"nubile" poems
Water lilies, libidinous lover boys, on the sly
circles her naked body, impertinently
while she unaware of this, swim and play
in her water-crazy, noisy country girl self
in this enclosure of ***** pines wildly in bloom,
She's happy for being shielded from prying looks
of rowdy village boys, adept in disrobing her with their eyes
Enamored, the lilies, white, blue and purple
inebriated all, by drinking the nubile beauty
limitless all along,under the level of water
and above, breached all the reserves,
ahamelessly sevoured her saucy proximity
til she left when the dusk, shed saffron all over.
Yet in her innocence she would think,
"Poor darlings,how much did they suffer, as I
splashed and broke the calm of the pond all evening"
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Drenched in moonlight
shimmering silver gown
lissome steps treads the path
lonely lass, walks toward me
dreams in her eyes
to make me a part of
the lingering sensuality
night's young and glowing
nubile heart calls me near
tonight is the night
when the stark beauty shall reveal
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
The wolf, a predator and a monster.
Transforms himself into a monster every night, a red riding hood comes home.
A prettiest young girl unaware and nubile.
She walks into grandmas house.
Teeth, Fur,Fangs and Claws.
Grandma why are you so hairy.
Why are your teeth so big.
What large claws you have.
The Grandmothers rage awakens for a tasty young meal.
Take a nap young riding hood grandmother is cooking.
Snap crackle the door locks from the outside.
Another young love in my house.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
i miss you
such much, it hurts
i think about you, incessantly
the pain, is overwhelming
the grief unbearable
i remember you
in every corner of my life
last sight at night
first though at dawn
over breakfast, i would marvel at your beauty
i would savor your scent
my heart would quicken
as you would lean over and kiss my lips
i remember the excitement, feeling your lips press against mine
ever so soft, moist, and sweet
i would savor our kisses, touching lips to lips
softly caressing, sliding mine against yours, till you pulled back and smiled
your kisses were delicate, tender, like the wet petal of an amaryllis
firm, soft, nubile
your youth and beauty were exquisite, overwhelming
the source of light and life in a dark forest
why were you taken from me
how can it be, our love ends in tragedy
it is not fair
i don’t understand
why is Persephone punishing me
i shall never forget our intimacy
i will cry eternally
now that you are gone
and haunt my days
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
In a long happy marriage
Sometimes bedtime grows stale
Once toe curling *** fades
As libidos doth fail.
We both have tough jobs
And two kids of our own.
Sad, we both want to sleep
When we’re finally alone
The man at the store
Said “I have just the thing.
You really should try it-
makes your *** life take wing!”
It wasn’t a **** flick
Or a blue pill to swallow,
Just a tiny transmitter
to hide in her pillow.
At night, as she slept,
The salesman explained
My subliminal message
would be fed to her brain.
With her passions inflamed
She would turn to her mate
Like the once nubile bride-
Leave the rest up to fate.
So I made a recording
With a saucy suggestion
Then looked forward to bedtime
hoping for the res-errection.
My bride’s a deep sleeper,
(A good thing since I snore)
The tape’s played two weeks now
And I still haven’t scored.
I completely was baffled
That salesman assured
That no “wood” would go wasted
No ***** ignored.
Instead every night
About two thirty nine
I’d slip off to the bath
Where the “beat” would go on
I resolved to return
The unhelpful device
Before the guarantee ended
And I’d be out the price
Imagine my shock,
imagine my dread
When I found the transmitter
in my pillow instead!
Seems my wife had decided
To play with my head:
“Honey, go f8ck yourself,
If you wake me, you’re dead.”
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
risque thoughts inhabit my mind
as she steps back and forth across the threshold
nubile twenty something hippy dreadlock girl
such a lovely persona
and moist inked beauty of form
she shouts my poem in the parking garage at four am
the echoes add integrity to it she laughs
my girl takes her in our bed
and shows her some integrity
i would so willfully indulge
but i know that such a creature is
the kind i could come to love with true deep feeling far too easily
and i dare not such misadventure
i am so drawn in by her golden patchouli locks
her fine line inked breast
her laughing gentle eyes
i tell my girl
this interloper of her treasures must depart
in the morning
she is unhappy but agrees
i sleep on the floor
waking to my happy home restored
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Number 7 in the ORLOK series and one of the best
O how I relish the taste of blood
****** out from the devastated jugular
But there is more, much more
When the victim is a nubile ****
From a Transylvanian village
Where ****** morality
Is quite ******* thin on the ground;
And that is how I met my fate.
'Twas on an October eve
When I met plump Esmeralda
And (having fed my fill from her neck
as she slept in her hut
under filthy rags stinking of stale *****
I sank my fangs into her naked belly
Ripping into her bloated guts
With my accustomed gusto;
My tongue slurping its way
Over her twitching ****
And finally I descended joyously
To her odorous spunk-encrusted *****
For the last rites,
Before the final curtain
To her worthless life of peasantry.
But then, as my excitement mounted,
And just as I was on the verge
Of pumping out my vampiric *******
I felt an agonising, mind-blasting pain
As a major stroke swept through me,
Wrecking my synapses big time,
Turning my brain into guacamole.
And now I am a crippled ******
Just a spasticated old vampire
In my second-hand rusting wheelchair,
Courtesy of Romanian Social Services,
Drooling helplessly
Into my swollen pissy crotch,
Waiting for another enema,
My sole remaining pleasure
And a stimulus to my jaded prostate.
But, hurrah! hurrah! new hope arrives:
A miracle occurs as I read of
The new wonder pill from SuperDrug
Available only in private practise
And guaranteed to rejuvenate the jaded
Or your money back, no worries.
Orlok will fly again to pursue
The pleasures of the flesh
And especially the botty-zone.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
Risa's eyes looked out from almond shells
glinting in the morning sun
concealing a golden buttercup glow
wrapped round the ragged peaks of the Himalaya's
like an immaculate dust cover
embroidered with a million clean cut diamonds
revealing the majesty of light
pinwheeling over broken shadows
and shattered solitary star-bursts
peeling round mighty boulders flung by giants
breathing new life into ancient stones
sealing prophecies of dancing immortal angels
stealing the remnants of passing moonlight
as the coming day reaches out and cradles
the last vestige of piercing cold night.
This was the daily healing
the warmth upon her young face
the smile appearing that would melt the ice itself
the young girl from Darjeeling
embraced with gifts of seeing
her nubile and youthful grace
belies the hardship and the routine
of carrying spice to the market
she was not yet even thirteen
the Lapis gem of her mothers eye
the little queen of all she surveys
sashays down the cobbled street way
nestled in the lap of the gods
and the praise of summer days.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Budding, nubile girls.
They call me Mr. P.E.
God I love my job.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 4:50 PM UTC
Igor was torn between casting
the body of a girl
or young woman,
that was merely sexually attractive -
or whether to employ a procession
of young nubiles as secretaries;
now that Natalia had thrown him over for Ivan,
he needed a girl or young woman
who was sexually mature;
possibly even suitable for marriage;
sexually mature; sexually attractive,
desirable, **** luscious; marriageable;
informally, beddable:
Ivan constantly surrounded himself
w/ a posse of nubile young women,
to forget, that's what Eli needed to do;
mid 17th century: from the Latin nubilis
‘marriageable,’ from nubere,
to cover or veil
oneself for a bridegroom;
from the nubes the ‘puffy cloud-like nips’
of a child bride;
[risqué]
photos of coeds of the
fifties & those of
| _sex-trafficked nubiles_
from last week; |
glamour isn't glamorous;
as GMO skanks get injected
w/ female growth hormones
just in case they
decide to
to be mothers someday
slightly indecent or liable
to shock, especially by being sexually
suggestive; "risqué humor" ribald,
rude, ***** Rabelaisian, ***** ****
earthy, indecent, suggestive,
improper, naughty, locker-room;
****** ***** ****** crude, adult,
coarse, obscene, lewd, ******
blue, raunchy; off-color
"risqué stories": mid 19th century: French,
_past participle of risquer ‘to risk’_
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
we let go
we surrender
we make no sound
just a gentle whisper
as we fall down to the ground
winter's coming
our job is done
another passing summer glory
now our work is in the under storey
we keep our date
with bugs and microbes
and all the little litter critters
feed them in their life of toil
helping to enrich our deep dark nubile soil
when the weather warms
season's storms have passed
our winter's work will bear good fruit
as leaves come out again at last
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Dripping *** she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!
Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
she reads meat
eyes in a meeting
persistent of the trysts of leather
her steady trap-door arose
in her deposition
the latitude of her nubile degrees
Procrastinates his step,
Subtly overdubbing the scrawny pallid ache
In the etch'd skin, her color-by-numbers comes undone.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
on digits, her sunglasses’ stems, a split end.
Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.
Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals
and frothed when one creation alit inside another.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Deity of wars,
Devourer,
Defender,
Domesticated, yet wild at heart.
She cast her light and protection upon the Middle Kingdom and Upper East,
Blessing the soil and crops upon which her followers jubilantly feast.
Do they dare forsake her?
Suppressed ferocity,
Longing to break free of that which entombs her.
The shrine lies in ruins,
yet nine times immortalized.
In her eyes that see all,
Lay a world lost for so long,
Brought back to life by her awakening roaring song.
She claws at the sky and rekindles the flame,
She slips through the gates of time unscathed and scalds those who fail to do the same.
Her eye became The Sun,
Her other eye, The Moon.
Her blood became The Nile,
And she encouraged her children to drink of it,
An unswayed symbol of the eternally nubile.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
My heart is wrapped up in gummy wires,
Splayed on the ground like an ugly wound
It is frantic scream, a doe bleeding out
It’s not soft and it’s not easy and it doesn’t
Open up like flowers to the sun
It is dark castle, with secrets planted in
Walls and a torture chamber that calls out
“I promise I’ll hurt you so good”
my heart is not petite and pink-lipped,
it is not coy and delicate, wrapped up
in a beautiful box with a bow on top
my heart has scars
my heart is ragged and filthy
my heart is tired
my heart lies to me
my heart is not easy and refreshing
like a fairytale daydream
my heart is ******
and any poetry in her
is the ugly kind that spawns
like grass through the cracks
of the concrete.
