"milking" poems - Hello Poetry

"milking" poems

When man, enters woman, like the surf biting the shore, again and again, and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure and her teeth gleam like the alphabet, Logos appears milking a star, and the man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate and the woman climbs into a flower and swallows its stem and Logos appears and unleashes their rivers. This man, this woman with their double hunger, have tried to reach through the curtain of God and briefly they have, through God in His perversity unties the knot.

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When Man Enters Woman

When man, enters woman, like the surf biting the shore, again and again, and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure and her teeth gleam like the alphabet, Logos appears milking a star, and the man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate and the woman climbs into a flower and swallows its stem and Logos appears and unleashes their rivers. This man, this woman with their double hunger, have tried to reach through the curtain of God and briefly they have, through God in His perversity unties the knot.

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Art Bouchard, My father, Never marched a drill, Nor fired an angry shot... Recounted fond memories I've heard so many times: How long ago, when I was very young, He and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, Up before the sun, Engaged in tractor battles (Dad was very sure he won). My father woke those mornings, Early 1960s, With the popping cough of Worn diesel pistons Clattering out white smoke... Then blue and black, As engine heat and friction Tightened gaps, Sealed compression, And the motor steadied into an even roar. Across the county road Our only neighbor led or followed suit, Sending smoke and sound To drown the morning songs of meadowlarks and robins. Fifty years later, Dad laughed in recollection, "We started rising just a little Earlier each day. Started up our tractors In a sort of game Called, 'Who's out first?'" Six became a quarter of, Then five-thirty backed to four. One tractor or the other roared, Early and then earlier To be the first to pull Into the waiting fields. When three-thirty came around My mother shook her head, But if she said a word, I never heard. These battling neighbors Even started engines up Before they ran, Milking buckets swinging, to their barns to chore As early became earlier in the little farmers' war. One day in town, By happenstance, A meeting came between the two. My father, being younger, Had energy for more, But old Art Pribnow shook his head, Grabbed my dad's hand and said, "Let's stop this foolishness Before one of us is dead! I don't know about the hours you keep, Or what got in our heads, But I admit, I need my sleep!" The farmer battle ended then. A hand shake and a smile Between two farmer friends, Created country lore, Remembered here a little while, As, "The Early, Earlier War."

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Jun 20, 2014

Jun 20, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC

Early, Earlier War: Battling Farmers

Art Bouchard, My father, Never marched a drill, Nor fired an angry shot... Recounted fond memories I've heard so many times: How long ago, when I was very young, He and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, Up before the sun, Engaged in tractor battles (Dad was very sure he won). My father woke those mornings, Early 1960s, With the popping cough of Worn diesel pistons Clattering out white smoke... Then blue and black, As engine heat and friction Tightened gaps, Sealed compression, And the motor steadied into an even roar. Across the county road Our only neighbor led or followed suit, Sending smoke and sound To drown the morning songs of meadowlarks and robins. Fifty years later, Dad laughed in recollection, "We started rising just a little Earlier each day. Started up our tractors In a sort of game Called, 'Who's out first?'" Six became a quarter of, Then five-thirty backed to four. One tractor or the other roared, Early and then earlier To be the first to pull Into the waiting fields. When three-thirty came around My mother shook her head, But if she said a word, I never heard. These battling neighbors Even started engines up Before they ran, Milking buckets swinging, to their barns to chore As early became earlier in the little farmers' war. One day in town, By happenstance, A meeting came between the two. My father, being younger, Had energy for more, But old Art Pribnow shook his head, Grabbed my dad's hand and said, "Let's stop this foolishness Before one of us is dead! I don't know about the hours you keep, Or what got in our heads, But I admit, I need my sleep!" The farmer battle ended then. A hand shake and a smile Between two farmer friends, Created country lore, Remembered here a little while, As, "The Early, Earlier War."

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The rooster sings to the sun, answering the call is the light that embraces all. All at once the birds sing their own song. Awaken by mother's sweet voice. "It's time to go" she says. She hands me a green cubeta con maiz. The corn's color is purple and white instantly I fall in love with its kind The cold blue morning gives me chills. I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house. With her mandil and her braided hair, she sits by the comal making tortillas. "Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face. "Good morning m'ija" she replies. I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket. A small room next to a store crowded with senoras. Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand. I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud. I wait in line as I greet and make small talk. These ladies have the nicest smiles. My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino. My arms are too little. A lady approaches and helps me load the molino. I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa. I bend down and collect it. "En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it. I nod and continue to make it. Gray like the color of my grandma's hair. soft like my mother's hand. I fill the bucket with the masa. I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa. I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca. She starts the comal and gets the cal. Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping. Perfect big round warm tortillas. I was a little girl that helped her make them. A little girl that still remembers.

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Apr 17, 2015

Apr 17, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC

Tortilla Memories

The rooster sings to the sun, answering the call is the light that embraces all. All at once the birds sing their own song. Awaken by mother's sweet voice. "It's time to go" she says. She hands me a green cubeta con maiz. The corn's color is purple and white instantly I fall in love with its kind The cold blue morning gives me chills. I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house. With her mandil and her braided hair, she sits by the comal making tortillas. "Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face. "Good morning m'ija" she replies. I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket. A small room next to a store crowded with senoras. Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand. I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud. I wait in line as I greet and make small talk. These ladies have the nicest smiles. My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino. My arms are too little. A lady approaches and helps me load the molino. I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa. I bend down and collect it. "En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it. I nod and continue to make it. Gray like the color of my grandma's hair. soft like my mother's hand. I fill the bucket with the masa. I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa. I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca. She starts the comal and gets the cal. Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping. Perfect big round warm tortillas. I was a little girl that helped her make them. A little girl that still remembers.

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The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.

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Jan 17, 2014

Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC

The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.

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well... she didn't want me... because i didn't want to do **** with her... and because i cooked better than her; or as one homosexual said: **** *** isn't really the norm in homosexuality, most **** *** takes place between heterosexual couples; maybe i just don't feel like talking about curtains and napkins growing old in front of a television screen? i think it's called companionship, without the authority brigade to get alimony and other stipends for a degree designating milking-it... as might require a woman shackling a partner with a few witnesses, like priest, lawyer... psychiatrist; god they're scared... they don't even fear murdering you, and when they try to, they just bellow out: 'my brother is dead! my brother is dead!' no, he's alive, he should have been dead 8 years ago, but you miscalculated; they're just scared of something that doesn't resemble a cage, as every housewife might tell you: a duck in a cage kept for petting rather than sloth for quickened fattening and eating will make the one eating it loose the plot... the duck will just pretend to be stupid.

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Feb 9, 2016

Feb 9, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

well... she didn't want me... because i didn't want to do **** with her... and because i cooked better than her; or as one homosexual said: **** *** isn't really the norm in homosexuality, most **** *** takes place between heterosexual couples; maybe i just don't feel like talking about curtains and napkins growing old in front of a television screen? i think it's called companionship, without the authority brigade to get alimony and other stipends for a degree designating milking-it... as might require a woman shackling a partner with a few witnesses, like priest, lawyer... psychiatrist; god they're scared... they don't even fear murdering you, and when they try to, they just bellow out: 'my brother is dead! my brother is dead!' no, he's alive, he should have been dead 8 years ago, but you miscalculated; they're just scared of something that doesn't resemble a cage, as every housewife might tell you: a duck in a cage kept for petting rather than sloth for quickened fattening and eating will make the one eating it loose the plot... the duck will just pretend to be stupid.

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Grandma got run over by a reindeer I'm sure you remember that song Well that was my grandma who was hit And again, they got part of it wrong See, she really was run over by reindeer But it was nothing like they said Those deer were driving a milk truck That left my poor grandma nearly dead My poor grandma just got done milking And was putting the cows back in the field When eight drunk reindeer in a milk truck Crashed thru the fence and didn't yield They just kept on going thru the barn yard Straight thru the creek and down the hill Grandma looked like a bug on a windshield With pieces of her wig on that milk truck's grill Now poor grandma never seen it coming Cause she was looking the other way We even found that poor womans glasses Stuck on a scarecrow near the hay Well, now my grandma had not been drinking Like that song had claimed she was But somehow they try to make it funny Seems like those city folk always does Well, that's about as much as I can tell you Because the lawsuit is still pending Those reindeer got some north pole lawyer And we heard he's pretty good at defending So beware of reindeer driving milktrucks For they mean to cause your grandma harm And don't forget try to remind your grandmas To look both ways when she leaves the barn

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Apr 1, 2010

Apr 1, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC

Grandma Got Run Over By A Milk Truck

Grandma got run over by a reindeer I'm sure you remember that song Well that was my grandma who was hit And again, they got part of it wrong See, she really was run over by reindeer But it was nothing like they said Those deer were driving a milk truck That left my poor grandma nearly dead My poor grandma just got done milking And was putting the cows back in the field When eight drunk reindeer in a milk truck Crashed thru the fence and didn't yield They just kept on going thru the barn yard Straight thru the creek and down the hill Grandma looked like a bug on a windshield With pieces of her wig on that milk truck's grill Now poor grandma never seen it coming Cause she was looking the other way We even found that poor womans glasses Stuck on a scarecrow near the hay Well, now my grandma had not been drinking Like that song had claimed she was But somehow they try to make it funny Seems like those city folk always does Well, that's about as much as I can tell you Because the lawsuit is still pending Those reindeer got some north pole lawyer And we heard he's pretty good at defending So beware of reindeer driving milktrucks For they mean to cause your grandma harm And don't forget try to remind your grandmas To look both ways when she leaves the barn

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The morning finds the young lasses milking And the young lads in the fields cutting Rams, ewes, and lambs eat and grow fat. The hens lay eggs while the roosters are strutting. The sun rises up for his daily walk, Drawing the day across the sky. He takes his daylight with him to another place Because the moon's time is nigh. Evening falls across the heather And the stars come out to dance. The faerie folk come to life And fill the night with their lyrical chants. The mists on the moors swirl and caper about, Taking rock and tree to embrace. The faerie folk make merry and dance about 'Neath the silver of the moon's face. They dance to music as old as time, Melodies and rhythms from long ago. Verses sung in ages long past, Songs only faerie folk know. They sing and dance under the moon and stars, As long as the night covers them about. But the moon and the faerie folk must go their ways For 'tis time for the sun to come out.

