It's okay
If you don't have a man

Just use your vibrators and *****
The best you can!

Ben wa *****
And your fingers too

Will make you exclaim, "Phew"
Tired you may be
When your ****** **** so

Orgasmically!

Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a eighteen inches shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-**** with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.

Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****.
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.

Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump
Which wept slightly.

This is the very first SNOGGO adventure, written by SNOGGO himself in the 1st Person (well, by Edna Sweetlove really)

    Cruising through space, looking out of the space porthole, seeing the planets passing by, jesus ******* christ we were so excited, all those ******* planets, what a ******* staggering sight.

    Sharon, our Captain (at three foot six and twenty-one and a half stone an imposing looking woman), bellowed out her order: 'Prepare to descend, you mothers!'

    So most of us stopped ******* and we started preparations for the descent onto the surface of the treacherous unknown planet ****** (aka Big ****** on account of there having been a mix up in naming newly discovered planets and so the universe had ended up with three planets all called ******) - as I was saying, the planet ****** on which no ******* human ever, ever, ever trod on before. Wow, this was ******* exciting.

    The zonometer showed we were only 3,000 feet above the surface of the unknown planet....2,900, 2,800, 2,700, 2,600, 2,500, 2,400......

    You got the ******* picture?

    BLAM!!  We landed. The ******* zonometer was inaccurate, but that's what happens when you buy cheap Asian imports at a ******* discount.

    Captain Sharon went through the full three-hour post-landing, pre-disembarcation procedure whilst I was *******.  I did an enormous one, very smelly and utterly horrible.  She was waiting at the door when I finished and she was clearly very constipated.

    It was time to disembark onto the unknown surface of the unknown planet ******.  The stratodoor opened and we were overwhelmed by the stench which hit our ******* nostrils toute suite: purest ****. What kind of people were the Bolloxonians who couldn't even organise a decent sewage system?

    I was chosen (on account of my club foot) to be among the first to descend onto ******'s surface.  It was cool and I limped heroically onto the planet's surface.

    We explored a bit, being careful not to step on the huge piles of used condoms everywhere.  The terrain was hideous and eldritch, a bit like my Aunt Edna's bedroom after she's been entertaining the local retards for a ******* ****-in.

    We saw this thing.  My mind could not immediately recognise it for its utter, brain-blowing horror.  I cannot tell you what it was, the words fail me, my intellect goes into shut-down mode.  O holy **** it was ghastly.  All right, I'll tell you what it was.  It was a THREE HUNDRED FOOT ****, all covered in oozing pus and vibrating bleeding worms and so on and **** like that.

    The crew of the our spaceship were enraptured and I was nearly killed in the scrum to get stuck in to this mighty beauty.  We had travelled three light years, crossed fifty galaxies, battled twelve-inch penised space midgets for the right to feast on this great ****.

    What can I say?  How can I describe the mighty cry that rose up from the assembled crew as they started to gobble the giant space poo lump....?

    'YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM!' they shrieked orgasmically, ******* themselves in well-earned contentment. I think we must agree that it was delicious and well worth the journey.

THE END

So
You've found a girl who can hold your gaze
You've found a girl with those sinful curves
                that    girl    with the     lips     that you want sayin' your name

Oh she's beautiful alright.  How did you get so lucky?

Maybe you're not as lucky as you think you are?

Does being
    luscious, limber, lavacious, and alluringly lustworthy
make up for being
    lewd, lethargic, and a lackadaisical liar?

So what that she's
    ogle-worthy, optically pleasing, orgasmically ideal
if she's
    offensive, ostentatiously ornate, and overbearing?

She may be
    vivacious, voluptuous, and sexually voracious
She's also
     vain, vapid, vacuous, a vengeful *****

Don't let her
   exotic, ****** efficaciousness
Blind you to her
  egocentric, evasive, envious  nature
  
Those lips won't look so   enticing   when they're spitting poison barbs into your heart


Wouldn't you rather  have a girl
Who is likeable?
Who is original?
Who is vibrant?

Who is enough to make you happy?

It's all you need

Do I have to spell it out for you?

The slightest thought of your touch makes me weak at the knees,
causing me to melt at the part of my body only you seem to master.
South of my belly button.
North of my thighs.
That's where you reside.
That's where I never want you to leave when you're inside.
                     F#%k
                     Me.
Excuse my French and kiss my explicit lips as they quiver.

Thoughts like those seem too real
as wants and needs become orgasmically synonymous in my head.
I picture your body where this pillow lie instead.
Vivid imagery of you tracing my frame with yours.
The memories of what you'd do to my body in the past sparks present excitement.

So slowly I go...there. Into your territory.
Softly touching what belongs to you.
Gradually finding what you found each and every time we made love.
Passionately exploring the slippery place below see-level.
Vividly imagining that you're here tonight,
in me, going deeper and deep..
OH
MY
GOD.
I inhale.

Your name escapes my lips
as an ****** escapes my..
lips.

I exhale.
Drifting into infantile sleep with the picture of you smirking imprinted on my brain.
That face you'd make when
you stared at me,
evaluating the aftermath of your ****** destruction, followed by
a nonchalant shift toward my ear,
only to whisper..

Come Again.

every time I think of him; body percolates
to self-******* soaking fingers as they
linger in bedewed moisture as if, his fingers
unlocks intimacy

and...

no more thoughts as he sidles beside me
easing one finger at a time in curve of
femininity, teasing bud tenderly; coaxing
mouth to open


I throb...

trembling lips abrades skin as heat erupts
upon his mouth and his eyes entrance as
masculinity gently bemingles in escalating
heat; its fragrant beads, he licks

slowly...

lured into peaked hunger; unspoken words
intoxicate spilling inner sweetness, drizzling
upon invading fingers aroused in affinity

once...twice...orgasmically drenched

Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.*

Concrete instances of emptiness.
Blinds not drawn. Flowers do not arrive.
Bed made tight; no stilettos. Never sticky.
Doves alone coo. Pet names only for pets.
No need to shave. Last night's wine. One glass.
Coffee becomes ******. Condo not condoms.
Hands and knees only to fix sink. No position.
No lipstick stains the staff. Lingerie a catalog.
Flag always at half mast. Sleep soft, not deep.
A **** is a chicken; a ***** is a cat.
Fingers seeking ****** find nothing.
Blowing your nose becomes PDA.
Ghostly hands caress vanished thighs.
All embraces are distant. Hugging your sister.
Mysteries of faded flesh; sound after sigh
Not a trace of perfume or personality.
The orgasmically charged what isn't.
What is missing prevails. What was is missing.

  ~mce

Atop the frail ego she mounts her merciless machine gun with which she mows down any speckle of personality that dares flicker amongst her immediate surroundings, until only her presence alone can remain untarnished and unfettered by sadistic, sardonically summarized ridicule, luminous and majestically radiating with solitary supremacy. Oh, the splendorous grandeur of self-indicted superiority, the rush of power and authority from diminishing another's essence with ruthless categorical association, the incomparable ecstasy of using their own positive attributes as their rudimentary flaws. Viscerally volatile, the cocking of the mocking gun's hammer is to be recognized as the phrase "You're just trying to be__". This is critical, for all too well she knows to a certainty that at the most essential level, one is only simply trying to be. And when you attack a person's will to try, their will to be, then you are taking aim at the one vital aspect of their existence which they hold any discernible dominion over: their character. The slaying is heinous and orgasmically fulfilling, for how can the perennial, separatist worship of Self be indulged in among so many of these "others"? But oh how exhausting it must be, the perpetually cyclic nature of the task. How can she ***** a light that doesn't exude from a distant source, but is a brother beam of the source they share? How does she extinguish the reflection of a flame off the water? Like fireflies on summer nights they disappear only to reappear again, somewhere else, reminding her of the irrevocable, irreducible power of being born and reborn again in the new moment. The self-aware *******, audacious enough to love themselves. How much of it do they really think they can withstand?
Reload.

Would you like me to get a nose job too?
Should I change my hairstyle
to contour the slight ***** of my cheekbones.

I feel squished, pressured,
I've been trying to squeeze out what's boiled and festered
these uncomfortable itchings
of my pent up feelings
are expanding into a hot air balloon
not the kind to make a loved one swoon
this craft protects my perpetual doom

It's comfortable up there
with every ounce of suppressed thoughts
jammed inside my head
I don't have to talk to anyone.
I don't have to listen to anyone.
I don't have to care about anyone.

I can eat until I puke
I can drink until I puke
I can cry until I puke
I can puke until I have nothing left inside me
Empty, i'm left on the ground writhing

I trapped myself in that hot air balloon for way too long
re-wrapped, jet-packed, flew down to the throng
of people. just like me. breaking and aching just like me
found solace in fresh soil and beautiful poetry

I tried to stable myself like the earth
I tried to staple down my thoughts and feelings into poetry
and my everything orgasmically erupted
I galloped without stirrups through hazy fields
doing cartwheels, digesting meals
When I am asked to revise a poem
I am clench-jaws, buckled knees
stiffening literal un-moving trees

How can I perfect a direction of words
that grow wild with cathartic freedom?
How can I perfect my writing
when writing about my flaws makes me a better person?

Yes! It's another "Barry Hodges" poem!

Let me tell you a true story of tragic love;
And you had better believe it, for there's no lie.
'Twas on the Isle of Kos that I met Helga one day,
Sitting in a taverna, sipping an ouzo.
I sat down and we soon exchanged a word or two,
Flirting and teasing 'til the sun sank in the sea.
I suggested a walk on the beach (subtle move)
Which is when I received a nice little surprise.
She stood up in all her glory and then I found
That she was well over a foot shorter than my humble self,
A genuine short-**** with a prosthetic leg to boot
Which promised me something rather special.

Nothing put out, we ended up in my bedroom
And I shoved my hot tongue right up her angelic ****.
"Did you like that?" I enquired (a gent as always)
"It was repulsive," she replied with a slight sneer.
And when we woke up together the next bright morn
I found she had vomited on my bedside jeans,
Before leaving me alone on the encrusted sheets.
Unfortunately the jeans shrunk a bit when I washed the puke out
And their exquisite tightness on my private parts
Reminded me for several days of this amorous encounter.

Was her criticism of my oral skills her unusual Norwegian humour?
Perhaps she really meant to call me her *Übermensch?
Maybe it was sarcasm and got lost in translation
So stimulated was she post-orgasmically.
One horrid thought still remains - she might have meant it
(after all, as Nietzsche once said so observantly
"in revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.").
And thus I am left with confused memories of that night:
Her face was that of blond angel but her tongue was sharp
And it really was a crying shame about her leg-stump.

Wanting you is like wanting to burn alive
Pain, pain, pain. Numbness.
Needing you is like needing nicotine,
Wanted so badly, yet rejected so harshly.
If I could look back and change my way
My feelings, from the start,
I can't say I would. 
I like the burn
The needy habits
The routines full of nothing.
Then there's the water
Wanting you is like wanting to drown.
Struggle and flail, then orgasmically peaceful.
Needing you is like icicles
Glimmering during cold, melting when the fire arrives.
I miss that.
I miss that more than fire.
Fire is fun. Dangerous. Scary.
Water is gentle. Careful. Wonderful.
If only I could break away,
Away from the burn,
The burn that I crave.
The burn that gets me high..
Then maybe I'd want to drown.

I like him like this. He is a beast towering over the feeble souls, knowing we are in his power.
I lose sense of myself and act within his fantasy,
reborn each night.

There are too many hours in his night, he rejects the clock, tears out the handles, discards the rest to the fire. It consumes a false reality in its blaze and the dark lasts for years. We never age but we have lay here for so long. Mentally, I have become more youth, he extracts any knowledge I had in my ****** life, any experience, all my opinion. Violently he injects me with a stream of his blood to drown it out of me. I bathe in a red glaze which treacles orgasmically down my flesh. I am his clone, part of him always pervades within me. Nothing is real, I live in his video game.

The breathtaking wonders of the universe
Orgasmically explode:
Trillions of stars,
Blindingly bright
With black light.

Black?
Yes, as we can see
But a glimpse
Of their light.
So without US,
All is black
And might as well
Not exist.

We are Vital.
With Us at least
Some light is seen
And admired.
The wonders of our world
And sky
Are acknowledged
And felt
And thought about.

Yet who are “We”?
We are all sentient beings –
Not just humans:
All living things with brains
From ants to whales.

It’s worth remembering that.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2020.

It was White

  A white ...    A white ...    I’m dreaming of a curtain of snow
  
                                                         falling from her shoulders.
  
Snow crackling against the window. Snow shredded
  
                                           with gunfire. Red sky.
  
Ocean Vuong
Aubade with Burning City  
  
      There lay war.    Tyranny’s serial  
Killer... heat abroad  
  
The moon was white  
                        Degrees of yellow
  
    White lines laced with bliss ... much ado without implication
  
He ate the meat as if
  
A canine without teeth ... and she  
            
              tossed her smile carelessly  
  
She held a sparrow in the palm of her gentle  
  
               White... and trembling hand...  
  
   White and trembling
  
  
She ate a plum and let the juices run...
  
           Ran down her chin upturned ...  
run down it  
And dripped red juices to the floor....  
  
Let it drip                and he lapped like a dog  
  
As on airways nostalgia comforted  
         On all fours he licked red drops  
  
And once over  
Melancholic  
  
            He would forever be.  
  
Reduced to that taste....  
         orgasmically  
                     And in torture....  
his mind in torture
  
  
  
Wind whips the sparrow lost...  
she mourns her seat  
                                       Of an un gloved  
  
Pearl white hand
  
  
Un gloved and so delicate there....  
  
The morning makes it hard to build a nest