My heart has a warning sign
“do not enter.”
It has a trap door you may fall through
It has electric wires sitting near bathtubs:
My heart will shock you.
But as ugly as she is
She keeps on pumping
Red blood like ******
Shoot up with love
And she’ll lay down her armor
And her scars will kiss yours
And turn them from black
To red to a fertile, nubile green
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
*Aberration’s child is born as foetus in a man
Thoughts of where and why and when corrupted in the plan,
These aberrations manifest behaviourally where
Normality’s parameters are stretched beyond the tear.
Stretched beyond acceptable, stretched beyond belief
Like when the golden Altar boy becomes a rabid thief!
Like how that fool in North Korea with militarists in synch
With postulated threats has brought us all to nuclear brink.
Like when that freak in Batman gear let loose with deadly aim
To shoot the kids at movie time then claimed he was insane.
Like when the Barons grow the coke to corrupt all our youth
And bribe and cheat and **** and bash, yet call our laws uncouth.
What makes my brothers lie and steal, what makes them want to hurt?
What aberration wields the knife to shred the nubile’s skirt?
Why are financiers predatory, what gearing in their mind
Enables them, with conscience clear, to plot to fleece us blind?
When does this change occur in growth, at what stage does it switch?
How do angelic six year olds at fifteen turn to *****
Amazing that the blue eyed boy who smiled with curly locks
With age became infatuated with a lust for *****
Indecent that good working men who slave to build a stake
Can lose it all to those who use legality to take.
And what of those who plan to **** what trigger in the brain
Determines that they chose this path?
IT’S ALL NOW QUITE INSANE!*
Marshalg
Viewed from my (relatively) safe hidey-hole, Down Under.
Pukehana. NZ
6 April 2013
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
hard-candy crunches between
chattering teeth--warm blue
drool pools down wet chin. wet skin
reeks of chlorine, and swimsuit
sticks to piggy thighs
and pancake chest. eyes
are everywhere: eyes to stare
and judge and mock
and compare. it’s unfair
how these other girls eat
chips and pizza yet
their bodies are set to be
nubile marble demigoddesses
living off six pomegranate seeds.
i am teenage Taweret.
the unforgiving spandex drips
upon the floor, as if i had peed. quick!
get a towel, you’re ruining the parquet!
leg bones, feet bones hit the floor,
followed by white waves of flesh, always late,
rebounding wetly. bones and fat.
soggy pig bones.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Feel breath upon milky neck
give yourself
the sacrifice
for unchained paradise
and the gifts of life.
Thrusting forth upon such shapely form
the rise of golden **** and the
glide of swollen *******
such feline majesty
such magnificence of deviance.
Lay hands on nubile skin
deft and swift precision
straddled in muscular passion
the reins like a flowing mane
gracing the arched spine in pleasure.
Tilted head stretched
exposed form
catching dancing shadows
in the eternal midnight.
Call my name
as if a name
were a pulse wave
of unreserved expletives.
The chastity of yesterday
innocence lost in devilry
offered freely
like a gift to the gods
empower revelry
chemically.
****** Deeper**
Give Give Give
again and again and again and again and again and again and...
No refrain
awash in pagan sweat
doused and dripping wet
revel in cobalt aquas
close in the rise
of final exaltation
the Alpha stanza.
BOP/bop BOP/bop
hearts beat out of time
heaving breath
encased in bone and heated skin
consumed in the juices of forever
and the pleasure of
pagan archaic sin.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Can you tell when the magic is about to happen.
When the hook is taking hold.
Do you get a funny feeling when it comes together
When the reason finds a rhyme
The feeling fits the word.
The senses click when the tumblers fall in line.
The phrases hover then flutter.
A drifting mist takes flight. It soars defiantly.
A fleeting thought turns slowly round and round.
A drop of rain falls slowly then swiftly then ripples on shimmering pond.
Ripple, ripple wider still running free to bank.
The lapping sound I hear in deep. Indeed the simple echo.
My mind asks how this came to be. In truth it even puzzles me .
Call it what you will my friends. I call it poetry.
I now careess my blue guitar. It takes me on the journey
The instrument it masters me as I have learned the rote.
A dewdrop trembles on the E string then echoes and cries softly. Fretted gently it
whines and squeals in sad ecstasy. The blues in my hand.
The motion in my mind.
The ripple of the pond.
The union. Nubile and free.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
the driven snow is driven bleak
and swirls of ghastly gorgeous
swoon in the nubile gossamers
of undulating mist.
she is completely mad.
thought she saw a cat
perched in a quails beak...
singing cordial grimms
in a hologram
of dead love.
what are those petals in the iris
of infinity ? are they her soft hands, or papyrus ?
a sheet of hot winters, crinkling in the twilight
smelling of whale song and apple sauce,
her hair in a braid
of ravens.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC