"masochists" poems
*i always imagine you so very graceful
through the masochists ordeal
a god form of supplication
seeing your face
in love
fascinated by shimmering kisses
that hurt, yet please
wet lips and sharp teeth
glamors that excite
cold blade licks dragged across
tender bellies
naval
buttocks
and flexed toes
stinging
then radiating outwards
wounds become lilies
mouth *******
tremulous weeping kisses
ecstatic cruelties
blood glitter sacrifice
your supplication
love pangs
i'm shaking apart over you
your countenance
a cascading dream
moved to tears of adoration
your limitless
yielding
like surrenders caress
an infinite communion
with fragile limbs
silky wrapped spools
innerness of desire veiled in a shroud
a faltering star that glistens crimson
nymph of purgation
ash volcanic
cells en-flamed with tongues that bite
subsumed in scented vapors
a confection of **** and ***
waves embrace ineffable shores
passed the discontinuity of life
I have the most immense feeling of love for you
am i not
the saint death
quietly following you
through life's labyrinth
innocuous
waiting humbly in the wings
i am all ache for you
a vice of kisses
a brief encounter
that eats your sight and senses
ushering you to immortal freedom
a swooning garland of fire that enlivens
the body electric
a mist of molecules
your tears intoxicate
i am new life with in you
budding embryo
that consumes its mother for nourishment
and saturates like dew drops
as it echoes through oblivion*
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.
it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.
it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.
it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.
it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.
it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.
it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.
it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.
it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.
it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.
for I am not one.
it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?
it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.
and I am one of them.
and 'neath my heart,
I always will be.
for it is my birthday,
and wishes don't come true.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
How about distribution,
Another ******* poem To and About "love," and aspirational ***
Lip metaphor:
A thick paperback flipped through both covers in a momentary fluttering; I love that sharp sound.
Can we break the law a little?
The one that we made without words, and no acknowledgement was needed.
-So we'll only break a few,
The one that keeps our lips apart; our individual pages each being read one sentence at a time, maybe passed around the party to obtain a variety of opinion for the same smooth structures.
So needy for an affirmation, you, all of you, all of us.
All of Our ******* lovepoems and lovers. Misery a lot-
Don't pretend you arent enjoying it, you masochists, writers.
About ***
Take them off, just take them all off-leave no room to guess, I will not dare aspire toward my fiction.
Or else leave them on, and sit here, and lay here, lie here, sleep here, wake here, leave here unviolated by my hands-but keep yourself dressed.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
vampiric ***** house
a fearful symmetry
of cleavers for something to love
***** addicted
pearly satin's copulate
a continent of curves
ovoid rectums and raw mouths
in a ritual of sadistic etiquette
drenching phallus tongued spit
like gales of flames
at a masochists invitation
for foot blooded kisses
and heated lopped breast
eager haunches thunder
in a malignant lust
********* utopias **** cyclops
spreading winkling's dribbling
night operas
in a red cathedral of flicker hives
squealing euphoria's hemic arcade
with greased ******* that break backs
fluting throats ***** chromatic fizz
and shrilling wombs flutter like bat wings pandemonium
in the museum of the moon
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
what’s the point of history
if we keep flying
paper kites into a level five hurricane?
© 2021
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 10:44 AM UTC
If I state I’m going to do something
then don’t, as often happens,
then I’ve planted a ***** seed
that’ll grow into a choking vine,
not free, or wise
So dark January resolutions
might help Calvinists,
or masochists, or both,
but for the rest of us
comfort in our skins is better
I have no preach for you
to do this: just listen
Your own heart cries and sings
all day, every day
and you will beat yourself
far harder, over cheese and *****
than anyone who loves you would
So go inward a while and think,
and even if your conclusions
don’t match the zeitgeist,
love you, as we do
Jan 1, 2022
Jan 1, 2022 at 1:12 PM UTC
There are so many dentists
that the market's getting tight.
One must differentiate
to draw trade to one's site.
Being new kid on the block
especially was scary
Until, in a flash of brilliance,
he called his:"The Tooth Fairy"
With gloves and masks
and dental dams
He served his clientele-
leaving their other cavities
to those who knew them well.
His clientele were handsome
and all exercised a bit.
Some were macho, some were fey
it mattered not a whit.
What mattered were the smiles he saved,
that gave him satisfaction,
and he earned a decent living.
from the fine are of extraction.
So if you, too, seek success
it pays to find your niche.
Serve the Sado- masochists
and make them all your b*tch.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
The holy crusade of tacit masochists
An esoteric, timid terrorist
Led pumps through your veins,
Copper through mine
My lips Israel, yours Palestine
You sweat iron ore to fuel the war machine,
Your tear-ducts producing only gasoline
My nations prime exports, indulgence and sin
I fight for my lord, but I crucified him
A xenophobe, a chauvinist
You're the sullen bigot, I'm the narcissist
I'm breaching your periphery, I'm sparing no time
Searing your flag to cinders, Superseding with mine
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Alas, the irony
what you think you want
you do not really
it dances in your face
bathed in passionate flame
and yet rejected it is
instead you seek to follow
that which would cause you harm
take the needle
stick it deeper in your vein
let yourself feel the lies
coursing through you like fire
you keep feeling this, the burn
it is what makes you feel alive
to be broken and beaten down
you must like to be abused
over and over you find yourself spitting
at that which offers you a hand
and letting the devil lead you instead
we should all just drain one another
let us pass each other by
let us all be masochists
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
You crave human touch, like flowers crave the sun after a long winter, but you won't believe it when they give it you.
You expect everyone else to mean everything they say, just because you do, but God, aren't you stupid? You're single handedly handing tickets to your own doom.
You see him as summer rain, as sweet ginger tea, as fronds on the living room, you see him as home, but you and I know he barely knows who you are.
You're living the masochists ways. You're craving what you can't have. You're loving who won't love you back
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
Sweet bitterness
Wicked heart
Soul struck
Customised pain
Drunk love
Stay alive
Tear drop
Frost bite
Haunted house
Setting fire
Yesterday's gone
Love me
Hate him
Let go
Lose me
Repeat as necessary...
Caution; *broken heart club members only.
Preferably masochists.*
© Sia Jane
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
*shush
take the blade
dancing cutters
into your belly slow
********* unpeeled
red plush butter melting
kisses my beloved
silken tangle
around swan throat
tightening
lips numbing
growing cold
hold tight
eyes bright
legs opening
grace in submission
grateful for another wound
ooow love hurts
an exquisite intrusion
blood gush
pain for pleasures sake
a self exorcism
haunches poised
to welcome
**** and death
her noble head
*****
mouth a knit of determination
paraphillias soul
that says
i do
sizzling binocular vision
glassy eyed
flexed muscle trembles
hot sweat
torso lilting towards the floor
worked down hard
into a dark hive
until hell
feels like a humming bird
with a fluttering tongue
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
I know we can't be together right now
You know it to but you still want me
Are we just masochists or is this real love
If I risk it all for us;
Will you still want me when you can have me?
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
What can subsequent generations inherit
Besides our curse?
Our ravaged, ruined, barren land.
We bestow upon our heirs
Unfinished wars
Over infertile land.
The grave pestilence of love
And lover’s disease.
We continue to deface
Monuments to our creator.
We have ravaged the innocence
Of our children.
The human race accursed
To preside over sterile soil
And walk amongst masochists
Calling for mass genocide,
For we are truly the beasts
Of this (impure) world.
Insatiable lust
Of blood and breast.
Traded a moment of pleasure
For the beating in my chest.
Instant gratification
Has left us naked and depraved.
Underworked and overcomplicated.
Morals absconded
With the men we enslave.
In the brevity of our existence
For ages, the world, we have slain.
In time, we shall eradicate
Ourselves
And only the pure will remain.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
I flicker
between reassuring myself
and planning my funeral
I am violent
I would scratch your eyes
out with spoons
but they're perfection
you belong in formaldehyde
it will preserve you
the seraph who injected
bleach in my veins
but I am queen of the masochists.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
Down and out, broken like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny
Manic hysteria drove them off the overpass
Hipster Valkyries raised them to avant-garde Valhalla
And the eight o'clock news made messiahs of the lot
Nirvana sold last weeks newspapers on the side of the highway
Rolling with a sweet glimmer of a shark toothed smile
On the horizon hunting for a high that can't ever be attained
Holiest of Holies on a red lipped mountain top
Or a supermarket bathroom stall scrawled with ****** madness
The Lord's Prayer in black ink, brutal and simple
There were misty eyed girls on the morning train to some great and unenviable elsewhere
And by night the crows circled six times, once for each of the dead end dreams swallowed that day
Candid and conscious, where the wild ones roam the city
Burning the flags they wave and waving the flags they burn
America's sweethearts on the run from the police
Sawing at heartstrings like bows on a twisted violin
From the mountains to the valleys the winds screamed senseless in their joy
Liberation and the kiss of a lipstick Judas were on everyone's mind
Martyrs a mile a minute, a dime a dozen
Down the line the angels wept gloria mundi
For the sinners sung with passion, the saints stoically mourned
The revelers and the rioters and the street kids looking for a ride home
The toxic kissed stars that set the city lights the shame
And the masochists, blessed with a gypsy goddess' double edged kiss
And broken down like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
Do you know that saying that goes:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me?"
