"orgasmically" poems
*If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my stress, and cares.
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!*
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
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!
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Crashing off caffeine.
My body's in a wet dream.
Spazzing,
orgasmically
twitching as I'm switching
up the rhyme scheme
with a little bad timing.
I'm spacey like Kevin.
I get **** like Mooney.
Looney-toony in the boonies
gettin lucky like Slevin.
Super nerdy like Melvins.
Getting heated in Kelvins.
In a spectrum
I'm extreme
like 1000 baby screams
or something obscene
like genocidal regimes
dumping bodies downstream
with severed heads in their ******
I'm darker than my complexion.
Come in! Your more than welcome.
Just let me wipe the slate clean.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
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-arse 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.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
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?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
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.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
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
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
every time I think of him; body percolates
to self-masturbate 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
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
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.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Would you like me to get a nose job too?
Should I change my hairstyle
to contour the slight slope 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?
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
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-arse 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.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
I would be your bed, and be at your beck and call
fulfilling all your fantasies, into me, you'd fall
I'd cradle you so gently, and massage you everywhere
releasing your all your juices, and all your stress, and cares
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, we'd rejoice, every time we meet
my pillows cradling your face and head, as jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights
my hands as silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving you the all pleasures, and climaxes you deserve
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC
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.
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC
The sounds remind me of her
her smell, her touch, her sighs
The sights bringing tumescent
every day, and every, night
We could go on for hours
through the morn, noon, and eve
wringing every pleasure
magic, every pinnacle, achieved
We'll glide the light fantastic
orgasmically ******
a zenith, a greater apogee
sensually, to culminate
just her
and
just
me
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
Soon we start to gravitate
Into each other's
World
Where I only see you
And you
Only see me
And nothing, and no one
Else is important;
Conversational poems
Turn into an **** of words!
Orgasmically we come
On each other's poetry,
Spilling every emotion
Every greed and seed
Upon the vowels
And the verbs
And the adjectives;
And it will be like this for us
For days
For weeks
For months
Because we want it to last forever
Only forever is a doom
Particularly when the moment comes
And the ink finally dries
And the poems begin to fade
Further and farthest
Into a questionable memory
Until there's nothing left
But my blank screen
And your blinking cursor.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
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.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC