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zebra Aug 2018
The new # 69 hoochi coochi smoochi
rubberized *** robot ****** sucker model 2.0
now available

*******
feelin lonely
tired of spats
credit cards charged up from dates that don't put out
don't like the same restaurants
not ***** to your taste
cant stand the in-laws
you wana live costal, they like Kansas
or
tired of internet dating
and no time for a quickie

when the one you love tells you they aren't in the mood

well bunky
its a brave new world
take a spin in our new model
robot 69, 2.0
they talk
they walk
warm all ova inside and out
scented oiled perfumed *** optional
and flavored
to include
chocolate crunch, vanilla, strawberry
and
phooey
replete with an array of assorted interchangeable
*****, *****'s and butts
extra sturdy for ware and tear
and those little irresistible spankies and whoopins
you just cant live without
plus any colors, or rainbow rubber chasse
gay straight or mix it up how eva
trans trans gender

buy out right
or rent ala cart
deluxe or standard
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
*******
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
*******
mammary *******
*******
Netflix and chill
*******
*******
brown bath
cream pie
*******
motor boating

and the shocker  
two in the pink and one in the stink
adult ***
Helen Oct 2013
Face
up here
holds the
Eyes
and
Ears
What your talking to
are just fatty globules
mammary glands...
and as they stand
have no capability to make
decisions
Except nourishing Life
So...
Look up for two seconds
and face the hand
you're now talking to
The Deaf and Blind
Just ready it Hubby, he looks at me blankly, didnt hear a word I said :)
Broken Condom Feb 2014
young love disgusts me

like an infected cow’s mammary gland

your milk is full of antibiotics and ****

you drink it

you like it, want more of it

it wants more of you

but it’s really just making you sick

although nobody really tells you that

you just drink the milk, easily satisfied

until it makes your way through the digestive tract and destroys your newly infected insides
another oldie i was angry a lot
Heidi Kalloo Apr 2016
If I was a provider of the content I like
Like I wanted to be I’d never have gotten that
Surgery that ****** up my mammary glands
      I’d gush a milky **** for all audiences
    Even the ones that knew me before I turned bad *****
And spoilt
Even my great aunt and grandma and mom
who have finally befriended me
on Facebook
The ***** in me covers up and cuts off these
Lady parts
But I heat up and cant hide
The spark in my eyes when I see a girl
Unafraid of her ******
Wearing lingerie on IG

Feminism to me is radical or bust
Is ******* your ****** ****** and
Taking lots of pictures as proof
Of your own ****** occurrence,
Reposting if I get taken down,
Moderator of my own **** self.
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche
reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).
neth jones May 2021
..............there’s such a clamour
         so much choring
    memory thread
I sit
armchair
rocking head
receiver of motion
    bleaker of putty trauma
                creator of mammary craving

.....best take up knitting or wood carving

the fortress of thought
(in strict connivance with a bewildered host)
compiles the 'person idea'
protects the fragile calculator
               from biting at its own exposed
                  and useless self mating psychology
               from glutting on its own tail 
                   and merry going mad
                        in a tune of hoops...

..stammering to achieve valuation

for our decent management
projector
may you continue operations falser still
defeating our own polygraphs and making fools of our internal courtrooms

i sit on this chair
things go still
thoughts occur elsewhere
am i left to not be ?....................
[no rocking horse
conveyer belt
tank tread
rock rearward and forth
the thinker and the head]
Vernarth leaves and articulates in them to guide and accompany them with this imperishable itinerary, coming from the undivided becoming that was normalized with its evident parapsychology, creating certain polycellular substances in the accentuated multi placebo effect by injecting them with clinical blindness, to then reactivate them in the ejido of Bethany as a path of going and death, back and Life, with whom they revived from the anginal dizziness, that even some faltered when they saw Bethany full of Borricos who led them with the allegory as if the real world had just been made in a variety of towards a speculative problem and its limitations. Vernarth could glimpse with his glances certain affected areas of some who were with the entourage, essentially in the wear of their pancreas, hormones that were launched with radiant flashes of celestial suns, with extracts of muscles varying with irradiation in super stocks, inhibiting radioactive parts of Cinnabar that finally brought them all together when the phase of Cinnabar that was deployed as an aid to the cutting of the heads Speleothemes or Speleotomies, becoming radioactive by generating concentration in large eminences of snatched electrons, in order to begin to open the layers of the bathyal zone at four thousand meters of depth without light, up to the Neritic where large cemeteries with whale mammary arteries flowed back, and together with toxins from sea snakes. The hypnosis that Vernarth exercised towards all those who absorbed aspiring to have enough dynamics, and generate prayers of all kinds for when they reached the Metelmi tunnel of the Profitis Ilias. With the management of the visualizations of her emotions, meditation and prayers were rewound after a neat trajectory of wealth and well-being Venusiana.

