"peccadillo" poems
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
*that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"*
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
Breeze shuffles leaves,
returns to caress the fruits missed,
soft tete-a-tete
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
you're taller now
body curves filled in the right places
and your hair falls with the utmost ease
they start to notice you now
they want to kiss you,
please you,
love you
and all you want to do is grow fangs
razor sharpe
that can tear out their eyes
those same eyes that judge you
with maligner
calling on you
through licentious demons
you want to fight back now
demonstrate your fortitude
you are woman
you are maker
you can't bare to see ****** oppression
you're uncomfortable now
as he touches your thigh
slowly groping your ***
making way up
he sees it as a peccadillo
you see it as your fault
you can't look at yourself now
you are not woman, human, living
you are dead now
filled with malaise
becoming a malefactor to your own soul
you are no longer you now
a mendacious being, only lying to yourself
to save yourself
when all you are
is no more.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
(Puh)
“The power to perceive something impossible persuades me. I must pick a place.” The Clairvoyant Gulch.
This person pounds the ground with persistence. A penchant to procreate perception. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Passing away into peach fuzz and polyandry. Pretty Polly plans to participate in the process. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Princess Penelope ****** on Polly. Paczki the predator penetrates the preposterous Polly.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President of the Polyandry Psychics proposes: let Polly go but only with the presentation.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyandry People peer and pry for what will Polly present. The poor prissy presents her ***** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
She placidly plucks the ***** to pay the People. But she then panics and pours pomegranate red over a *** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The *** then becomes an urn so precious that the People pray. Polly feels penitent of her peccadillo. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President points to the urn. Paczki the predator places ingredients into the *** pig’s tail, pesto and plantar’s wart. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyanderthals round about and puke into the *** Polly prepares a peyote dish that will pause time. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President and People consume the *** It tastes vile and profane, they puke again. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyantherhals turn around to find Polly unpresent. They **** and pant in confused anger. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Polly is passing the time, possessing a power within the Earth’s core. Her polyethylene pants protect her from the core’s melting point. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the People, it was not practical for them to be presented such profane magic. Their perception of the universal paradigm had been inverted in perpetuum. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the Polyanderthalic *** of ****** pomegranate juice, the President sold the item through Paypal to a polyandry professor living in Piccadilly. The People never practiced polyandry in perpetuum. Ever again.
~The Clairvoyant Gulch
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
it dawned
from the half-bitten fruit,
this boorish serpent,
this inner foreboding
of flesh tingling tempted
out of frame.
sin takes to blood, the nail
sifting the flesh, birthing
the bells of the word
fracturing our silences
displacing the void into radiant senselessness -
this heart of Pilate
where once in front of
this purloined innocence
the temples crumbled to ash
of all beginnings
telling us all of our
preordained peccadillo,
unannounced wraith pouncing
on each to lurid each,
biting more from the world
and its land that remembers
the till of feet welcomed
by diadems of flagella,
love have we not, eternally?
no singing seraphs wept
as the afternoon erupts,
a fragmented word: love.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
Sometimes i don't want to be tethered to yesterday
It's nicer to forget
But having eyes wide to the future
Requires retrospective respect
To reach the top of maslow's pyramid
You have to knock down the walls
Reshuffle all the cards
And see where they might fall
Your peccadillo was just a trigger
To the burst of autumn red
I've awoken from my torper
And turned reality on its head.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
I have wings, I'm everywhere
I'll vanquish all who stand
Nobody can conquer me
I am a firebrand
Twin tornadoes lift me up
Spit nails in their hands
You'll find that I am common
I am in all lands
But I'm very subtle
Not many understand
I'll share a little secret
Just for you and me
It's just a peccadillo
A sin of small degree
Let's share something to titillate
Just for us to see
It may become a scandal!
But, hey, this country's free...
You know that movie star you hate?
Let's just play a game
We can see it as her fate
So no one is to blame
We'll destroy her career
Hey, they're all the same
They all drink and have affairs
She's so very lame
You're behind the smokescreen
There really is no shame
And where there's smoke there's *fire...
HAVE YOU GUESSED MY NAME?*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/16/2017
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
Love, by design, is miraculous
It's purpose is to remove
Any sudden paroxysm of rage
Drawn from the tangled web of emotion
Spun from fear, resentment and despair
Making the pledge of a heart
For a lifetime of loyal dedication
Seems futile, when somewhere down that road
You lose everything you long for
Destroying the fortified souls of angels
It seems so easy for you to walk away
Hide behind your languid affection
While apathetic to my spiritual desire
Completely oblivious to the damage
The black heart you own is doing
Turn back the clock to a time
Before I can remember you
Perhaps, take me in a different direction
Our worlds will not collide
If I never even know you
If all that’s open to me
Is the fear of being exploited
I shall revert to the disconsolate
Bewildered state I'm comfortable with
At least, if it were possible, I could
It's ironic that through these crestfallen years
Cruelly, no one but you can dry my tears
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
Are names telling of something?
When you were young, you were taught to name shapes,
count figures with your tiny, slender fingers,
read text like creed, memorize facts like incantations
so that when it is time that you are already raw
and machinated into the fullness of your body,
you are ready. Ready like the gull darting
into the deep blue to filch the marine.
Ready like artillery to fray.