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Jul 17, 2011

Jul 17, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC

Night of Faeries

The morning finds the young lasses milking And the young lads in the fields cutting Rams, ewes, and lambs eat and grow fat. The hens lay eggs while the roosters are strutting. The sun rises up for his daily walk, Drawing the day across the sky. He takes his daylight with him to another place Because the moon's time is nigh. Evening falls across the heather And the stars come out to dance. The faerie folk come to life And fill the night with their lyrical chants. The mists on the moors swirl and caper about, Taking rock and tree to embrace. The faerie folk make merry and dance about 'Neath the silver of the moon's face. They dance to music as old as time, Melodies and rhythms from long ago. Verses sung in ages long past, Songs only faerie folk know. They sing and dance under the moon and stars, As long as the night covers them about. But the moon and the faerie folk must go their ways For 'tis time for the sun to come out.

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he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat so each one of us has something to eat at break of day he tills the many acres of land for his harvest of food there is a great demand he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays shop sell these goods to people everywhere his milking shed produces such fine fair he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples which grace our kitchen and dining room tables he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition hard work he does and in all weather conditions the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed his vocation serves a community of need

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Jan 14, 2014

Jan 14, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC

ElizabethSquires

A Community Of Need

he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat so each one of us has something to eat at break of day he tills the many acres of land for his harvest of food there is a great demand he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays shop sell these goods to people everywhere his milking shed produces such fine fair he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples which grace our kitchen and dining room tables he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition hard work he does and in all weather conditions the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed his vocation serves a community of need

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grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

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Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

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Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm ! Satan is milking his metaphors. Such silly music portends no harm; call home the cows and open your doors. Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak after finding his mom’s mascara darker enlightenment did seek and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara. Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain Marilyn – the creepy thespian rolled that fish-eye and snorted ******* like Crowley… how pedestrian. Flashing his glowing cataract, he gave the mommies quite a fright. Censorship launched; no badder act did sail (or assail) our sinking night. Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black. (Cause for certain parents’ unease: MTV’s Antichrist on the attack). Son of Man – or rather, Manson Milked to the max his demonic cow; playing Satan’s naughty grandson showing the flustered milk-maids how. Urban legend surrounds this fowl (those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!) Is he a misunderstood night owl – or a has-been loon in a loony bin? Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine. or else in the way once-ripened grapes withering, sun-struck, off the vine transform, with age, into wizened shapes. No – I am wrong. They age like prunes; plums thus pass into their glory. Even Luciferian loons find lakes of fire at end of story.

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Sep 10, 2015

Sep 10, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC

Loons in the vineyard – sound the alarm ! Satan is milking his metaphors. Such silly music portends no harm; call home the cows and open your doors. Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak after finding his mom’s mascara darker enlightenment did seek and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara. Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain Marilyn – the creepy thespian rolled that fish-eye and snorted ******* like Crowley… how pedestrian. Flashing his glowing cataract, he gave the mommies quite a fright. Censorship launched; no badder act did sail (or assail) our sinking night. Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black. (Cause for certain parents’ unease: MTV’s Antichrist on the attack). Son of Man – or rather, Manson Milked to the max his demonic cow; playing Satan’s naughty grandson showing the flustered milk-maids how. Urban legend surrounds this fowl (those ribs removed – like Adam’s sin!) Is he a misunderstood night owl – or a has-been loon in a loony bin? Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine. or else in the way once-ripened grapes withering, sun-struck, off the vine transform, with age, into wizened shapes. No – I am wrong. They age like prunes; plums thus pass into their glory. Even Luciferian loons find lakes of fire at end of story.

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while you were singing in the churchyard i was sleeping in the ***** barn beside a withered picture of an astronaut and a long beard filled with street secrets while you were burning up in sainthood i was screaming into a melancholy leaf wearing sweat on my miserable ***** and a liar's grin on my face while you were murdering your wife i was milking this dream for all the light and i thanked god on bended knee saying you're a turtle dove in an icebox while you martyred yourself into the ocean i carried you with me on my road to freedom like an aligator stomped hard by a mockingbird or a mermaid shot full of antibirth tablets

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Feb 19, 2012

Feb 19, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC

alligator stomped hard by a mockingbird

while you were singing in the churchyard i was sleeping in the ***** barn beside a withered picture of an astronaut and a long beard filled with street secrets while you were burning up in sainthood i was screaming into a melancholy leaf wearing sweat on my miserable ***** and a liar's grin on my face while you were murdering your wife i was milking this dream for all the light and i thanked god on bended knee saying you're a turtle dove in an icebox while you martyred yourself into the ocean i carried you with me on my road to freedom like an aligator stomped hard by a mockingbird or a mermaid shot full of antibirth tablets

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met a man once and he took me to a steakhouse the type where tuxedo men come back with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate he ordered my steak for me and though it glistened the slab barely satisfied the crack in my teeth i was starving and he kept talking about business deals and networking to the type of cars that make him hard which one of these thousand ******* forks is best to stab? making friends with a bunch of pruned men chatting business he introduced me she speaks Spanish how exotic raw and juicy STEAK sure does go well with potatoes i started ordering loads of wine when they all agreed that it was time to make America great again i downed even more down my throat ‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace drinks for everyone! we ordered like five bottles so drunk that I started mooing but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking

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Mar 8, 2017

Mar 8, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC

met a man once and he took me to a steakhouse the type where tuxedo men come back with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate he ordered my steak for me and though it glistened the slab barely satisfied the crack in my teeth i was starving and he kept talking about business deals and networking to the type of cars that make him hard which one of these thousand ******* forks is best to stab? making friends with a bunch of pruned men chatting business he introduced me she speaks Spanish how exotic raw and juicy STEAK sure does go well with potatoes i started ordering loads of wine when they all agreed that it was time to make America great again i downed even more down my throat ‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace drinks for everyone! we ordered like five bottles so drunk that I started mooing but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking

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Arms that rested on her wide hips I miss her 'grape-ulent' lips How onto me she tightly clung While my harmonic mp3s sung The walk by nature's green Moments we dared to dream She sung alongside Dido Oh gosh, the "Darling" title How occupied she kept us Cut my wings,back down to earth For all that's happened was worth I miss placing my arms on her *** And towing her close to my body I miss her soft grip on my "daddy " The look in her eyes when in control I miss ******* her glorous beach umbrellas How she ardently put off the lights I miss the many long and busy nights Freezing and so I miss her furry furnace I miss the soft moans of pleasure She was an undisputed treasure I long to drink again from her chalice I miss the tear filled hazels of lust Thighs like tectonic plates in Earth's crust I miss being trapped by those stalactites Her harmless but arousing love bites I miss having her thrilling ride My body would yield and abide Her little laugh when things got real hot My rock hard cable in her USB port I miss the warm cool of her wetness The milking machine greatness I miss how whispers talked Till late after we'd ****** I miss diving alength I miss losing strength

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May 18, 2015

May 18, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC

ignatius-hosiana

THE MILKING MACHINE

Arms that rested on her wide hips I miss her 'grape-ulent' lips How onto me she tightly clung While my harmonic mp3s sung The walk by nature's green Moments we dared to dream She sung alongside Dido Oh gosh, the "Darling" title How occupied she kept us Cut my wings,back down to earth For all that's happened was worth I miss placing my arms on her *** And towing her close to my body I miss her soft grip on my "daddy " The look in her eyes when in control I miss ******* her glorous beach umbrellas How she ardently put off the lights I miss the many long and busy nights Freezing and so I miss her furry furnace I miss the soft moans of pleasure She was an undisputed treasure I long to drink again from her chalice I miss the tear filled hazels of lust Thighs like tectonic plates in Earth's crust I miss being trapped by those stalactites Her harmless but arousing love bites I miss having her thrilling ride My body would yield and abide Her little laugh when things got real hot My rock hard cable in her USB port I miss the warm cool of her wetness The milking machine greatness I miss how whispers talked Till late after we'd ****** I miss diving alength I miss losing strength

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I've been a fan of faith at most of my life Until a sharp dagger took the life of my wife "She's at blistering cherry shaded hell" They've said Upon intentionally milking her skin's liquid red I've been so busy giving holy bread to other If only to my family I've given that time rather My preferred fate will not be like this Holding the same evil dagger that cut my wife's wrist I will follow my sugary honey Who always sing to me she's okay Not knowing her voice a recorded audiotape Her immense pain shrouded by smiley cape I've been busy showing to others the bridge of heaven But now I've chosen the road to unforgiven Where I will meet my alluring sweet scented rose I will search the land of hell from coast to coast But seems the sun read my foggy mind, knows what's within Suffered from heart attack first, before the dagger kiss my skin Not the way that I want it, but I will see death just as the same Memories fly, but I've never forgotten my wife's name Finally, the darkness switches off the light Praying to be in hell with all my might Alas! What a shattered fate I'm in front of an indigo colored sad heaven's gate 9/14/2016 Mysterious Aries

0

Oct 4, 2016

Oct 4, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC

MysteriousAries

The Change of Faith

I've been a fan of faith at most of my life Until a sharp dagger took the life of my wife "She's at blistering cherry shaded hell" They've said Upon intentionally milking her skin's liquid red I've been so busy giving holy bread to other If only to my family I've given that time rather My preferred fate will not be like this Holding the same evil dagger that cut my wife's wrist I will follow my sugary honey Who always sing to me she's okay Not knowing her voice a recorded audiotape Her immense pain shrouded by smiley cape I've been busy showing to others the bridge of heaven But now I've chosen the road to unforgiven Where I will meet my alluring sweet scented rose I will search the land of hell from coast to coast But seems the sun read my foggy mind, knows what's within Suffered from heart attack first, before the dagger kiss my skin Not the way that I want it, but I will see death just as the same Memories fly, but I've never forgotten my wife's name Finally, the darkness switches off the light Praying to be in hell with all my might Alas! What a shattered fate I'm in front of an indigo colored sad heaven's gate 9/14/2016 Mysterious Aries

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Trickling tingles bubble, goaded from the verdant body As a butterfly’s flutterings coax the flow Widening and filling With a gentle lapping of inlets Ripples tease the reeds into turgid tremors Merging to waves Wave upon wave Curves slide over curves And at the Delta’s swollen, gaping breadth Crests slip over craving crevices Slapping froth in desperate gasps Milking cruel spasms from the urgent need to reach escape Until with turmoil resolved A gentle calm inundates the great ocean of sleep.

0

Jun 2, 2014

Jun 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC

The River of Eros

Trickling tingles bubble, goaded from the verdant body As a butterfly’s flutterings coax the flow Widening and filling With a gentle lapping of inlets Ripples tease the reeds into turgid tremors Merging to waves Wave upon wave Curves slide over curves And at the Delta’s swollen, gaping breadth Crests slip over craving crevices Slapping froth in desperate gasps Milking cruel spasms from the urgent need to reach escape Until with turmoil resolved A gentle calm inundates the great ocean of sleep.

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Tingly under the daisies; Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy; Shaking, shivering, shuddering, Wishing, wandering, whimpering, Westernizing— Romanizing— Constitutionalizing— Institutionalizing— Perpetually searching And dying And living, Watching Death survive And scythe the frolickers, The prancers, The rompers, The merrymakers. A rose clamped between his Grinning teeth glistens brightly, And he dances so joyously. “Yes!” say the naysayers, Confused are the soothsayers, Lost are the cartographers. Oh, Utopia! The monks are extravagant; The meditations are a farce! The preachers are beggars And swindlers and chargers, And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes! Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and Ritualistically sacrificed, And their blood is spilled, drunk, Slathered over the ***** man. The evangelists scream and lie: “You are all predestined to die!” Oh, hail Utopia! Wedded are the girls to the girls; Wedded are the boys to the boys; Wedded is Death to Death, Life to Life, And Life to Death. Wedded are the living to the existent. And the milking babes are slaughtered Ceremoniously, Surreptitiously, Ostentatiously. Oh, hail great Utopia! We are all dead and unintelligent: Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your Stupidity. Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at Your retardation. Laugh, laugh, laugh! Look at the sluggard, thou ant; Look at the boy, sobbing wolf; Aesop was drunk, Aristotle was delusional, Michelangelo was blind, Beethoven could hear, Poe was sane. And I can't read. They ramble, I watch. They sleep, I watch. They dream, I watch. They sleep-talk, I watch. They scream, I watch. They choke, I watch. They suffocate, I watch. Stone-faced, I stare; Raspingly, I breathe; Uncontrollably, I twitch; Inwardly, I rage. I hope you die, I hope you die. I hope you bleed, I hope you die. I want you begging and crying, I want you blubbering at my feet, I want you gnashing at my ankles, I want you writhing in pain, I want your arm twisted off, Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.

0

Nov 3, 2015

Nov 3, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC

daniel-handschuh

Tingly under the daisies; Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy; Shaking, shivering, shuddering, Wishing, wandering, whimpering, Westernizing— Romanizing— Constitutionalizing— Institutionalizing— Perpetually searching And dying And living, Watching Death survive And scythe the frolickers, The prancers, The rompers, The merrymakers. A rose clamped between his Grinning teeth glistens brightly, And he dances so joyously. “Yes!” say the naysayers, Confused are the soothsayers, Lost are the cartographers. Oh, Utopia! The monks are extravagant; The meditations are a farce! The preachers are beggars And swindlers and chargers, And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes! Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and Ritualistically sacrificed, And their blood is spilled, drunk, Slathered over the ***** man. The evangelists scream and lie: “You are all predestined to die!” Oh, hail Utopia! Wedded are the girls to the girls; Wedded are the boys to the boys; Wedded is Death to Death, Life to Life, And Life to Death. Wedded are the living to the existent. And the milking babes are slaughtered Ceremoniously, Surreptitiously, Ostentatiously. Oh, hail great Utopia! We are all dead and unintelligent: Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your Stupidity. Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at Your retardation. Laugh, laugh, laugh! Look at the sluggard, thou ant; Look at the boy, sobbing wolf; Aesop was drunk, Aristotle was delusional, Michelangelo was blind, Beethoven could hear, Poe was sane. And I can't read. They ramble, I watch. They sleep, I watch. They dream, I watch. They sleep-talk, I watch. They scream, I watch. They choke, I watch. They suffocate, I watch. Stone-faced, I stare; Raspingly, I breathe; Uncontrollably, I twitch; Inwardly, I rage. I hope you die, I hope you die. I hope you bleed, I hope you die. I want you begging and crying, I want you blubbering at my feet, I want you gnashing at my ankles, I want you writhing in pain, I want your arm twisted off, Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.

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Have you ever "dashed through the snow" "in a one horse open sleigh" Seen eight maids a milking saw the three ships I saw today Have you ever seen a reindeer With a nose that blinks bright red Dreamt of fairies and of sugar plums While sleeping in your bed Have you ever put a penny In the old man's hat Sat down in the parlor And played "the ministers cat"? Have you travelled off to whoville Seen the grinch, his fur all green Have you ever seen Oriental Kings Frankincense..I've never seen But, at Christmas, yes at Christmas We all sing and sing so well Of these things that we believe in And of things we know so well I've never seen a Christmas Where a snowman comes to life But, for me, he lives each Christmas With Jack Frost, and Frosty's wife Seeing is believing, But at Christmas, not so much We believe in Father Christmas Things we can't see and won't touch Christmas is more than giving It's a feeling in your soul It's believing in mankinds goodness Christmas makes me whole.

0

Nov 11, 2012

Nov 11, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC

Christmas belief

Have you ever "dashed through the snow" "in a one horse open sleigh" Seen eight maids a milking saw the three ships I saw today Have you ever seen a reindeer With a nose that blinks bright red Dreamt of fairies and of sugar plums While sleeping in your bed Have you ever put a penny In the old man's hat Sat down in the parlor And played "the ministers cat"? Have you travelled off to whoville Seen the grinch, his fur all green Have you ever seen Oriental Kings Frankincense..I've never seen But, at Christmas, yes at Christmas We all sing and sing so well Of these things that we believe in And of things we know so well I've never seen a Christmas Where a snowman comes to life But, for me, he lives each Christmas With Jack Frost, and Frosty's wife Seeing is believing, But at Christmas, not so much We believe in Father Christmas Things we can't see and won't touch Christmas is more than giving It's a feeling in your soul It's believing in mankinds goodness Christmas makes me whole.

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Golden rivulets flowing over milking ******* my lips ******* on swollen pink ******* moans emanating from one then the other, farther down I kiss your silky middle, my eyes are lost in a ***** brown mound. I seek out magical miracles that bring you to heights of unending ecstasy that let me taste Beethoven's adagio composed for you and me. The moon, you, and I provide for all three of us a trilogy of ********** as robins greet the morning sky. TOD HOWARD HAWKS

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 1:19 AM UTC

tod-howard-hawks

GOLDEN RIVULETS FLOWING OVER MILKING *******

Golden rivulets flowing over milking ******* my lips ******* on swollen pink ******* moans emanating from one then the other, farther down I kiss your silky middle, my eyes are lost in a ***** brown mound. I seek out magical miracles that bring you to heights of unending ecstasy that let me taste Beethoven's adagio composed for you and me. The moon, you, and I provide for all three of us a trilogy of ********** as robins greet the morning sky. TOD HOWARD HAWKS

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I took my time, teasing slow, her body writhing, letting go. Four times she came, her body still wanting more. she wasn’t even close to finished—I sensed allure. She pushed me back, desire in her eyes, took me in her mouth, no surprise. Tongue in rhythm, perfect, precise, the intensity hit like lightning, thrice. When I came, she didn’t relent, milking every drop, her gaze, her intent. More than I knew I could ever need, spent beside her, fulfilled indeed. That night is one I’ll never forget, Her hunger matched, no regret.

0

Jan 2, 2025

Jan 2, 2025 at 12:56 PM UTC

I took my time, teasing slow, her body writhing, letting go. Four times she came, her body still wanting more. she wasn’t even close to finished—I sensed allure. She pushed me back, desire in her eyes, took me in her mouth, no surprise. Tongue in rhythm, perfect, precise, the intensity hit like lightning, thrice. When I came, she didn’t relent, milking every drop, her gaze, her intent. More than I knew I could ever need, spent beside her, fulfilled indeed. That night is one I’ll never forget, Her hunger matched, no regret.

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He was the only one that made the yarn trees blossom, From silken leafs to flowers grown. Then as petals tumbled Yarn cascaded upon branches and hung. So rich in colour Were these pieces that they glided upon gentle breezes. So many colours flowed and creation was gathered each Picked delicately as not to fray to keep whole. Some of wax Were covered while others were light like a feather and felt like air when sewn. All was plucked till blossom fell once more. He had knitted the cows from birth they were but a yarn Now they had grown extra stitching with each passing year, To help them expand and grow. Upon fibered grass they did feed. Each one was of a different fibre for milking purest silk. Everyday the cows would be milked, and white silk did flow Into buckets collected and off to be designed maybe into An elegant swan, A dove, butterfly of white did fly upon its Creation wings so light its beauty fluttered and flowed. But Farmer stich had other animals, others to create the Things needed for twine is fine, but to knit we must have Buttons to hold. And with that they were fed on pellets Of plastic proteins and quality was a must. Every day they laid many a egg. Farmer Stitch would Hold them to the light to see if they had a flurry of Buttons inside each one different when cracked open. Some with one hole, two holes, three, rare was a four. Farmer stitch was a man of sewn words, he would fasten His thoughts into ideas. When yarn had flowed upon The breeze, and eggs did buttons fall from. Many a thing Would be made, and now this yarn is over till again sewn.

0

Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC

He was the only one that made the yarn trees blossom, From silken leafs to flowers grown. Then as petals tumbled Yarn cascaded upon branches and hung. So rich in colour Were these pieces that they glided upon gentle breezes. So many colours flowed and creation was gathered each Picked delicately as not to fray to keep whole. Some of wax Were covered while others were light like a feather and felt like air when sewn. All was plucked till blossom fell once more. He had knitted the cows from birth they were but a yarn Now they had grown extra stitching with each passing year, To help them expand and grow. Upon fibered grass they did feed. Each one was of a different fibre for milking purest silk. Everyday the cows would be milked, and white silk did flow Into buckets collected and off to be designed maybe into An elegant swan, A dove, butterfly of white did fly upon its Creation wings so light its beauty fluttered and flowed. But Farmer stich had other animals, others to create the Things needed for twine is fine, but to knit we must have Buttons to hold. And with that they were fed on pellets Of plastic proteins and quality was a must. Every day they laid many a egg. Farmer Stitch would Hold them to the light to see if they had a flurry of Buttons inside each one different when cracked open. Some with one hole, two holes, three, rare was a four. Farmer stitch was a man of sewn words, he would fasten His thoughts into ideas. When yarn had flowed upon The breeze, and eggs did buttons fall from. Many a thing Would be made, and now this yarn is over till again sewn.

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When in the pasture They don't offend; We avert disaster, When they're penned. But that crusted crap Is everywhere; If not aware, We step right in. We'll scrape the pooh To no avail, The smell's Stuck to our shoes. We can't quell The **** we're in. There's one steaming On my walk, Leading to my door. Leave your keys When you leave, That patty leads To court. The Internet's beset With bullish threats; Hard to miss The patties here; Our lives and much That we hold dear, Is shared and smeared For all to read, Milking us of privacy; An abattoir, It's piracy. It's utterly insane. They entice us, Then enlist us, Like leading Cash cows Down the lane; Then tap For one drop more. Friends may offer Cow pies With an aromaticfluence; They pressure you to choose: Step right or left, Then smear you with Their cocksure ******** What enemy Could do less? Shopped pixelled patties Are reprehensible, Making one So susceptible: You ***** Then starve, Then lose your hair Until one day You disappear. We get caught up In the flash, Of all the stars And fast cash, But they have patties Underfoot, They slip and slide, Get clean, Then smirk. We can smell'em On those jerks. There's a patty At your boyfriend's place; You're deep in it If you're late. There's a patty At your girlfriend's place, And you're deep in it If she's late. Some patties Are so well disguised In the colours Of lover's eyes. Intoned in lover's lures. But step in it, They call you ***** Some patties Are good At getting you high, But one mis-step, And you may die. There's hidden patties Lying within, Crusted beneath Veneered skin: They waft with doubt, Fear and longing; Side-step that mass At all costs. Don't crack the surface. You're better than You think.

0

Sep 16, 2014

Sep 16, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC

When in the pasture They don't offend; We avert disaster, When they're penned. But that crusted crap Is everywhere; If not aware, We step right in. We'll scrape the pooh To no avail, The smell's Stuck to our shoes. We can't quell The **** we're in. There's one steaming On my walk, Leading to my door. Leave your keys When you leave, That patty leads To court. The Internet's beset With bullish threats; Hard to miss The patties here; Our lives and much That we hold dear, Is shared and smeared For all to read, Milking us of privacy; An abattoir, It's piracy. It's utterly insane. They entice us, Then enlist us, Like leading Cash cows Down the lane; Then tap For one drop more. Friends may offer Cow pies With an aromaticfluence; They pressure you to choose: Step right or left, Then smear you with Their cocksure ******** What enemy Could do less? Shopped pixelled patties Are reprehensible, Making one So susceptible: You ***** Then starve, Then lose your hair Until one day You disappear. We get caught up In the flash, Of all the stars And fast cash, But they have patties Underfoot, They slip and slide, Get clean, Then smirk. We can smell'em On those jerks. There's a patty At your boyfriend's place; You're deep in it If you're late. There's a patty At your girlfriend's place, And you're deep in it If she's late. Some patties Are so well disguised In the colours Of lover's eyes. Intoned in lover's lures. But step in it, They call you ***** Some patties Are good At getting you high, But one mis-step, And you may die. There's hidden patties Lying within, Crusted beneath Veneered skin: They waft with doubt, Fear and longing; Side-step that mass At all costs. Don't crack the surface. You're better than You think.

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Heroine, and our hero... Breaking the bad souls into half We don't give a **** it's our time to laugh Heavens await as the shore brings us gifts She lions dressed in polka dots and Doc Martens Daily milking makes them smarter Trees in the forest, land masses rift The time has come to lose your number Jenny in a hammock, sleep and slumber

0

Feb 17, 2012

Feb 17, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC

Forcing The Tide

Heroine, and our hero... Breaking the bad souls into half We don't give a **** it's our time to laugh Heavens await as the shore brings us gifts She lions dressed in polka dots and Doc Martens Daily milking makes them smarter Trees in the forest, land masses rift The time has come to lose your number Jenny in a hammock, sleep and slumber

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# You are in there, I am certain of it-- Behind the gear's finely-honed, precision fit gear.. in to gear in to gear into gear.. And I wonder.. do you want out? The machine on the outside, self-repairs Any attempt towards dismantle from the external, is futile.. But the internal, beautiful girl.. "I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'" She is apprehensive, those beautiful brown eyes, looking up at me.. "Look down, sweet girl" Her thighs, fully parted, as I slide in to her.. those amazing hips, moving so perfectly with mine, extracting.. Milking from me, my warm pulsing ***** a deeply-penetrating lubricant, pulsed deeply into the machine As if to lubricate its gears.. As if.. But penetrating so deeply, as to now permeate the insides of the mechanization's innerworkings-- turning from lubricant, to that of a corrosive nature.. Fully coating now, the inner you.. as it turns back now, into that of a healing balm Bringing to you a moment of Light and internal clarity-- long enough for you to see That the machine is made vulnerable by the ever-changing qualities of Love that found its way through As the awakened parts within you, for the first time.. understand the machine's love-blocking, nature And you begin to choose, mid-orgasm the machine's dismantle, from the inside-- *'Little by little.. Line, upon line.. Block, upon block.. Precept, upon precept..'* Until we have the chance, once again.. to do it all again #

0

Aug 15, 2021

Aug 15, 2021 at 11:38 AM UTC

mechanization song

# You are in there, I am certain of it-- Behind the gear's finely-honed, precision fit gear.. in to gear in to gear into gear.. And I wonder.. do you want out? The machine on the outside, self-repairs Any attempt towards dismantle from the external, is futile.. But the internal, beautiful girl.. "I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'" She is apprehensive, those beautiful brown eyes, looking up at me.. "Look down, sweet girl" Her thighs, fully parted, as I slide in to her.. those amazing hips, moving so perfectly with mine, extracting.. Milking from me, my warm pulsing ***** a deeply-penetrating lubricant, pulsed deeply into the machine As if to lubricate its gears.. As if.. But penetrating so deeply, as to now permeate the insides of the mechanization's innerworkings-- turning from lubricant, to that of a corrosive nature.. Fully coating now, the inner you.. as it turns back now, into that of a healing balm Bringing to you a moment of Light and internal clarity-- long enough for you to see That the machine is made vulnerable by the ever-changing qualities of Love that found its way through As the awakened parts within you, for the first time.. understand the machine's love-blocking, nature And you begin to choose, mid-orgasm the machine's dismantle, from the inside-- *'Little by little.. Line, upon line.. Block, upon block.. Precept, upon precept..'* Until we have the chance, once again.. to do it all again #

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Climbing clouds on calamitous clouds Which break underneath my feet. Feat of power feast of kings Milking blood from the plump vine discrete. They tear man from limb and brother For judges to goblet just few. How was anyone to know I reach for the smaller of the two.

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Dec 31, 2022

Dec 31, 2022 at 11:36 PM UTC

Climbing clouds on calamitous clouds Which break underneath my feet. Feat of power feast of kings Milking blood from the plump vine discrete. They tear man from limb and brother For judges to goblet just few. How was anyone to know I reach for the smaller of the two.

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They've been drinking our milk to phase puberty and still... Then they take the liberty to phrase, "don't cry over spilled milk" while they're busy milking you, often to the marrow and just to hit that last nail in the coffin narrow They sell you Clover just to seal the game over!

0

Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC

KABELO_Maverick_MOTSEPE

They've been drinking our milk to phase puberty and still... Then they take the liberty to phrase, "don't cry over spilled milk" while they're busy milking you, often to the marrow and just to hit that last nail in the coffin narrow They sell you Clover just to seal the game over!

Continue reading...