"lipping" poems
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
314.6k
Evenings were sandwich time
brought in by big Ted
sandwiches cut in triangles
in white and brown
and he laid the plates down
on the center table
and the patients
bored out
of their fragile brains
pounced upon them
and ate ravishingly
as if time
was running out
to eat
but
Yiska nibbled hers
took small bites
her finger tips
holding the brown bread
her white teeth
nibbling gently
Naaman watched her
his sandwich held
but uneaten
smelt
viewed
but held away
from lips
he took in
Yiska's nibbling
the way her fingers
held as if a holy host
not fish paste
and her lips
parted just so
her tongue seen
the white teeth
and her eyes
unfocused
her nightgown
buttoned at the breast
with a missing button
and he wanted
to be that sandwich
in her fingers
wanted her lips
to feel him
her teeth to nibble him
but then
the foreign woman
distracted him
by taking
her sandwich apart
opening it
between fingers
sniffing the contents
******** up her nose
muttering something
in her foreign tongue
throwing it on the plate
and picking up another
don't waste them
a nurse said
ask if you don't see
what you want
the foreign woman
chewed on the sandwich
she'd picked
the nurse removed
the torn open sandwich
Naaman ate
a small portion
viewing Yiska meanwhile
licking her fingers
******* the ends
in and out
and he wished
it he she was doing thus
he looked away
the evening sky
was darkening
through the locked
ward windows
the bright electric lights
above their heads
made mirrors
of the windows
and Naaman saw himself
in his blue dressing gown
sans belt in case
he tried to string
himself again
and he gazed at Yiska
once more nibbling
another sandwich
the same *********
technique
the similar lipping
routine
and the missing button
on her nightgown
revealed a small portion
of flesh viewed
her small *******
pressing the cotton cloth
of the nightgown
and he ate unceremoniously
the last of his bread
watching her fingers
licked again
while outside the window
the sound of fresh rain.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
*dandelion seeds
too tight to fly--
frozen Spring lovers
stream breeze--
pollen ripples into sun,
brace of current bed
inflorescent burst--
hikers' boots beside a pool
on sun-baked rocks
green buds ***** the air--
in corymb echoes,
fuzz of leaves
water-sounds cascade--
moss-drops, trickles; dog-splash, falls;
gurgles under foot
the tones of waves
tiny on the smooth shore
lipping on
stem-length stars,
streaming rays of sun
and water's deep shade
gentle eddies over stone--
one world,
one world
froth twirl and tendril
under Spring brook shade--
so clear beneath
burl-sprouts misted bright,
cups of water,
forest thirst
waterfall gasp--
the cold! the winter! now swim!
the first breaths
Spring Misogi--
pummeled muscles--
grin of mossy heart
your wet shirt against my chest
--hot love--
thunderous winter-melt
we sink laughing,
numb in Spring's fluids--
our voices drown
papaya lunch--
a tropic fruit
and i am home
sweaty backpack--
two beloved women hike,
my heart weightless
cliff-jumpers--
green from nostalgia,
i hit bottomless
cameras first,
avert canopy surprise--
Spring screen
black-backed iridesce--
warm beetle slips
in and out of scree
barefoot in the stream,
our hands and voices smooth--
ankle sprain
Spring paths--
a parent's visit
breathes new life
my womb-maker
from another life--
ageless comfort
her haiku eyes--
water shining sun green
bloom here again
*
\|/
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Madame Salamander
With her small, speckled spots
Spread smoothly over her
Skin, similar to the sun.
Tiny toes tip tapping long treks
Through tough terrain.
Madame Salamander
Grand and glamorous, great gales
Of green-eyed ganders give her
Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing
Gleefully of gross gourds.
Madame Salamander
Feel her filmy eyes on her
Flat facade furrow into a feverish
Gaze as her words fan further
And farther whilst she fabulates.
Madame Salamander
Let her linger on her long legend
Of little lizards lipping to large
Lions and licked away from
Their lovely lives as lizards.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.
i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.
by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink
.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
while building static warmth
unbiased night has nurtured strain
now! ;
breaks akimbo in filling veins
silver branches
lipping open flare across the sky
stimulated charge raised
through our earthed souls
greeting heavens kindle above
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 6:14 PM UTC
nothing ever makes sense
when its all upside-out-inside-down
when its all mixed up like her heart
like her thoughts till she can **** on a big fat joint
she always says dont bogart
and dont be lipping my paper...dont want your slobber on my doobie
then she relaxes into her day
but my backwards head thinks shes allready gone
least thats what im seeing in my
upside-out-inside-down thinking
shes doing her nails
and out of the corner of my mind
i am watching her her packing her life up and moving on
im imagining what will it be like if she was gone
know that redhead would come more often
know that my days wouldnt be as good
know my nights wouldnt have any passion or hope
that my world would be empty
but then she comes over to me and slips hers arms round me
and all that upside down inside out backwards thinking is a lie
shes not going anywhere without me
and she whispers a soft word on my ear
baby dont you ever leave me
this is no ordinary love
this is passion
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
woke with hypothermic and shaky skin
a thought: we are made of street lamps
and damp grass feet dripping dew tonight
we live in the color blue under electric moon
and my skin and clothes will be lined up
on top of the dresser for you to sink your teeth in later
my hands are cold in their lipping grasps but your
hips are warm, and desert breathes dragonfly
and smells of chlorine, our legs kaleidoscope
in the pool's reflection.
