"lingual" poems
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voice activated
advanced multi lingual
baby talk and hits the high notes
talks back software program
and
NO always means YES
plus
screams
cu cu cu cu cu cummmmming
cooes I love you
**** me now *****
shred me you ****** ******
and many others
in over 50 languages
Other optional features include
age play
ethnic fetish
banjee
blow jobs
tipping the velvet
**** to mouth
salad tossing
tea bagging
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
*******
mammary ***********
***** call
Netflix and chill
donkey punch
golden shower
brown bath
cream pie
*******
motor boating
and the shocker
two in the pink and one in the stink
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Lick the words
from my lips
let them slide down
your throat
like fruited jewels,
dark, hard candies
that melt into cream
a healing liquid
oozing into my
ventricles,
pumping milky beats
out through
your cells
permeating the deep
of my wild
My syllables will
wrap themselves
around your syntax
frothy hybrids
of buttered silk
and irony
heart-to-heart
conversations that
flow into the ether,
as heaven's night
endlessly begins
We twirl our tongues
into guttural utterings,
lustful verse
that glides from
slick-fervored ice
to an outpour
of lava
We feed each other
dreams
our saliva like honey
dripping with dawn's
tender glow
as we open up
like baby birds,
begging to be nourished
at all costs
Here,
in this lingual forest
Your breath finds a home
on my tastebuds,
my tongue
in your
cheek
In between the tumults
of our
exploding oceans
This
is how we
love
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Quiero hablar
I'll try in any language
ภาษาไทย ยาก มาก
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
applying his
lingual buds
to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
as a lava lake,
no stone skipped
just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
pounding thunder
in consonants of
taut skin drum
nuances in vowels
uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
before time
now ready
to be filled by the
essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
apart
heart
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
Bilingüismo
Intercultural, Communicative
Aprendiendo, Escuchando, Hablando
Forgetting my native tongue
Bye-lingual
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
Mmmmmm......Good Morning Honey.........
Delightedly awakened by your lingual dexterity
Opening your mouth to engulf its fullness
******* and slurping, hastening its juices
From escaping and running down your chin.
Its tangy nectar making your fingers slick and sticky
A tighter grip you employ when it slips within your grasp
The sound you're making is so ****** the fullness of your lips, so enticing, .....so....so
Ah....ah............ahhh..........................aahhhhhh!!!
I do so love it when you eat sweet peaches in the morning!
Fancy a napkin?
-----ChawzzyScript
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
lunar luminance lights his lucent lordly lair.
leaden legs languish lazily as he lay, laconic--
lexical loquaciousness long lost.
his latent lupine lust lignifies and lengthens,
longing lonesomely for his lovely limber lioness.
with lips of luxurious labial liquer,
and licks lapping like lashing lingual lightning,
liquifying his lavish lover, luscious lyrical lubrication.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
The Summer Alphabet of Woman
Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.
I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good god **** because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.
And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.
Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...
Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.
Will oblige.
I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.
The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell
Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.
Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
*Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,*
Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
sparks of you
lie within me
not dormant but
silently active
a volcano on hold
embers in the haze
of intensity's throb
and glow
my heartflames
supposedly on low
your bones are
almost molten
melding with my own
and my cells are
tiny brush fires
craving a certain water
but not just
any kind
I need liquids
fresh from the spring
icy seas
to cool my heat of soul, of ****
and gelatinous nomenclature
that clings to my tongue
I need my loops of wild light
to be egged on in the
right fluorescence
yet calmed as I spin
into your sphere
Quiet, now. Just hush up
Put your hand on my chest
feel the beats
calm my frenzied wires
drench my parched lingual
expressions with your
aqua pura
the salty sweetness
of deep desires quenched
I need soil
of the right kind
I am not a desert flower
but I have thrived
in the dry cracked
barren lands
sunstreaks in my hair
blooms have burst forth from
the sucked-in parchment
of my skin
making it smooth and dewy
and despite themselves,
festoons of flowers
decorate the pain.
belly deep
fill the milky white
of ******* with colors
releasing the constant,
strict tightening
pressing on my chest
and if given the
right conditions
this volcano
will
so deliciously
erupt
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
theres no grief like another day
with each foot
sunken into the sand-hills of contradictory continents
straddling this divide of time and language
the ocean has been colored red
from our aching hearts
since they hammered these border walls up
i’m crying at my computer waiting for my best friend to answer
i’m crying while i write this letter to my dying grandmother,
under her covers
an ocean away
i’m hoping for a call to me
a distinct answer to which
side of the shore i belong
each time i look at my reflection half of me is gone
pieces
strewn across unforgiving terrain
the stretch of an abyss
only as far as the stitches on my left hand
the six hour time divide, waiting for my sister's awakening
to tell her a dream of us holding hands,
which i won’t recall by
her morning
what is the divide anyway?
except an inherent part of my heart
i carry the world within me-
spilling rivers
crushing waves,
but it still feels so far apart
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Now blissfully engaged, in this most intimate act,
Our bodies do frolic in the playground of our loving boudoir.
I have committed to sightless memory, every curve of your beautiful form,
And my hands slowly recall your soft geography.
Your deep coos and murmurs stir my primal senses,
To a heavenly plane, elevated, as I extend lingual kisses to the center of your soul.
Your impassioned and skillful ministrations upon my ardor, I can't catch my breath;
I read the emotion and devotion in your eyes as they look up deep into mine.
Me aloft of you in slight embrace, I deliberately yet slowly ingress your warmth,
You hold me still, savoring this space, before now riding this ocean's waves, ebbs and tides.
Perhaps due to the intermittent pressure of our coupling upon your abdomen,
You give way to an audible flatulent moment, we laugh uncontrollably in each others' arms.
Our noses and our cachinnation stem the tide of this ill-timed olfactory assault,
The blush in your cheeks from embarrassment only makes me hold you closer, tighter.
In synchronous ecstasy, we continue our **** horizontal dance to joyful satiated fruition,
Your head lies resting upon my chest, as we hold hands over my heart.
Despite what smells should ever emanate from either of us on any occasion, any instance,
I want you always to know;
I love you for the life of me,
I'll love you 'til the stinky end of us both.
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Too young for my own opinion
Blindly believing everything said like a minion
Wondering why Mom and Dad tell me different
Just an infant but I think i'm invisible
Everything is visual, still learning to be lingual
Each and every word I hear is a faraway island
Would rather be out swimming but i'm just playing in the sand
But for now I don't understand, I'm stranded in no mans land
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
What does samkhya have to do with yoga?
Dual teaching like I told you twice
They say theres….
2 eternal principles manifest in the universe
nature and the self, knowledge like pursua and prakriti different and yet same in this verse
Salvation through transcenscion duality is false i ought to mention
see through it like fallacy, I bless you no curse now apphrension
like flower prints we impresstoo
Lying and violence distract you from your higher purpose
You think you got swag psh better listen thrice so you know you heard this
the only style you got is the life you gotta clean up
clean up your lifestyle , clean up your style, clean up your lifestyle, clean up yo …. liberation comes from
Samadhi : contemplate : enlightened like we : got no hate upon me
but first you gotta meditate, dhyana and control your breathe
asana like my chest is pranayamic some speak false **** like they got no teeth, these thoughts they squeeze but
The churning of the mind cesses when you find
time to practice seeing the self you framing in kind
Epileptic I seizure mind, so epic synesthetic ,
that ***** divine storm like a portal, shorn my form as a mortal
Come and See the world as it truly is
Ill exist till I die, no reincarnation for I and I
namaste , en lakesh multi-lingual in these cypher cries
Valid means of knowledge:
Did you observe?
Could you infer?
Do they speak with authority?
Could you preach the analogy?
Just because you don’t see
Doesn’t mean it won’t be
Just because you don’t see
doesn’t mean that the **** won’t be
How do I know I am not the only person in the universe
I know my experience
They display markers
We speak we write We **** we fight
We wish We cry we live we die
so maybe were all conscious
looking at you like
maybe you bought this,
cautious we want this, auspice truth
Smoke gone ghost like I haunt this
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
—given the torc of carnal resumings
which gnash my fibrous night-time musings
from the loom of fonted wisdom
and a wheel of word conversions—
the miser in my mental montage,
like a spoke fleeing speeds
that reel within muscled spin,
gates his ripe profusion,
compounding paradoxic lingual grin
in working meanings thin
between what worldly threads proceed.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
Walking nightmares along piano keys,
Between the shine of ebullient dyes.
The dying echoes up cavern heights,
The dancing spark, buried in the sands.
Why not reap my verse for dying words,
The ****** dawn of a vimful curse.
Lingual crass from the hill of tunes,
Emeralds flew right into the hourglass.
Wine as ink writ upon yellow scrolls,
Smelt the ersatz core with diamond souls
Glare at the darkness between the lines,
Where is my verve but for those true fears?
Descend the shadows...
My blight! I'll bring wings.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 11:43 PM UTC
I want to be close enough to hear the ringing in your ears, but if you heard the ringing in mine would you even pick up the phone?
Because your conscience is clear and as long as your secret can keep a secret, your eyes are too empty for anyone to tell.
But I know that to tell how someone is loving you've got to look into their "I"'s.
Ask them if snowflakes think they're falling or flying? The same way I've plummeted into you while I somehow imagined I was still the pilot.
Ask if the clouds aim to protect the earth from the light or the sun from the darkness on earth?
Because love isn't blind, love is a blindfold.
It's a blanket when you weren't cold, recognizing his tire in the road.
And I've never been good at lingual warfare,
but I have a feeling soon I'll be using my grey hairs
as a form of punctuation
in a fruitless explanation-to myself
that the way you touch me isn't a 'waist' of time.
And as long as you keep calling, I will answer to the ringing in my ears.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
your body is my habitual enclave,
I know the roads, the routes, the rails,
the way it sparks in the night, how it creaks with the sun.
I coast your body like a map,
the compass in my palm quivers, the needle
whirls and swivels, disoriented, north left behind.
instead I will globe-trot through your anatomy,
with no concerns of foreign lands, with languages
of gibberish and people unfamiliar.
first, I will plunge into your shoulders,
gape at the brawn, the vastness,
compare them to the beautiful mountains seen in Colorado.
next, I will huddle in the wool of your torso,
stealing a quick snooze,
submerged in the berceuse of your coronaries.
afterward, I will drift among your hands,
skipping among the grooves,
stumbling upon the calluses.
then, I will float among your lips,
stealing speckles of salt while playfully
greeting your lingual.
and, and, and, my darling, this adventure
will exhaust me.
so I will traverse back, through your lips, your hands,
your torso, your shoulders, until
I come to my favorite monument.
they are waves full of sapphire, clashing among
charcoal thunderstorms, dancing along
fields of jade.
two orbs of magnificence (and mine)
you will smile, and ask how the journey was,
and I will reply, as always:
“unforgettable”
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
To write a poem to benefit the web
Seems strange, to type these words away from me.
No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb
At any time I'm free to up and flee.
Such freedom tests my discipline, my will
My short attention nurtured by my tribe
Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville",
My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe.
Such excuses further pull me down
Away from higher orbits of My Craft
Please, my mirror, I am not a clown
Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft.
Can I accept the onward March of Time,
Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
****** me with words;
poetic lust and skillful tongue.
Tempt my sensual side,
since your hands aren't here to
trace my spine and learn the curvatures of my figure.
And you might not be able to hear me scream, or beg for release....
but I promise I will
if you use that
lingual magic on me.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
If you ever wonder why
poetry is flames,
you will hear my name
whispered in your room,
cocoon-cocoon-coon.
I am the embers
inside the hearth of the storm,
I leave behind remembrance
to keep you safe and warm,
I live in lingual form,
cocoon-cocoon-cooon.
What stokes the flames,
when the heart is fading
when life is braiding you
into a mess
the stress
confess
sorrow is hard to impress
ravaging you, leaving you
less
yet the flames burn on
poetically strong
indomitable words
right or wrong,
they are the song
of the chirping heart
from end to start
a noble art
and my name is there
please, don't stare,
cocoon-cocoon-coon.
I leap from the pages,
from the fires of the ages,
I have no name
but my poetic, rages
I leave behind my...
Cocoon-cocoon-coon.
I fly away,
belatedly soon,
but I leave behind
a cocoon,
for the butterfly sheds tears
racked up over the years
rising from the waves
of paupers and slaves
for the butterfly craves
the cow.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
Angela called again today
this time she was borne in the wind
she tore away at my heart again
she certainly is no friend.
the pain travelled right up through my neck
then made its way down my arm
there is nothing at all about Angela
that I could an endearing charm.
So then I got the big guns out
my nitro-lingual spray
I sprayed the devil right under my tongue
till slowly Angela flew away.
I’ve had the attack, the by-pass too
a long time ago plus a day
and I guess that the odd call from Angela
Is really such a small price to pay.
©Joe Wilson – Angela called – again 2014
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Yearning to say those words,
But not daring to enter those lingual waters.
Being entranced by the soft touch of
Lips to her own
Makes the once fear
Of expressing what is wanted
Vanish.
Except for these few words
Which remain trapped
Behind a closed jaw
And fingers which refuse to type.
The girl filled with stories
Becomes timid.
The girl who speaks of finding something real
Stops in the tracks of these words.
All in the name of losing.
Losing what she thinks is real.
Losing because of the release of what she has concealed.
Losing the thing she vanquishes sleep over.
Losing her realistic shot at happiness.
Losing the muse that sheds light
On her old soul.
Her soul is restless and dark,
Or so it seemed.
A hazy veil is lifted after years of cloaking
The true potential of an individual
That no one truly knew.
This unexpected unmasking
Came as a jolt,
Something electrifying.
It revived the girl's heart.
But still,
The girl sits waiting for a time
To unfasten her jaw and stretch her fingers
To reveal those words
Those horribly whimsical words.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
Yesterday
I saw you
everywhere
all the time
and I wasn't even looking for you.
It was a good day.
Today
I was looking for you
all the time
everywhere
but I didn't see you,
not even once.
Life can be so cruel.
----------
Hier
je te voyais
partout
tout le temps
sans même t'avoir cherchée.
C'était un beau jour.
Aujourd'hui
je t'ai cherchée
tout le temps
partout
mais je ne t'ai pas vue
une seule fois.
La vie peut être si cruelle.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC