
Munda huyu umefika
Ni mapenzi yanawika
Na mvua umepita
Na kutunza haya matunda
Kuyaweka kwa tumaini

(English translation)
The bright light is burning
The storms are mesmerising
Now the time has come
And love is calling out loud
The rain is passed and gone
And the seeds are to be sowed
feverently placed in peace

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

I stumbled on you behind the zipper
It’s not a tripper but a ripper
Looking through your eyes can you see me peep
Looking through the veil can you hear me lick
Looking from above can you hear me sip
On the golden lips can you hear that teach
On the frozen tip can you taste the heat

Dicky dicky dicky
Licky licky licky
Tick tick tick

Audio can be accessed on
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/dicky-licky-tick
Make it what you make it
mannley collins Jul 2014
I do NOT write "poetry".
I do write words.
I cannot write "poetry".
I do write words.
I do not want to write "poetry".
I do write words.
Ive never "seen" myself as a "poet".
I spend my time avoiding the mediocracy of **** licking criticism
unlike every so-called "poet" I ever met.
I watch as "poets"wallow in the slough of narcissicism.
Ive never want to be called a "poet".
I do not want to be immersed in the depth of narcissicism
where "poets" spend their lives.
What an insult to be compared to a "poet".
any "poet" even Josef Stalin or Mao Tse Tung or the Dali Lama who all wrote 'poetry'..
"poets" make their homes in  the heights of false humility.
Edward Lear would be the height of unanimity
in his approval of my nonsensical behaviour.
I should throw all of my words out my window
for all the good they'll do.
I have no name or identity.
I have no name or identity.
Names only exist in official documents.
I know who I am.
I am the individual Isness.
Which is a small but equal,individual,independent,nameless,
formless,genderless and non physical Isness formed from the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in this human body.
Reborn lifetime after lifetime after lifetime until I let go, permanently,
of Mind and Conditioned Identity and become Isness realised
which is the true goal in life for all humans.
I have no mind or conditioned identity.
There are words that are a call sign to the ears in this body.
Words that are not uttered by the mind driven liars
on these threads,with their asinine cries
for their conditional love and the possessiveness it engenders.
This is but my latest in a string of bodies
since I left the Isness of the Universe at the very beginning of existence .
Bodies that have been the vehicle for me,the individual Isness,
to be incarnated in since existence began
before the dawn of time or space or .
Ive read my words out aloud in Edingburgh.
Ive read out aloud my words in Formentera and Ibiza and Tanger
and Paris and Amsterdam and Delhi and Calcutta and Bangkok and lots more cities of EVIL and repression.
Ive read out aloud my words in Better Books in London.
I stood next to Bart Huges with Lee Bridges,
one night in  1967 reading words from a blank page--
with Jimi playing round the corner.
I stood in the square of Saviours in the north and
shouted my non-violent words
at the crowd of violent supporters of the Oligarchy.
I am definitely NOT a "poet".
Oh no!.
Wouldn't want to be a "poet".
Oh no!.
I don't write "poetry".
Not ****** likely.
Oh no!.
I only write strings of meaningful associated words.
Or write strings of meaningful dissasociated words.
Or write just words--supply your own unjust meanings.
Wouldn't want to write "poetry".
Sooner write how I adore the flowing lines a curvaceous ****,
or a dragon fly hovering over a Marguerite--irridescant,
or licking a sweet smelling dripping ****--licky lips,
or a cloud floating by serene and bubbly,
or having a stiff **** in my mouth dribbling precum,
or a night sleeping on the banks of the Ganges
alone with humanity as my bed companion,
emptying the warm fresh contents of the attached *****
into my eager mouth,
or the soft grip of a baby monkeys fingers around mine,
or slipping a length of my hot flesh into the **** or **** of the beloved,
or the sublimity of a crunchy salad with balsamic dressing.
"poetry" is so boring compared with these verses and chapters
of experiential knowingness.
"poetry" is used as a beard by"religions" with their vain and bloodthirsty "gods" and "goddesses" and untrustworthy mendacious corrupt but pleasant priests.
"poetry" is used by Monarchs and other assorted Tyrants to proclaim
the " phoney kinship" they have with these vain and bloodthirsty
"gods"and "goddesses" as they enrich themselves with the gold teeth of their willing victims.
"poetry" is used by cruel dictators to proclaim their phoney kinship with the uneducated uncultured and unwashed  masses
as they lead them to the pits of mental slavery and destruction.
All these narcissistic scribblers proclaiming themselves
to be this or that or the other--when all they actually are
is a bag of nothing but cold air--that turns into just-ice..
Insecure and vain destroyers of ancient trees,
filling pages with their deranged and strangled but beautiful syntax. .
Inane tossers of epithets murdering prose with tongues
stored in the knife drawer and sharpened daily
on dead peoples bones...
fake humility abounds among "poets".
Arrogant professors of greeting card messages.
Throw your scribbles to the winds.
Let nature rot them in the garbage can of history or her story.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.

www.thefo­urnobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Yenson Nov 2018
The black women laugh sometimes even with other white *******
it's the joke they all know, a funny problem they all share
when together the stories are told in droves galore
much mirth, side splitting laughter ringing out
Weii, what do you say, those wigga dudes are something else

I can't stand them the chorus goes, bless their poor hearts
No, don't get me wrong, in the bedroom I mean
OK for a few dates, just let them pay for meals and drinks
One thing though, they are fine for fetching and carrying
but in bed, *** don't waste your time and try not to laugh
pale and patchy, gangly legs flat *****, hairy as ****

Who in throes, fancies a thimble or a two minutes frolick
They reveal their mini ugly chipolatas hidden in wiry brambles
Flaccid and limp, quite a bother to get it to rigid attention
Put it in and it's like soggy mash in an underfilled ******
***, give it some welly, show some passion, stoke my fire
No tight fit, no friction and no va va vroom, few jerks 'n over
Seconds, you must be joking, light is out, the droop is here


Ok, Ok..they can do the licky licky till tomorrow and next
slurping away like their lives depends on it, all spit and fumbling
But take me with fired passion, slam me down with rhythm
Burn that garden, mash me down and ride the waves
Get that hard poker stoking and hot, no! that ain't their forte

Oh..how they hate those tooled brothers with iron magnums
Those MEN Amazonians who enter hard and dance for the gods
Give me that lover with the slow hands and easy touch
Lynnie says, you are amazing, the best ever without a doubt
Hear, hear says all the others, that brother sure has the moves
and a hard big glorious tool fit for the job

Pale face hate simmers like roast, smarting with condensed anger
If they could, they would castrate all the brothers no exception
Ban them, block them, poison them and lock 'em up for ever
Biggest threat ever is that ****, charming intelligent brother
Just too cocksure, too cocky and silky smooth - the *******!
Make sure you lock yer mums, sisters, daughter and grannies up

As one black sister puts it, "they are *****, talk **** and lick **** from my fine behind, eighty-five percent of them would always
hate the brothers, because they don't measure up"  
The ***** will do anything, anything to destroy a brother's lovelife
Why should them **** ebony stallions have fun,
They are horses not humans, so rope them down and let us
go save for that enlargement job!
a fun poem written when I was in nursery school...hahaha
Jayne E May 2019
My baby feeds to me
foods of love
coats my lips
with sweet honey
drips
love
off his
finger tips
his tongue
warm wet sticky
explores my mouth
kisses
little bites
***** & licky
my love
my honey-bee
my honey-honey
gifts me warm
green tea kisses
green tea
mix with honey
makes the sticky
a little runny
his warm
wet
mouth
his fingers
and curious tongue
persist
insist
with love
slow dancing
in my mouth
too delicious
to resist
industrious
my honey-bee
my honey-honey
meticulous
he kisses
licks
*****
clean
all the honey
my honey-bee
my baby baby
my honey honey...

J.C. honey-tiger 25/05/2019
My love and I share a love of honey.. He is my honey-bee, my honey-honey, and I am his honey-tiger, his honey-owl, his honey-baby...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
look!                magic! i've actually turned
a hammer into a mini-skirt flirt with
     the wind! i know both are "useful",
but i never heard that poetry is: necessarily
useful...  never heard that, once...
     i might have gravitated into owning a yacht,
that i was hoping would clearly sink:
rather than sail across the pacific... so i heard
the motto: poets and plumbers remain behind the
curtain call: and there useless... clearly sink:
  because i wanted: a ******* anchor!
like i might want gravity, minus Newtee...
and was i prone to be wedded to
rich girls? thrice the ******* number of
thumbs and tweasers, so: d'uh dumb me...
me? i just nibble at the idea
of a mongol horde,the horde and
Stasi... becaue i just love envelopes and
   stamps... hardly the case with e-mail...
  i mean: ****-one up the flute,
either 1, 2, 3... and the rest are hexagonal blank:
meaning you don't deal with it...
you sorta just pass it as neccesarily un-,
like i always wanted to be photographed
in Monaco, or being an actor in a french
*****... 1: as genital proper...
2.. well: one up the veggie and one upon
the palette... tongue licky-licky without chew...
third party sources told me: it had to be ****
as intended transcendental..
so 1, 2, 3... and that's really when you become
bored... i'm poor and i get bored like
a rich man... which counter logic, makes me
rich..
            i'd rather spread my ****
    for an eliphant's ivory than, that thing
i might also call human...
             or when elitism just disappears,
how to have a proper Sunday without
having to go to church...
               i mean, really? you really want me to
do all that?
         can i just be lazy and scalp a monkey?
or play hairdresser to do a mohican on
a chimp? i mean: slap / pet that cranium about...
i'll write as i will:
only because i'll never speak it,
only because i'll never have these conversations...
  i'll write what i write, only because
i'll never have these converations...
    come on! look at me!
   people have become busy in undoing
the siamese twin introspect,
they actually managed to stage a unity
of opposites... and made children...
   i'm so ******* bored of caring to be mortal
akin to also being mindful of:
the nearing surprise...
             well: it's usually a grave...
  how can mortality ever fathom itself
when it suggests immortals?
                  i can't exactly digest that...
there's not mortality at hand,
    there only a mirror toward a quasi statement...
if mortality was as true as our phobias could
lead us to believe: there would be no talk
of immortality...
    i just can't stomach being mortal
   and not exploiting it, and being told of
immortality and the immortals who later become
as self-evident as gravity that newton didn't
become self-evident: but genius...
       i mean: why state mortality and keep up
with Vatican Disney?
               so you get all the ***** and i say: dodo?
   then i will also claim:
you, aged 70, are nothing more concerning
life than me aged 7...
                      it really doesn't matter...
first they said poetry was a bit pointless...
  then they said philosophy was a bit pointless...
then they said modern art was a bit pointless...
here's to you! admiring a brick wall
   or looking at a toad, or becoming a plumber...
well, here's to you!
    oh wait... that won't happen...
   and what i admire most about freedom,
is that you can best express it,
having made the effort, and someone also having
made the effort... unlike having made
a video...
      i mean: writings books, spying...
two parties conceding to a no-man's land involvement...
  i can write whatever the **** i want,
given my english teacher said: books are bricks...
  and only because i write these words
i can clearly say what the hell i want...
   i hear dialogue in central london
and i start to really realise i'm vague...
              the circumstance of reciprocated effort,
it's really akin to spying,
the reciprocate event, which is a book...
   the same effort invoked and later released...
    unlike a you-tube video in between multi-tasking
  and laying it: down low... for the "necessary"
social commentary... and yes, i concede:
Günter Grass was worse for me than Kraszewski.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.

millennial, generation y, huh?!
    also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
   say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
     hangover...
   and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
    gówno... or ****... teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
              a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
   everntually language is just that:
   magnifique sounds, mein herr,
    be that a cello i hear?
                      nada... mindlessly i too
  feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
       a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle        marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
    trza błagać... błagać!
        o śmierć... beg for death...
             but hetman cossak said *smerc
... and it
sounded altogether better.
   a household argument,
   after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
        a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
              given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
   because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
                and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
    karaoke is standard...
                         this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
                              jah jah *** buck...
      rasta root mon, rasta root.
    battered and bruised...
               someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
                     and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
                       of giving the circumstance:
  i can't remember being of any age, particular.
  the quicker argument would coincide with:
    give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
                   because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
   or more like a leech,
                         and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
                     of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
                       tea...
                     liquid werther's original.
Crandall Branch Oct 2017
authors note
Hey Everyone! This is a little peom I made with one line from each of my peoms fused together. It's a little strange but I wanted to represent all of my work. I hope you like it!!! Crandall*





I feel safe with your power
You chomped me and swallowed me whole
you're pitch dark eyelashes, like pitch dark strings
your kindness, happiness, gorgeousity

corporations are evil
crandall's art was super great
our wurld is a mess

you whispered it in my ear as soft as a pillow that i have just fluffled by beating it
i hear your screeches as you sing along to katy perry's "swish swish"
towers of grape, rolling bouncing
my fingers would slide down it like a sheet of paper on a river of melted butter

paper-thin beetle wings,
fear
i love the little *****

eggs remind me of you
the next day i saw you your eye was the size of a glob of clove powder
Or an ant on a log
peoms

That was your licky number,
Don't be ashamed of your hobnobs.