The power of their unified minds has been successfully adhered to for hundreds of years since they were fostered. From the first hypnotic third with the mesmerism of the chiroptical, rather of the four species of Vlad, Fruit Chiroptera, Vampire, Indiana, Egyptian, which would mainly be the carriers of fertilization of the lands of Patmos, and their pollination together with the Lepidoptera, also gave them the magnetism in this way:

Says Vlad Strigoi: “Eventually it suggested to me from the hypnotic trance that led us to varieties of suggestion in the dermis, which it branded us as suggestive ectodermal. Under the keys of the nervous system if I have to have a conscience or exquisite wisdom for all the blisters that in frugality it is convenient for my species of chiropterans to shelter them, and not my human comrades. So I got over the death of my older brother, and then I succeeded him, where I went some time to moan him on the Danube. I was exiled in Edirne, and from there in my second reign, I went to Wallachia, many episodes happened and early in the morning I was visited by the rest of the Boyars' bats, fleeing from themselves, there were thousands and thousands I had to take care of from them. Later I went to Valdaine, Chauvet. Welcoming me to Wonthelimar so that one day we would regain the true kingdom of manumission in the darkness of Wallachia with my monastic brother Vlad Calugarul "

The blisters of thousands of Vlad's Chiroptera burst when he referred to his brother Calugarul, beginning to fall from the upper angle into cheesy leagues of flying animals, who wanted to control the pain of man, all protected by psychic mental waves emancipated from the presumptuous angle of Vernarth, and of the laziness of his spasms, and migraines that we're frightened of some by the entrails of the physiology of the platform. Upon reaching five hundred years, there were four hundred left to approach the quantum borders that the Souls of Helleniká transferred to them, the entire timeline was covered with a tunic that was moistened by turbulent water that appeared from overseas, producing dramatic conventional meteorologies, where The line of sight of the horizon lay three times where it was, to indicate that the humid plain of the tunic was in concert with the setting Sun. From this regulation plan, the prime time was counterpoint, for a link of half an hour before approaching midnight, before reaching the Profitis Ilias, specifically the Metelmi Tunnel in the Raedus Codex. Many species were unable to tolerate the immunity of such an event as they emerged to the surface and began to collect cells that revived engulfed in themselves, to later become impregnated with Wonthelimar's entourage and then predisposed to enter the geological cavity.

The collectivity of time was dissipated, all the nature that was of a coherent past was beginning to visualize itself towards a state of immunity mechanism, due to the trances that deprived it of hope of living in a new beginning before reaching Patmos. From Agios Andreas, expulsions of malignancies that were expressed with the Apsidas Manes were still felt, being very well alternated by Marie des Vallées who deconcentrated conventions and individualities towards the lacerated that still did not form outgrowths on their bodies removed from Spinalonga, while she continued as always In its most absolute darkness and exile, only portraits were enough to project itself on a populated island, which would be rescued from involuntary excretions and depopulation, being a human settlement. More than a hundred experiments were missing to scale the island to a superiority that was far from a medical shelter site, which excludes it from knowledge of prevalent and invalidated concepts of a miraculous life that was beginning to be written in Agios Andreas. The power of Faith self-healed in the bodies that had yet to be awarded the healing intentions of collective minds that flowed among all, when they were guided by the Saint of Normandy after having clear evidence and for how long they would be on this islet, for also rejoin the investiture of the Himation of Vernarth in the Áullos Kósmos, indemnifying the intervals of the Vas Auric and the Cinnabar. All prayed inclined towards a transformation of the permutations that inspired a quantum healing, that moved the waves of the seas in unison with their prayers, that creating a quantum healing atmosphere in all channels, and for all their atoned intentions. Telepathy apprehended all their emotions, prevailing the vital energy that contemporary in the prayers of the new earth field that greeted them became at their astonished feet.

The hospitality of Agios Andreas had Theus and Vikentios defined to be with her, to have total compassion with the Saint and to recover their ancestors with a focus of energy that were invaded by hyper healings similar to an ultrasound, which emanated from the hands of the Santa, for each of the individuals who remained to be definitively healed and then redistribute them in the new spheres of execrations, which hung from the indigenous Manes on the island, which delimited the improvement of many human beings who lived long periods here, overcoming dimorphisms in the reproductive organs of ancient cavemen, with leprosy in the ***** of their ******, but the testimony of dimorphism motor skills will lead to species totally free of this scourge of the ***** bacillus, to perfectly synchronize a field of healing energy, from the magical thought of the Saint who assisted them permanently, to prepare themselves in the new regions before they had what to make the last decision to integrate in Patmos. The membranes of the nuclei of the sun that healed them and reconvened themselves from the molecules of an energized level of matter celestially congruent, with the sensitivity of the affected organs, until some cells imprisoned in the cells of lost morbidity, hypnosis was reinstituted bilocate de Vernarth who assisted them from his eclectic Portal before superior hypnosis that led them to mutate their bodies into astonishing birds, which were retransformed with the Birds of the Stymphalus.
Stymphalus  Birds
Yazad Tafti Dec 2018
i like **** of all sizes
no matter the shape we always make compromises
they're all generally hidden behind brassiere disguises
embellishing decorations that cover up glamorous prizes

i always got milk on hand
secreted from those voluptuous mammary glands
some may say they feel like water balloon brands
silicone addition seems like an unnecessary plan

honey nut oats with those titttiiiesss!
love yourself because i love you
Because the beauty of your ****** is not a sin.**

I saw you in the twilight
Disrobed in the state of nature
And I gaped and gasped in awesome delight
Spellbound and elated in rapture
As I beheld your voluptuous features
As I gazed upon your priceless treasures
From peak of the mountain
I went down to the fountain
In the valley of your mons veneris
And holding on to your alluring pillars
I have been transfixed at the altar of your estuary
The estuary of your conjugal sanctuary.

I saw the falconer trading his falcon
With the bounty hunter for his gun
Lost in their lust for your connubial offerings
Spellbound by the allures of your charms
And I came in the fleeting mist of the fleeing night
To behold you even before the Aurora Borealis
And saw you embracing the heavenly light
As Father Heaven kissed Mother Earth
And you were enchanted in heavenly mirth
Oblivious of my winking mortal eyes
Hypnotized in the ether of celestial bliss.
At the unveiling of the beloved daughter of Eve
Made perfect in the bowels of boundless love.

Let the fire be kindled in my heart
The eternal flame of my spirit
The breath of eternity
The ether of life formed in purity
Born bare and born free
As my enchanted eyes can now see
Freed from the chains of pains
The pains of natal travails
Oh! Woman! Thou art the vessel of motherhood.
And in thy mammary gourds abound our first food
How much every man in bound to thy *****
For from the canal every man is born
Through the third eye of Eve where love flows
From the seed sown the fruit is grown
The sweetest fruit of love is found in the ******
To behold your naked beauty is not a sin.

~~ Orikinla Oosinachi, 2006.
chump Jul 2016
tell the man he needs a wife
tell the horse he needs a saddle
do we owe the past our life
float down the river throw out our paddle

should i not complain
you advance i remain
stereotype me from the past
your fabulous image changing so fast

we'll be shakin to the rapper
renamed lawrence welk
its too late now to slap her
the future is all about the milk
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
On the surface of those cheap sheets of skin
Our hungry heads next to the radio
Emerson, Lake & Palmer sing of that Lucky Man
While children of the candy corn eat the postman

Space Opera pirates courted by Tiny Dancers of Mars
Spiders, in fact, band mates to a lad named Ziggy
Like us made of Stardust, eternal and galactic—
Though not supported by a studio laugh track

So many images can flash by changing channels
On the Technicolor TV late at night, feral and ******
Passing ships, Hamlet, pigs in clothes, angels killed,
Mouths ******, mothers crowning and holes drilled

Babes crying in the street, while the heavens fall
An unreal reality that flabbergasts wet dreams
Shifting gears for the animals to rule the room
Orwellian motifs ensuring self-righteous doom

Nothing written is appreciated till the lesson is met
Charted, ridiculed, challenged, accepted, analyzed
By those who skimmed through blurred scribbles of lines,
Puking phrases of former failures for the modern times.

Vicious cycles of kids raising parents
Using TV and Internet as the windows to life
Fundamentally naïve, systematically retrieved;
Academically relieved, posthumously achieved.

All meaning was lost in making albums not worth buying
All reason was abandoned when making movies not worth seeing
All adventure was ceased in vain of endless rules and authority
All we have are gadgets, bills and jokes on conformity

My broken clock is still ticking like a mechanical heart
All veins and arteries lead outwards from the center hands
The red lights of traffic leading in and out of the metropolis
Of that homeless blues singer named “something Tatopoulos”

A Japanese couple making a tourist trip to Memphis, Tennessee
Along midnight trains where ghost of Elvis haunts Italian women
Most of the time my references don’t make sense to most
But it keeps things interesting as I’m your eccentric host

Absolute processions of White Queen marches
****-face jackals sporting Mott the Hoople Tees
******* & *******, filling audience chairs
Prophets & moppets, raising fists in the air

Ooze-dripping ******* flower creatures
Topping off mammary gland excretions
Unknown pleasures released by Factory records
Amidst the hysteria caused by deaf leopards  

Pink and orange clouds, reflected in golden hazel eyes
Her smile I can’t forget, just everything about her
You never forget your first love, with eyes like maple
Even in the middle of seeing these strange fables

In this waltz we dance to the beat of three
One, two….

Why couldn’t that love last forever?
Three
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
     years elapsed since, I didst hawk
     verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,  
     thy strong craven raven
     doth still twitter and flip

sans thy testosterone switch,
     where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
     relationship nixed thee
     as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip

     service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
     more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
     towing thru nested tulip trip

     gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
     friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
     after pants sigh did un zip.
                            *  
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
     asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
     yar ******* mine gums did ladle.

Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
     fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
     bird, who didst deign
     as milquetoast guy.

Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
     ***** thatch, where

     hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
     ***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
     bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
     def flesh tone.
So now I am altered

- you player! -
but the case is settled,
             well - probably not, no.
                                                         Aphex twin reduces tempo -

can Moon's ******* wrap me

mummy-like?

        -        Memory of the mammary.
PassivIre Apr 2012
MMMMmmmmmm......
MMMMmmmmm.......
MMMMMmmmmmmelancholy melodies of misery, Mish-mashing memoirs in my mind.
MMMMmmmmmmmmistakes of my mademoiselle misshapen maladies, messing with my mental mire.
MMMmmmmmomentous man might made minute by mammary marching miseries.....
MMMmmmmmy oh my – my many marching miseries.
MMMmmmmmakes me miss the mystery in meeting..... Months of magical moonlighting...... .....mind you masterful mating!!
Mmmmmindlessly meshing membranes of moderately matching mettle.
MMMMmmmembering my moods and modes........messy and mostly misty as my mind makes it mildewed mould.
MMMMMmmmissed OH SO MADLY,  if I may........ is the mercilessly milked MEANINGFULNESS in the mentioned misbegotten mismatches....
MMMMmmmmind you.....my merry moot mistakes.
MMMeeeee???  Meh!!!  maniacally meek....moreover......momentarily MAD.....
MMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm.......


5-03-2010.
Boy Gaskell Feb 2014
Like smoke through a crowded room,
She seeps between the cracks of life.
Dipping, ducking, dodging them all,
Passing freely to the end of the hall.

Squeezing herself around strangers,
Stroking mammary against others.
Her feet planted in front of the bar,
Hand raised to protest, "she's a star!"

Suddenly she clasps onto the edge,
Gripping with weak force to protest.
"Shots" she calls, never gains a reply,
"Shots over here" not a single sigh.

A quick view of the crowd behind her,
In shock of the horror that surronds.
The hideous approaching themselves,
Must she care little for their health.

The lights flickering to her heart beat,
Like thrillers which build with tempo.
Gasping, what lies created this hole,
Leaving her stripped of all she knows.

The hands swinging by with haste,
She stares out pleading for attention.
Nothing but blank gazes of her body,
Searching for a better man to serve.
Morrie W S Apr 2019
she stares into the darkness.
             eyelids mar sighlids.
               winds shalt cower
               as curtains glower.

                          and--
                   and perhaps
                        were i
                     to see her--
in the head of a deer,
in the wink of a
blink of an eye

perhaps then
't'would not be i
who fear doth see.
neth jones Apr 2
basemented   this liminal vivarium of cool moulded plastic
             with mirrors standing in for windows
and a ring of branded restaurants taking refuge at the edges
    all familiar     no surprises
the staff set up
         for the consumers morning
                      of slack mastication
      (Local chain, national, international)
  
the old-timers   glomming into clump
    benign zombies
an arrangement of fellas with dissolving jaws
  cudding over mammary notions
       untailored in sacky pallid sultana skins
    reform in a mumble
doing snailish pinball movements
            crossing and recrossing floors
         cleanly tiled for biohazard accidents
               salivating about the savoury soft foods to come

the restaurants rattle-shake-raise their security blinds

also noted
a mixed bag of people projecting
      into their smooth glowing slablets
    making out like worldly fools

also present
cropped and groomed toy security
      peering between the fronds of plastic foliage

offscreen
public bathrooms   the first struggling **** of the day

also present
a bench of  youngsters in bright blue screen matching pjs
  the four employees of sanitation
      drumming up for the shift

see also
vague happy lady in a  garish sarong
importing her holiday religion
berri metro food court / late summer 2023
It’s a heat that skims
off from the ground
and soaks the bones.
Music burrows
into the ears of suited men,
eating calorie-clogged burgers,
dripping onions
and then you’re in
a restaurant with blue tiles
hugging someone you haven’t seen
in six years
and time slips as treacle
under lights
in the bowl you sit in
with UFO’s blooming on the ceiling
like mammary flowers
and there’s a woman
with a bra on her head,
blonde hair like a mini blizzard
as for a moment
a throng of teenagers
in stripy socks
share sweat to Fleetwood Mac,
bees shimmying at something pretty.
It’s a scene you couldn’t picture,
except you could,
everybody has their phone out,
a flurry of colours
and drumming that drums
into your skull
like a shot of adrenaline.
Businessmen outside
swallow wine,
sit on the tube with blue ties
and rustle
the Evening Standard and its headlines
streaked with gloom.
Ticking towards Tuesday,
another man
eats another burger.
The hours pass,
the heat stays,
the music remains.
Written: June 2017.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. On 19th June 2017, I went to the Royal Albert Hall in London to watch the band Paramore perform. It was a very warm day. The first few lines of this poem were written in a McDonald's close to Euston station. The rest was written on a train travelling away from London late on Monday evening. During the day I saw an old school friend who works at a restaurant at the venue, saw lead singer Hayley Williams perform with a fan's bra on her head, and what with it being London, witnessed many a businessman in a suit. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
neth jones Apr 2019
Best off known
Make ‘art world’ of my damage
Prepare to go mammary

Prattle my way into important company
Display something intimidating
And put in my stake
My patchwork for paternity
Zani Feb 2017
There is no reason for this deluge
These droplets of life force in disguise
Doth brim with gratitude
There is no room for darkness here
For time is short

Download from down below
The stars so bright
This chest tight realisation
That we cannot make right
As it is so until our undoing

We tell ourselves these blames and shames
The call of universal mammary centric fame
Attracts what is necessary for the psyche
Orbits around us serving self important senses
Pulling it closer with an aquaponic disclosure
Of what cannot be purified by consciousness
Flowing from the peephole

These tools fool us into first place
Where it is very lonely
We can use them to make golden
Out of the knowledge pool gathered slowly
Between the steps of that lunar dance
That guide us closer to our true selves
Leaving no trace of what is left behind

Nothing but droplets
Freezing memory in time
Lacing the meadow
Feeding those who are hungry for sorrow
But do not wish to eat the rainbow
Absorb it through their stony skin
An emotional induction induced to guide kin
To a softer side of life
With my heart wide open
Qualyxian Quest Sep 2021
According to Weird Science.

Oh those 80s!
Ken Pepiton Feb 2020
What if wisdom, the thing, the being imaged
in the word
Sophia,
philo sophia, in a meme re maining, to this very day,
as true a depictical actual form, as lovable
as any, though
the thousand ******* of Artemis, that image...

Ask how many Dr. Spock Pablum fed boys,

would that image have cured from
mammary ******* sensory deprivation syn
drome, trap for lost boys,
never wishing fully formed in Michael Jackson, eh?
The Peter principle,
rise to the level of one's
incompetence and **** ****
and consume enough food for all Artemisis
famishished little lies, calling
more, more, more
Narrow AI, lust response,
so artfully inspired by Eddy Bernays,
and the silver screen's seductive radio voices,
Eddy,
you know, the Madison Avenue behabiourilist,
Freud's nephew... he cited Watson, the
one before the one
with Crick. Jimenee, we have been Disnified... if

I'd known
sooner, I'd have left your cake out in the rain...

so it melts, like the wicked witch of the west, or
east, I lost my bearings

who is asking what of whom,
am I involved in evolving your synaptic gaps?

We did entangle, in a sense. You are dear reader,
in the book of life with my name in it. Not on, in.
A beautiful hawk announced herself, swooped into my per-if-ery, as if to say,
watch this. She glided with the merest twitch of the tips of her wings,
down in to the valley where a mouse had moved, unaware.
Nhlekeleza Sep 2018
Am I plastered?
Drunk or just hanging?
Taking a dunk or just sagging?
I am given to aphorisms
Morals that build us for a reason
Trying to keep us out of mental prisons
Words have me in a haze and I cannot erase these thoughts  that keep running in an entrancing maze.

Metamorphosis. There are matters that enforce this energy which is engorged within a metaphysical force. I use my fingers to pick up a pen so to expel a thought that lingers in my pineal gland.

Goodness. It is grace amazing that is in this place or just a god or the God who shows off his face. We are presented with a gift perennial that is wrapped with mystery. In mists the fists of fate take a swing and if we believe in the unseen we can trust grit and transcend beyond wit. Train our senses to be lit so they can send us beyond -ism's to the essence of goodness.

Locomotion. In my local state I give up my locale to some divine logic gate. I dial in to wire my mental coiling to follow a calling to inspire. Ever the wiser I should soar to the mystic spheres. But ground there is insulation and my calculation computes a technical movement in my skeletal. I am moving locating my next step, relaying locomotives which are concentric energy.

Soigné. A fine dame I dare meet on a fine day. So Ignorant of her beauty I parlay my chances with a few words of jest and curved zest to interact with her invitational tract. If I have a chance in fact I will make a pact to be with her throughout the days and forget about lustful tact. I resurge and her being is muse and to me it is a purge. I aim to converse with her for days and days so we can find confluence as we psychically converge. And I'll tell her that she is pulchritudinous and I am pale true to nought, waiting for my crafting.

Words or chords to find concordance. Some say say swords to slice and pierce and dictate worlds. I say they are mellifluous like a melody that sends a melancholy sadist out of his maladies. Magnanimously magnificent in moments of poetic artistry and meandering prose fixating methodically. From the mammary of the culinary belly we squeeze out these laid letters formed to mean but not to be mean to the means of our diction or magnify our addiction. Perhaps to quantify our intellect beyond the internet, we archive them in dictionaries and illustrate them in some encyclopaedia. Perhaps grunts and clicking of tongues is some medium... But words change the world where lords fail to write laws to keep us sane, and instead have swords forged to have any man slain.
Yours truly an aging baby boomer
long haired pencil necked geek
trademark disheveled characteristics
whipsawed ever faster around sun.

He (best buddy and alter ego of mine)
snapped, popped, and crackled
firstly his crown out ******
subsequently skinny arms and legs
(I'll spare ye the ****** graphics),
whence obstetrician able, eager, and
ready underscored with italics

to pronounce hosannas  
regarding garden variety
generic wrinkled newborn
emerging out birth canal
asthma noggin heralded
scrawny newborn, now celebrating lxiii
plus deux orbits around nearest star,
which birth sported an ordinary

uneventful, nonetheless miraculous
biological secrete heave reproductive tricks
immediately screaming
without assistance courtesy
Gran Prix (now pronounced as ******)

also envision Dolby surround sound
nsync with spastic kicks
'o mine straggly mostly
gangly lovely bones mox nix.

Within some nondescript building
named The Christ Hospital
location Mount Auburn
Cincinnati, Ohio
(the buckeye state)
record number C57587
gingerly handled courtesy
Doctor James Mackay McCord
(ushering none other than me
into the wide webbed world)
bestowed upon ***** of Harriet Harris,
thy young mother of prolonged labor
as his bony *** easily
slipped out uterine crypt,

whereby with Vernix
caseosa, the waxy or cheese
he appeared made rather dipped
in tallow, thence unexpectedly whipped
minuscule fist ready to bump.

Once placenta and fetal membranes
(unnecessary as wing ding)
discharged out ******
after birth of offspring,
and thar weren't no more
major contractions in the offing
ma mommy lovingly did cling
to her bundle of joy and bring

maternal breast I ravenously
did suckle fortunately toothless
against her tender ***** trickling
(if mammary serves me correctly)
I presently recall no iota of inkling
what events transpired, nope
no recollection about me circumcising.

Moost likely I felt Jew bull lent
glad yours truly chose decent
mother and father, which opinion
subjected to radical change,
when as grown adult child
living nonsocial under

their roof forced to hire agent
provocateur to practice sparring,
when standoff event on horizon,
which eventually begat ultimatums
their red hot poker rage spent
belittling, cursing, damning...

quiet as Unitarian Church mouse content
internalizing later smoldering
anger I needed to vent
in retrospect diminutive little boy
tied to mama's apron strings
afflicted with mental

health issues inherent
of course hindsight gleaned
social, psychological, neurological...
healthy development got rent
asunder partly explaining
why I became indigent.
(alternatively titled eldest daughter despises us)

Eden (beloved eldest daughter) icy
flat tone of voice spoke volumes,
when she talked with the missus and me
courtesy cellular telecommunications key
December twenty seventh
two thousand nineteen
unwavering listless dull verbalization see
I subsequently told spouse, she
thy super smart self reliant progeny

fending for herself approximately
last half dozen years exhibits je
ne sais quois profound loathing
predicated growing up dirt poor free
quint lee lamenting deprivations re:
guarding legal tender adequate specie
i.e. money - at least compared to every
MainLine millionaire flush with dee -

suppose able income, and oft times
lovingly, pleasantly, unexpectedly...
receiving largasse gift horse courtesy
zayda (my father), who art not yet
in heaven sprung monetary help, ye
this second born and only son did
profusely think him (papa) lee
ving voice messages on his landline,
and tracfone, plus wrote heartfelt poem,

similar acknowledgement modus operandi,
when said offspring
became twenty three
years old - five days ago, nonetheless thee
admirable, dependable, honorable... née
holds Matthew Scott (namely he),
who helped beget
darling feels angry,

and doth plainly exhibits contempt
(you) dear reader guessed correctly
towards sorrowful dada,
where inescapable thralldom
doth invisibly chain
(think ghost of Marley)
apologetic sir, whose
precious kinder, I

will unwaveringly cherish
forever love and revere
despite up paul ling
destitution, grinding linkedin penury,
and red hot poker faced
anger, yes... dismay
prevails how unforgiving
once (Benny sent) baby,

inside joke, I attest neigh
scent "star student,"
now grown young woman,
no longer - figuratively
wrapped around yours
truly her finger
father who fell short, natively cree
hated abhorrent within re

cent mammary, ***** (hers)
harboring scathing unmasked vee
hum mint, blistering, rancorous,
seething, volcanic withering...
no matter disgusting revulsion
toward aging mommy
and repentant daddy,
I LOVE YE EDEN + SHANA!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
a heart that lends itself for an hour,
an honest hour,
i'll spend an extra month in this town,
watching spring wrestle with
the last chain-whip of winter,
just like today, pomeranian snow,
a blizzard and a teasing vulcanised
ashen sky, pale mother golgotha
and all the remaining iconoclasms
burdening the school of saints,
an extra month, wathing days grow
longer, and by 5pm, the yawn the
high atmospheric pressure and
fighting the toffee eyes just enough
to sit akimbo on the floor hunched
graced by the warm southern breeze
cooling as it comes down the northern
Carpathia mountains,
    the Tatras: a long blink of azure
and comes the ceiling crashing down...
an extra month, the old woman
wanted me to decorate her kitchen
and her corridor,
        an extra month...
                 and after a year or so of
celibacy i will finally do what i know
what to do best, spin the economy,
pay for an hour, no gruesome detail,
no slush-puppy soppy "my idea of love
is the ideal love"... past itchy-salt wounds
and the miracle of an elephant's
doing less damage than a woman
in high-heel shoes...
                      a scrutiny of but an hour,
saving graces of momentum i couldn't
adhere to: this boy runs on gasoline
and counting minutes as stones,
    one stone, two stones, three:
     an anchor's dive into the harangue
of the sea by her own proto dictum
   of asking a ship to wreck...
     a sirens' lullaby...
     obiter cogitatio: a thought in passing,
as all things must,
           worse, skim reading,
   without a dangling tongue upon
   the fore',
                  almost like a schoolboy,
who has the pleasure of riding
the madonna-***** complex to its
natural conclusion in a brothel...
hardened heart, hardened elsewhere,
mush boy blue, mush boy white,
mush boy and castrato operas elsewhere,
mush boy blue, V V V...
             how it doesn't work the miracle
when it doesn't have to:
     clean-cut of the guillotine
          between...
    and they say that if a man walking
behind a woman will stare at her buttocks...
stranger standing riht behind a woman...
in a supermarket queue,
       seems eroticism stronghold of
a woman's hand does migrate and takes
hold of her height...
      at 6ft1... she's most ******
                  shy of my 'head...
for the first time (and only from
behind) can a close symmetry based on
height allow such a strange infatuation,
hierarchical, orderly,
     when breeding pedigree alsatians
and labradors and even siamese cats,
        notably homogeneity erotica,
              concentrated in height correlation
of the male and female specimen...
     nothing as crass as the remaining
anatomy that's the niqab of ****...
           sooner or later the mammary glands
of cows, and bye bye goes all things prior...
now hands i could have understood,
male : female perfect height proportion
came as a strange aphrodisiac for the eyes...
a cramped supermarket was all it took...
    and at least in that hour where
everything remains prestigiously formal,
no bargain of hearts,
    no slush-poppy poetry about how how
how such a love elsewhere is beauuuuu-
ti ti ti- full of horseshit...
        oh and such a love is,
     left to a straitjacket asked not
to scratch itself with rose thorns aged
twenty one...
                         economics takes over,
and a clash with boredom and man
trying out imitating the noble monogamy
of swans... the widower swan,
   or the widow swan...
            a least others contend with
   the walrus harem, and others, well...
make pacts with the thieves and wolves
among other themselves...
                              thrice a repeated
feat, on the fourth attempt,
         i and my mother's brother can both
testify...
                are not already over saturated
by the thespians? sometimes an hour
and she forgets she is in the real theatre
and not some 22nd snippet put together
with the 10th take of a 23rd snip
       that makes up 30 seconds worth of
cinematic fakery...
        sometimes the hound burrows in
her bowels and she aches from being
given money for her own pleasure being
served... came the needle pinch
   came the pinch of salt on the tongue,
came Sahara in her eyes,
                 came the curled up
naked body sold to her own mirror
image of shame...
              me and my glacier cold doll eyes,
listening to the harangue of the sea
        that woman is,
              on the sly and on the eerie slant
marching past a church at exactly 11pm,
    inexhaustible seance in expectation
of the resurrection of 11 hang-men of Tehran,
not that poetry exists in the Islamic world
outside of Persia...
           came the people
from Dune al-Riyadh, with a meager
                                                  bibliography,
Arabic women don't exactly have **** hands...
******* frankfurter fingers
         walking down Edgware Rd,
   she-eshia eating baklava eating
    new-money, formerly women of the desert
plough, fig harvesting, camel milking
    new "aristocracy" build upon:
oil is thicker than blood, blood is thicker
than water... just another passing thought,
after all, comes the dance of decadence,
comes the pecking crow knocking with
   a pekish tease, a curling tongue gurgling
as if drowning, perched on either
   a branch of oak birch or pine,
     or even upon the crucial hand
    of the outstretched cross in the forest
of the labours of prayer, which the deaf
can even hear, solemn vibrato humming
of pierced lips and clenched teeth.

— The End —