i am still cold, i am still in spring breaks
broken and inviting your scent back in my life.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
days are full of tulip lipping, like easy slipping of the
fingers through theory strands, soft-soiled land
dip yourself in
nights are littlesilver
slivers of one another, getting smaller and then larger
and then smaller again
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
When i was eight my dad would bring me to a movie store, i was always curious about that back door, i didn’t know it was where they stored the **** girls plastered on their backs and worn by men like casual dress their mouths all open in silent ****** and yet bets are they’ve never gotten that far and tonight i wonder where these screaming lick lipping girls are because I’ve never had one in me. And i think maybe most girls don’t because only men know that back door, that back entrance, where all the women love them on command, and real girls exist only as a figment of their imagination. When women’s pleasure is locked discreetly away you have to wonder whether men will ever taste chapped lips, touch fleshy hips, and love the bliss of a body on a body not a lifeless video hobby.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
I.
brewing and brawling, bronzing
she cries
the mighty blue-tailed
golden hawk of the skies
she screeches and crones
for the souls in her bones
that she hides away
bides away, flies away, souls.
souls she collects,
to tinker and check
to see if their wailing is loud-
loud as it goes
proud as it goes
an ego as big as is tall:
a square of dementia
and a sprinkle of manic
lead you to think she is largely just panic
frantic and tied
the souls she must hide,
to tide away, bind away,
find a way free -
free from the earth,
its land and its girth,
free from the sea,
its waters and needs,
free from the fire,
burning desire,
loosed to the air,
its wings without care
fighting and lighting
the sky in her path
the soul-binding hawk
slowly wanders back
II.
one by one
faintly they come
daintily and faintly
quaintly, they come;
the souls, how they tremble,
quiver and weep
through the slightest of all tiniest cracks do they creep
whining, entwining, smiling they float
burning passion and love,
all on one music note:
dripping and dropping
they dangle and sway
floating, just floating, ever slightly away
III.
souls having *** and souls bemoaning love
wailing and flailing, as soft as a dove;
perfect, he says, are the shape of your *******
lovely, she responds, i'm sick of taking tests -
no one will know, they like to pretend,
but obvious was their means to an end;
switching and curling, lipping they smack
the man over the head, whose head is on crack
and sad they all are, demented instead,
inside of their heads they are missing a *****
brightly, tightly, they hold on to their due
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
I stand by in awe
When beings live this life
Not lipping Bible verse
But doing kindly deeds
No mindful that their God
May ever reimburse
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 9:06 AM UTC
Swiftly so much to sweep
Helsing so deep the love hard to keep
Her words were off balance
Poem stanza Mama Mia all formed
Like a ballerina 575 Japanese Haiku
Designer Pucci Sochi releasing
so piercing garden jailed away
I begged I needed to feel guided
Maid hard-love of slavery
to the requiem the chariot of horses
Jumped like eyes of the demon
She pleaded with what corruption
Planes fired with struggling
Hearts became stronger
The taste was the different side
wicked fun animation
The men were changed
cruel love aviation
Needing the right ammunition
Prince Zar became 666 Stalin
Leadership of blackmail
Lips got sealed with more
love friction
Make your poems roll in
The Trump Tower polls in
Holy Gods Italian Collisuem
Every hour Poem maid
Requiem
The maid she had his words
Less communication so
***** what transcends
Your life depends?
"Delicious" Monsterous"
Only words "Devious"
maid Beauty and the beast
to digest
Destiny short poems of ecstasy
Oh! My She-locked
No heart or morals all locked
He wanted to steal her poems
Being conned into the heist
Higher walk with the rest
Poem Requiem palace
Hannibal Rising test
Watching her movements in
her lipping
She was home "Cruella" sweeping
Willow tree weeping new maid Priscilla
The Reign suffering minds of madness
Being ruled sweeping tears to clean up
Such wicked dirt Damon the ***** work
knowing to shut up what a ****
Feeling moved around "UHual"
Choked upon on my I-pad appalled
The masquerading social media mind
of Jekyll and Hyde poems
Her getaway poems not to be fooled
Terraced thousands of poems died
All betrayed upon with more deep lies
Important words to keep them alive
Saturday night poems stay alive
Stakeout Apps Presidency
Like a heart snack breakout
This was far from democracy
The "Quickie Requiem" for a
poem tricked over taken away
My best dream
Gripping love slightly in between
Doctor words to heal the King
his beeper the right timing
Save the poem not the Queen
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
Gentle muzzle
velvet soft
lipping at my palm
searching for the treats,
sugar and molasses
a rich combination
only a good horse
earns.
Supple leather
worn smooth
over years of dedication
and application
that comes from
this sport.
Nights
already promised ahead of time,
three months earlier,
hauling to deserted fairgrounds
a dusky sky setting the tone
for lead ropes
threaded
through stock trailer slats
cow dogs
running
up down sideways
trailing owners between horses legs and rusty pickups.
Tacking up
underneath floodlights
set to the soundtrack
of jangling spurs
and soft nickers.
Younger kids
hanging on the arena rails
drinking syrupy sweet
soda
a tradition
root beers before your run
good luck
in our community.
Foot in the stirrup
old braided reins in hand
leather,
broken into submission,
pliable
under years
of use.
Slapping hands
with other riders
who already went
horses,
slick with sweat
foaming at the mouth
ready to go again
with rippling muscles
still taunt in the sticky summer night,
aching for one last run.
three turns
and a gallop home,
don't care about the money
unless you beat your last time-
your only competitor
is
yourself
and
the
clock.
Hard packed dirt
pounded down by hooves,
tails swishing at flies
as you wait
for your turn.
Adrenaline and happiness,
an addictive cocktail,
these are the nights
I
love.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
Shifting through the bungalows,
Moonlight shivers amongst the abode.
The wooden planks easing into the sigh,
Of the wind wallowing its lullaby.
Tree leaves escalade,
Up, up, up, onto the roof, like a parade.
Then drip, drip, dripping,
The rain drops over the beam's lipping.
Two feet come suddenly into place,
Pacing amongst the rain's lace.
Shadows are glancing,
Over the lawn's new glaze.
The two feet begin quivering
From those shadows' new face.
A snap.
A creak.
A groan.
Fright has leapt up and won,
Quickly, cautiously
The feet run back towards home,
He is succumbed to panting,
From the terror within ranting.
Finally; he is alone,
And the haze of all that came to pass,
Has up and left him just as fast.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
O life, darling fatal life
gives of cloven earth
in vagrant summer
the pretty tempest of
because girls
rust centered, copper hewn
in sundresses
on a street corner
the lipping span
of deepest health
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
My beating heart has been ripped out my pulsating blood flow.
Those jagged claws dissects through my chest, one sharp finger at a time
I can smell the rust from my open wound traveling through the air. I glance at your left hand and saw the blood gushing from the artery.
My heart may not work but my mind will.
I wonder, do you feel remorse because I don’t, nothing but numb.
Yet you stand there too,
nothing but silence and your words lipping
“i love you”.
yet you bruised my black and blue soul, that was once gold.
Makes me think that is another fib that you tell, just because you might as well.
You try to bandage it up by shoving it back into my punctured chest.
but at this point I’ve become restless.
I fall into the ground wishing you’d save me,
instead following me to the ground but kneeling above me,
sewing my hole shut by gouging the tiny needle one thread at a time.
I am mangled.
Your thumb and forefinger held my wrist and led for a kiss
until you felt my pulse stop.
I’m sorry, this is all my fault.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
my alive:
this awakeness seems to breathe
of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked
by peach parted
over pit stinging;
the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:
has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,
lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;
whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva
–throat can't
but to
unkeep
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Ukiyo-e
Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge
bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn
at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint
screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image
a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas
a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave
reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting
in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
How was the school friend Una? Brian said,
his wife Nuala
sat beside him on the sofa,
the TV was on some detective show,
she's all right
had a good chat
of old times Nuala said,
Brian sniffed her secretly,
took in her perfume,
her eyes aglow,
who's class was she in?
he said watching the TV screen
but sensing her beside him,
Sister Bridget's form
a right straight lace she was
had the humour
of a death's head Nuala said,
Brian turned and looked at her
her name's not familiar
but there you go
I didn't know all the girls,
not what I heard Nuala said smiling,
rumours he said smiling
studying her eyes bright
as they were after a good ****
where'd you go?
shopping and had a coffee,
what'd buy?
he felt a desire for her
but guessed he'd
have to wait until later,
nothing bought but plenty seen
she said feeling dampness
between her thighs,
that's the kind of shopping
I like you to do
he said grinning
imagining her
on the bed naked,
Nuala thought of Una
kissing her on the lips
and her fingers places
Brian never or rarely went
tea? she said pushing Una
from her mind,
love it Brian said
he watched her get up
from the sofa
studied her backside sway
as she went,
he heard her switch on the kettle
and arrange the mugs
and sighed with want,
she stared at the kettle
and remembered Una
touching her
lipping her lips,
Brian called was she
the blonde bit at school?
Nuala froze and said
no not that one,
shame she was a big turn on
for us lads Brian said
gesturing with his hand
out of her sight,
Nuala sighed and wished
she could have
stayed the night.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:17 AM UTC