Ready like genuflected children
in contrition – left the peccadillo aloft, canopied
by a thumbed down word of prayer;
Are names telling of something?
What do they delineate? A sense of ownership?
A demystification? What machine does
it pledge allegiance to? Sage of old?
A frantic fretting of sensibilities? Erudition, or at the very least, obscurantism?
If we leave a thing without a name, what will
that thing be?
It cannot be held – to what extent?
It cannot be owned – for what reason?
It cannot be classified – for what? to saturate it with comprehension
to ensure a fate underneath a conceptualized bent
of attestation and abomination?
If I left you without a name and only held you in my hands like
a thing waiting to be used, to be fondled,
what will you make out of it? Will you darkle and then dissipate
in the thinnest air? Or will you remain? Are names exacted so that
when a thing leaves the body, when an abstraction leaves a moment,
there is a device we can use to drone it into coming back? So that we know
that in addressing it, there is a sure claim that it will move back
and retrace tractable errors? So that in the aftermath,
we are certain of the weight it casts upon our sorry and aching
bodies that refuse to make love? So that there will be words to be written
and voices to be launched in form of song
with identities assured to match the thirst?
Why does this deserve a name? Why are these hands undeserving
of territories? Why is there dissent when there is desire?
The answer lies in the silence of every passing day famished by
evidence: this thing that has no name will remain
as punishment for being – so that when it is time to
prosecute, there will be no
firm basis for eulogies.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
Here is where the oncoming figure knows you.
We have no realization of time. Of how long
it will take for us to both decompose. This is
already a peccadillo. Mirrors brand conclusions.
The body lets go of its weight like anchorage.
How I measure warmth is a device that does not
concern you. Light inches and asks me how soon.
Already a blunder, an inner life revealed –
Between this carefully studied distance where sometimes
lines are crossed, a remorse is hoarded, exclusive
enigmas of hope. Contort this body if you will.
Between the barely-living and the already gone
is where I windhover. Sealed shut in hermetic space.
My desperation becomes a syntax of waiting
and there will be all beautiful horses, and faces in transit
everytime you pass is an announcement to where
I cast myself into a miscalculated sonority,
hauled out of, loosely identified.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Argh resolution between
self and eldest
dear daughter more remote,
now then locating
a left handed monkey wrench,
cuz she feels this papa
did deliberate smote
her upside the head, knocking
Eden Liat stone cold
in an abysmal trench
thus, this dada doth fear a mill
stone shaped albatross
around thy neck aye will tote,
where rotting bird
doth emit fetid oppressive stench
gloomily decry death asper,
paternal progeny blighted love
epitaph finis fate wrote.
Methinks (nee knows) marital infidelity
steep dividend warrant wrought
chances greater finding needle in haystack
versus pointless thought
exercise regarding deus ex machina sought
forgiveness ex post facto, rethought,
yet miracle needed, viz
twill require against overwrought
progeny's psyche mor'n
solo requiem Te Deum never sung,
hence no guarantee
father as overthought
against embarkation entailing,
nor divine chorus baptizing can nought
assuage besotted dada's flesh, handwrought
hence fiery eternal damnation
no gunsmoke match e'en gunfought
by Jesse James, no penitence
bequeathed only dreadnought
visa vis admitting how affair
kneaded joyus kindling brought
philandering husband discovered
emotional refuge (against spousal
epithet strewn expletive language,
whence mistress besought
similar ****** satisfaction,
and subsequent fallout an afterthought.
retrospective reflection stills nothing
more serious then slap on the wrist
while engaged (~ January 2010) with
nothing sinful 'bout peccadillo tryst
understandable wife got sorely ******
on the sly behaviour the missus
blindsided, hence over
looked and missed
and figurative wedge
cleft asunder nearly kissed
our marriage goodbye
extra-marital romp illicit,
though we nearly came to fist
sta cuffs, where salty crude name calling
in conjunction with execrable
derogatory cussing contribution complicit.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
Dark Heavens Laughter
White Wings
of a Peccadillo in Flight
Up and Down,
Up and Down,
Round and Round
and Round We Go
Fearful Love
for the
Insanely Boring
Familiar Playground
of the
Initiated Faith
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
He had not, the general consensus decreed,
Held up his end of the bargain;
Custom dictated that, once one had received
If not full absolution, a degree of dispensation
It was incumbent on the recipient
To acknowledge of the communal munificence,
Preferably with a suitably hang-dog expression,
And then move on with one’s life
In a sufficiently distant locale.
The gentleman in question had begged to differ
And stayed on, not simply long enough
To say the odd quick goodbye, to tie up loose ends,
But for the long haul, as he was born and bred in these parts,
Man and countryside one and the same,
Inextricable from one another, in his view,
And so he carried on about his business
As would befit a full citizen of the borough,
Occasionally stopping to pass the time of day
With the small circle of family and friends
Who had not found his particular peccadillo
As grounds for a de facto shunning
(Indeed, the wheres and whyfores of his particular transgression
Long past being generally agreed upon)
Continuing to shop, work, and even attend mass at St. Marinus
(Where he invariably had a pew to himself)
Where local legend had it that the statue of Jesus had once wept,
Though one former parish priest had noted
How the effigy was strangely and unnervingly impassive
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC