"parlour" poems
Oh1 Durga, the symbolic victory
Over the worldly evil
You can **** any devil
And you are the most benign
As you are divine
Shiva (goodness) is your
inseparable half
Mahishasura’s ( Man’s evil) death
Is your valour’s proof
Goodness and valour are made
For each other
It is paradoxical that
Man stands for goodness
And woman for valour
But it is true in divine parlour
Hindus believe in Durga’s divine force
Even others can not deny the cosmic source
Even the staunchest atheist
Can not deny the women’s collective fist
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 4:43 AM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
Come into my parlour
said the spider to the fly,
would you like a cup of dew or a slice of cricket pie.
Locust is for dinner,
Roach's served for tea
it should be really comfy
cause there's only you and me.
Perhaps we both can surf the web
or talk about the weather.
We could go out and try on clothes, I look real good in leather.
But first of all let's go inside.
That's it my dear fly
and now that you have entered here
it's time to say goodbye.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Said the Prince unto his raven-haired Lady as he rode and galloped away,
He leaned back and this is what he had to say:
“Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.”
Jack O’Lantern prowls and haunts the frosted hills hunting to ****** for fresh meat.
This monster, this dark beast creeps down from upon the heath!
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the Lord of this warm and happy house?” says Jack O’Lantern with claws tapping.
“Gone to London town,” says the Nurse the coins from Jack receiving.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the lovely Lady of this house?” smiles Jack O’Lantern mouth full of jagged teeth.
“She’s in her red chamber,” says the Nurse asking for a treat.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the delightful baby of the house?” says Jack O’Lantern purring like a cat.
“Asleep in the cradle,” says the Nurse accepting Jack’s gold sack.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“We will pinch him, we will ***** him, we will stab him with a long pin!
Nurse, you will hold the basin for the blood all to run in.”
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
So they pinched him and they pricked him, then they stabbed him with a very sharp pin.
The false Nurse did hold the basin for the blood all to run in.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Lady, come down the stairs, come drink this tasty gin,” says Jack O’Lantern dripping sin.
“How can I see thee in the dark?” says the Lady unto him.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“I have silver bracelets and rings fashioned out of gold,” says Jack O’Lantern bowing.
“Lady, pray sail down the stairs and come see them glowing.”
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
Down the stairs the radiant Lady gently glided without alarm, thinking there to be no harm.
Black-eyed Jack stood ready to snap her in his arms.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
There is blood in the kitchen and blood on the chamber floor, there is blood also in the hall.
There is blood upon the open door and blood upon the wall.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
There is slippery blood in the parlour and bedroom too where the Lady did slip and fall.
Now Jack will be caught and hanged and punished in hell’s hall.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
And the false Nurse will be broken and burnt in the fire raging scarlet and black.
Said the Prince unto his Lady dead as he rode back:
“Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
O why did you unlock the door? My heart will now forever twist and turn!”
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
Ocean calm but for moonlight now flickering
the wake of the playful children of the sea
here in secretive parlour they lift their heads up high
and sing profound longing to Orion with star filled eyes
their solemn songs with kind indifference they click and cry
in holy matrimony of cool waters joined with black velvet skies.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
She'll brew a *** of bliss and then she'll pour it in your cup
She'll dance around the room until the gloom is all drunk up
She's not your normal angel, boy and of that you should be glad
For she fills a parlour naked more than many girls do clad
She's an angel from Newfoundland and St. Andrews knew her well
She's certainly no Flatrock as Tickle Harbour's boys can tell
And Jackson's and Chapple's Arms they both have been in her's
She's even been to Merasheen don't tell the other girls
Her "H"s have an "H" in them and her voice a lilting sound
But if you want sincerity no better can be found
Her love's as pure as dynamite she'll blow you off the shelf
She'll make your whisker hairs stand up and your little man an elf
She's an angel now in Tor-onto, On-tar-i-ario
She moved there when her parents died and she didn't know where to go
Ah, Mississauga knows her well and so does Hamilton
But Toronto is the place to be when she is having fun
She says she works a fancy bar called the Iron Cross Cha-pel
Where pretty men come in all dressed up and cuss and kiss as well
She cannot find a boyfriend there but she has lots of dates
They give her lots of Ecstasy and tell her it's not ****
She's an angel from Newfoundland and St. Andrews knew her well
She's certainly no Flatrock as Tickle Harbour's boys can tell
And Jackson's and Chapple's Arms they both have been in her's
She's even been to Merasheen don't tell the other girls
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
It's torture,
The way that he stalks her,
Mina, Mina,
Like some childish chant,
He calls her name,
We chant too,
Master, master, notice us,
Love us, want us, worship us,
Because we worship you,
And I have seen seasons pass in an unblinking eye,
How can I sleep when you are always awake?
Entertaining guests in the parlour room,
My pallor turns deathly when you speak her name,
Your next engagement is the chill in my tomb,
The fear I feel in her heartbeats makes my teeth hurt,
They turn into fangs with the bitterness I spit,
When you take her throat, I see red,
But I cannot admit these things to my absent soul,
By you I am vilified,
Like Christ I'd rather be crucified,
My wedding dress you nullified,
Let light stream in and burn me alive,
Burn me dead,
After aeons since the first I thought this bond was unbreakable,
1, 2, 3, women you have guided into your hell,
Still your thirst is unslakeable,
- But what did I expect?
Denn die Todten reiten schnell.
(Translation: Because the dead travel fast.)
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
The Chef
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'
'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'
'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enter a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.
2.3k
A is for atom
Rotten to the core
Melting down
below the ground
just outside the door
Where presidents and statesman
continue to play
with hot core rods
in a box of sand
forgetting where they've buried them
From Kazakhstan to New York
they walk away and wipe their hands
Now all young boys like hot apple pie
but uranium cake is hotter
and those who've tasted such elation
will tell you that it's nearly sinful
the way the warmth slowly infil-
-trates you to the bone
Hear! Hear! A noble cheer
for the best warm dish
served in years...
Soviet meltdown in hot sause
There's a piece for brother and sister and you
There's a piece for mom and dad
who chatter in the parlour
like a geiger counter going mad
Now the nuclear family
eats plutonium pie
and triple scoop reactor splits
melt and drip
from every bodies spoon
Cheer noble! Good men! Cheer noble!
Please stand tall solicit applause
Cheer noble!!
You'll get your rewards
and your just deserts
with a noble cheer
CANDU!!!
Roosty
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --
you sleep on them for days
and exhume them from the ground
because they matter! so deeply!!
there's no metaphor that does them justice!!
it's poetry because it isn't!!!
i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.
thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).
i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.
as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.
i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.
watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.
i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.
His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.
He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.
He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.
He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.
When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"
He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.
He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
2.1k
I.
You can always tell the
Virgins from the way they
Glide—cerebral giddy with nectarfilled
Hearts and earlobes full of
Wax/
Wane moonshine turf if you’re not
Dying for astronomers’ loves and what makes
Ptolemy different from Claude is
Given prove:
Equal and opposite reaction.
II.
Shove knife down pork
Wasn’t so hard, was it.
III.
TWO SOLIDS INTERSECT
In a plane. In the bathroom, to be exact.
What follows is not
Essential to the proposition;
Calculate the spatial
(surface area, volume of cubicle,
conclude insufficient is <
where escape
velocity is )
useless to
resistance factor 7 [prepare
for lift-off landing
taxi
To the Bronx of course where else would I
Be on a night like this it’s raining in the parlour
Wont you step outside?
III.
anemic & half-
starved half-
sandwich
go on,
have a bite.
IV.
in arm will undulate bloodcellspouroutcantstoptoowide
are you just imagining this?
What would they tell you in school blood is
thicker than water
i’m not sure they eat
carnivores here.
CARNIVAL
festival of meat.
Flesh
LIVE
trembling
quiver SWIFT shoot through air DUCK dead swandive nosedive outplug
BOOM go the couple in the cabin
lavatory
laboratory? Rats go bang in the night
crash & burn debris over Detroit is our
favorite way to die
colorful isn’t it rainbow—
brushfire—
bruises and fire storms out and around the
populace to decimate seems like mating by a factor of ten
V; or. X^2+i(70x7)=
aftermath:
my ex squared
with me seventy times
seven
equals in
fortitude (labor-intensive)
tea costs sixpence in dallas what about
you so
integral to my
being that sometimes I wonder if you’re just
imaginary or if
what it takes to be transcendental is
beyond what’s rational or even what’s
real to me:
eight is
enough for the eggs.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
_The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.
I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’
Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.
As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become._
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
nothing as sobering as a cop stopping your vehicle
even when you are riding completely legitimate
and even then with the latest figures of stop and search
you very may end up in the funeral parlour, if your black **** offends
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
You want this conversation
Well let's take the ******* out
You call for independence
So let's see what that's about
You're gonna need the banks for money
Gonna need the toffs for land
Well that's a kind of independence
That I just don't understand
So who are you kidding now, who are you kidding,
Nothing's going to change
With the same old queen and the same old scene
and the same old parlour games
This ain't no custody battle, you're not taking the kids to the zoo
If we don't want central government then why would we want you?
Now I find you quite convincing
when you say that things are wrong
But it seems that your solution
Is the same old same old song
And a suit in Edinburgh
Could be a suit in London town
Because you're all a million miles away
from the **** that's going down
Ah, who are you kidding now who are you kidding,
Where's the brand new dawn
It's the millionaires and the stocks and the shares
That'll keep on keepin' on
And this self-determination
Might catch you by surprise
The united states of me and my mates
Curse every flag that flies.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Seaham now has a marina
Boats bobbing up and down
Bringing new life
To this seaside town
There are also shops
Where you can have a treat
A cup of coffee
Or something to eat
My personal favourite
Is the ice-cream shop
13 different flavours
With things on top
I must be carful
About what I eat
But my doctor tells me
Don't deny yourself a treat
The Nicey Icey parlour
Passes the test
It beats competition
Because it’s better than the rest
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
***Sometimes when ev'ning lamps are ebbing low
And all the earth lies hushed in solemn sleep
Within my lonely heart there burns a glow,
As lengthening shadows about me creep.
My weary glance falls o'er the dismal room
Where with rapturous eyes I seem to see
Beyond thick cobwebs, dust and direst gloom
A merry host of friends-my own library!
Worn musty books on shelves from olden days,
Brittle pages yellowed by hands of time,
Illuminating night with gladsome rays,
Lifting my bleak spirit to realms sublime.
Trooping merrily before my rapt gaze
Into flick'ring lamplight I watch them come,
Quaint men and ladies of forgotten days;
Golden laughter echoing in my home.
Into my eyes they smile, murm'ring with grace
Aerial speech they blithely chat with me,
They seem to belong to another race
Wakening in my heart sweet melody.
Dying lamplight sputters and they are gone.
Vanished! I stare about but find I none
Save a drowsy thrush flutes with hush of dawn
Only myself in the parlour alone.***
~Hilda~
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******** themselves on dove-grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.
we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.
we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet to awaken to.
it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?
i'm done.
please, come and sit.
tell me how you like your tea?
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
All the times you roll over in the middle of the night and whisper the sweetest words I'll ever listen to.
The waking-up smirks, yawns, and hand-holding.
The scent of your plaid shirts draped over my shoulders on all the walks back from the ice cream parlour.
Each beer can that was tossed away, and clammered onto the kitchen floor.
I have bad aim.
The growing pile of shared space and objects and gifts, exchanged for no reason at all, other than our love, also shared.
The time I fell asleep with my finger in between your lips, comforted by the closeness that one finger had with your heart.
The hours spent driving to and from and circling seemingly endless parking lots.
The cigarettes shared, second-hand while holding hands.
The second glances,
"what" "what?"
"nothing, I just love you so much."
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
/ sitting on your leg
almost ingesting a tongue-like
presence into your ****
on a window-sill?
miracle, when it comes
to bowel movement;
and what a pristine piece
of **** that was...
i hope homosexual ***
feels... just as good.
p.s. esp. while listening
to brooke c's drum covers...
and to think...
some people read books
on the throne of thrones...
on the odd occassion a game,
but sometimes:
watching videos,
thinking to myself:
this takes the bollocking -
it's d'ah ****
i guess that's what you might
call cognitive massage parlour
additive to compensate
for...
the deconstructive
post-modernist, derrida spreschen
of modern lawyers...
brick is a brick isn't a brick
type of scenarios...
i thought they stopped
as a thesaurus sensibility?
guess i was wrong, all along.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC