Ashley 2d
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but I have already masturbated twice,
thinking of us;
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace,
its hot,
where glued we jerk into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other:
my mind in reveries,
crowds,
filled with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a white reposed mountain.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
Fuck!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep;
you have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
the oiled bulb at the end of a finger,
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that with pointed elegance,
like a dancer's,
touches);
as my penis couches,
quietly rocking us inside,
moving you,
moving us,
warmly enveloped,
diffusing into each other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tendernessness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful china bone face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded up,
in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
where they run,
flow rather,
down inside your thigh;
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of enveloping you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ejaculate over:
wash their smooth surfaces with my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain semen on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we fuck,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath
from full lips:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me,
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting,
making me pop,
squeezing my cock in your palms;
running a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying fucked,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
doing nothing more than sleeping and carousing;
barely enough our sustenance to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the fucking comic at me,
will you?
Fucking beat my flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your white naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a fucking puppy!
Beautiful long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my cock into your cunt -
where I love it best.
nish 4d
I have a boy toy he's very sexy
but that's too mellow, I want something wild
a man like you, eyes like dawn yet hidden deep within it all
an animal, a lust for pleasure
take me all, make me your treasure
cherish me into the night
make me laugh in pure delight
then make me moan
earn my surrender
leave me lying feeling tender
I want to hear your cry of pain
my body writhes in disdain
you're everything I wish he was
and yet I fuck him just because
you make me laugh
he makes me wet
you kiss me sweet
my heart skips a beat
you leave me happy
he ravages my soul
maybe I don't need him
but i do need you.
© M.H

another anti-poem, I love doing this.
2o18
If I told you about the fifty mile trek I took,
with ice accumulating on my beard,
and shivering to sleep in the tiny hollow,
would you believe me?

What about the time they thought I was a terrorist
trying to assassinate the queen?
Or the time they took everything away from me;
my clothes, my hair, even my name?
Would you read it as fiction?

"That kind of thing doesn't really happen" you might say,
and I no longer care to argue my case anymore.
as you explain to me how, in a modern day society,
these kind of things things really work.

I wonder whether I should care,
as I nod dumbly to your every point,
telling me why you know, definitively,
that I am lying.

This is why my poetry shall refer only to emotions.
Nobody reads emotion as fiction;
you can feel it as they tug at your own-
A broken heart, a smile, a stray giggle.

Whether I made that journey is no business but my own,
but the cold I can describe perfectly;
Not biting, but stinging, and numb in every other sense.
The fear giving way to tears, which froze on my cheeks.

Besides, if this really is fiction, if I had really
made all of it up inside of my head,
would I still lie to you?
Of course I would.
Certain people sometimes say sharing their emotions is difficult and, while this may be true, very few people will deny how a person feels when they express themselves. Sharing details of certain experiences, however, is far more likely to taken with a pinch of salt. I don't much care for it in most instances.
grace snoddy Mar 30
lying awake
and looking for all of the answers
in my ceiling.

asking why
it has to be me who feels this way
               (feeling completely lifeless, and absolutely hopeless)

asking You
               “haven’t you taken enough from me?”
               “why must you haunt my dreams?”

and the only bit of light i have
comes from the streetlight by my window,
it shines on You.

and from the corner i hear You,
with a vacant and harrowing tone.
and the detached vowels and consonants
echo throughout the hallways.
they hang themselves on the wall
as a reminder.

               “they say nothing kills a man faster than his own head”.
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