I pear down and see its little legs trembing, shaking in death
the repriduction of the universe
howdy doo
darknes.
my princess, my darling, my murderer

the ocean, salty like my tears
My thoughts were running wild like snip snip
i  g u e s s  t h i s  i s  j u s t  a  c r u e l  w o r l d

i smell you
take the nuts
Your kneecaps
hope you like this strange peom i created!
please leave feedback and comments below! :)
David Ehrgott Feb 2016
My babysitter ***** me
Tore up all my dreams
Tore up all my blue jeans
Beginning just to see
Was she really mean
To leave me licky clean
  
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
It doesn't matter where you've been
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
  
Want to make you smile
If you've been through the miles
Like I've been in my mind
When I see you, life's been kind
  
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
Doesn't even matter if you sin
Looking for a golden heart in the wind
Crandall Branch Oct 2017
You're favorite color was red,
like love
and blood.

I think about this as I gaze at the roses outside my window
they are so beautyful, yet so strong.

There are seventeen roses on the rosebuish.
That was your licky number,
you told me.

Well, I felt so lucky with you.
But now I see that I must have walked under a scarlet ladder
because I have lost you

or maybe a black cat crossed my path
or seventeen red cats.

I don't know what happened. All I know
is that I miss you,
and you're two red lips.
Inspiered by The Scarlett Letter by Naplease comment and feedback below! thanks :) thaneel Haythorn <3
Jacob Feb 2019
You will get drummed like the drum line
100 round drum, you get gunned down
Pull up with rockets and draw down
Like a police, put your gun down
Ape it, ape it, ape it, ape it
Titanaboa, I'm a snake
Grab on the ****, baby face it
Animal planet, Ferrari
My chain, my neck is Safari
I'm a rock star like Jeff Hardy
Lil baby so nasty, so icky vicky
She **** on that **** give me licky licky
Sucky, sucky, she love dicky dicky
Three fingers 666
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
now we're playing!
        this is entertainment g!
this is where
the sewer rats come out...
or like we'd like to
call them in mongolia:
  english homosexuals...
what?!
  called west slavs vermin...
you no licky licky likey likey?!
yeah...
you didn't exactly forget
genghis khan;
  "slyly" attemptig
to, "forget" ******, either...
did you?
i'm just an, "attempted"
    prospect of...
                   me and the "you"
in "between"...
or a... prior to...
                      figments...
of "my" imagination...
          if you can clarify
that...
                               literacy.
30 Days Sep 2018
I remember when I first started writing poems for you

I'd spend hours agonizing over finding the "perfect" adjective to express my message to you

But you taught me that writing is about far more than that
You showed me how powerful it is to write with how you feel

And so that's why I'm here
That's why I made this page, all for you
And that's why I want this to be a surprise you'll always smile about

This came so easy to me

"abc"
"it's as easy as"
"one two three"
"lollll i funny u licky"
Lucanna Jul 2022
I christen my apartment walls with the *** I have collected
Since your embrace became a family of fire ants
And your words became a cold room for my sadness to fog up and draw faces on
I beg for the day my heart is scooped out
With the cold cream fingertips of
Ryan’s and Bryan’s and Licky lipped lions
Who reach for ******* and nape and *****
This whole wide world is my sugar cone
Topped off with a syrup of 3am Merlot tears
On Wednesdays my weeping transforms into lubricant for long haired boys to drink off of.
Thursday mornings
Drown ribs and power pressure brain cells and any memory
Of the doe-y eyed romantic I used to be
When I saw pink
Now, colorblind
How many times do I have to play black and white Johnny cash songs on repeat?
How many times do I have to gulp down photos and moments and memories you prostituted  
You turned me into a dollar bill
Even Good ol’ Georgey is blushing
You clothed me in scratchy objectification like a mannequin
Now my heart is as plastic as you are
Tell me you love my display
You created it, after all.
Arched heel, vacant eyes ready to **** a stranger off
How did I survive this long as a woman?
How are there so many drag queen  David’s among so many misogynistic Goliaths?
How am I still smiling and nodding to life’s nod?
Probably because my bones are made of bruises and my thumbs are frozen on triggered trauma
Dare me to thaw out and pull the ******* trigger
Paralyzed
I keep smiling
Like the men on the streets tell me to do.
June 15, 2022
Jill Tait Sep 2020
Sticky licky toffee is becoming a mischief, clustered in claggy clumps inbetween me teef.. dam thing is as yummy as hell.. tis as sweet as can be.. but Oh my God how my teef are hurtin’ me...🤣🦷

— The End —