Of course you do -
everyone does.
Well, as far as I can tell,
poets feel the opposite.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
shades of hues so dark, yet iridescent, lined the minimalistic realm during the era of the Grays.
each Gray wore gray clothes
ate gray food
thought gray thoughts
and could only think in terms of black and white… and gray.
there were no rules, simply because no one was unhappy with the way things were.
happiness was trivial;
trivial like a pale shade of pink managing to make its way into the spectrum of the Grays
or trivial like the way a Gray would see that pastel and disregard it entirely.
it did not exist.
happiness was trivial, smiles were trivial, balance was necessary.
balance, balance, balance.
order, order, order.
creativity did not exist.
creativity was not a word.
if a Gray’s words had no obvious meaning, they were disregarded, because they were incomprehensible. Words not in terms of black and white were seen as red, seen as blue, seen as green,
but never seen at all.
magnitude.
the magnitude of something’s potential depth was measured by their ability to disregard anything not pertinent to what a Gray should believe.
a Gray must be Gray, must be pensive, must be reserved.
a Gray must be tedious, must be timid, must be poised.
a Gray must be obedient, must be trusting, must be trusted.
a Gray must not see red, or blue, or yellow, or green, or purple, or indigo, or orange,
especially not cerulean or magenta or cyan or mauve or tangerine.
the Grays evolved from Whites, from Blacks
the degenerating masochists of times before
the Grays could not look down, nor up, nor in between, or sideways, or vertically, or around
they could not think what to possibly think of what these people before them may have thought about thinking and thoughts
and couldn’t bear to think about all of this thinking
so the Grays did not think about thinking
they lived for the sake of living
they breathed for the sake of inhaling, exhaling
inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
exhale
but somewhere
somewhere in that Gray society
a young Gray began to breathe
exhale
inhale
exhale
inhale
and opened his eyes
his blue, blue eyes
and brought thoughts of color
to every Gray’s mind
lightened the world with light
opened the world to chance, to luck, to love
exposed the world to color, to beginnings and ends, to loss, and to destruction
and cried tears of red, of blue, of yellow, of green, of purple, of indigo, of orange,
especially cerulean and magenta and cyan and mauve and tangerine
flooding the world with possibility
flooding the world with creativity.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Densely fogged
under caked make-up from yesterday's tears
fakely disguised beneath the crowd
of masochists and nonbelievers
Hearts plead and bleed as one
based upon no one at all
seething fear pounded through fists of rage
anguish of lost hopes and lost causes
Where do I go
for whom do I show
should I grieve
for a land that is no more than make believe?
Despairing and looking for cheap cigarettes
they gather on their gravelly haven
spurning the world and hating
what it's become
nothing but **** and ***
Those who came before us
naive double standards fearing our new status
the putrid stench of change clings to our chains
burdened by the nonbelievers
Where do I go
for whom do I show
should I make believe
in the world we grieve
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
Love was not a house we built.
It was an abandoned fortress we stumbled upon.
By chance.
Most unprepared.
Ransacked by so many bandits before us,
used by some stranger for some purpose for some time,
then abandoned.
But we, being the masochists we are,
chose to stay inside
and pretend
we were safe
from the cold.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
people have a tendency
to take things for granted
as if to say
it isn't good enough
to meerely be breathing
it's like
we're always wanting something more
greedy when it comes to happiness
or maybe it's just
that we aren't ever really happy
unless we're miserable
a culture which breeds masochists
we just can't see heaven
we are more focused
on worrying about which clouds
will be rain clouds
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
Sanctimonium
Somewhere out there
beyond the darkness of
unknowing
Past imagination and
just to the left of a dream,
lurks the ego we call God
Hovering forever on the
edge of the psyche
Hungering for the prayers
of sodden beggars and
be-sodden Holy frauds
What does it say about
mankind that we have
created for ourselves
a deity filled with
self-righteous fury,
lacking any mercy
for humanity’s frail
offspring?
We are religious masochists,
chaining our lives to the
delusion of original sin while
hanging truth upon a cross
of shadow and superstition
for the sake of a Heavenly
reward.
God help us...
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 5:28 AM UTC