"phallus" poems
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
8.9k
I hope my good old ******* holds out
60 years it's been mostly OK
Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation
survived the altiplano hospital--
a little blood, no polyps, occasionally
a small hemorrhoid
active, eager, receptive to phallus
coke bottle, candle, carrot
banana & fingers -
Now AIDS makes it shy, but still
eager to serve -
out with the dumps, in with the condom'd
******** friend -
still rubbery muscular,
unashamed wide open for joy
But another 20 years who knows,
old folks got troubles everywhere -
necks, prostates, stomachs, joints--
Hope the old hole stays young
till death, relax
March 15, 1986, 1:00 PM
8.1k
Not much inquiry
is necessary
delineating candlelight
Not much pondering,
only the flickering
whispers which permeate
time-space
And transfix time
temporarily
are the tools
for description...
...something about
the periphery
that lies beyond
its heated source
is the mystical shimmering glow
and its soothing embrace
that hugs
cradled-souls
And most matter about...
...energy not yet exhausted
heated translucent secretions
gush down
from the hot-tip likened phallus...
...the heated beads reflect the candlelight
Watching the warm trickles,
human feelings are warm
Lightly light
and light headiness
soon embrace...
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
The big angry things sling vocal feces
Fleshy phallus-pumps close at hand, cooing
Guzzle guzzle ethanol
Inebriated petrol-baby
"Smash the atom!"
"We're too late, we're too late!"
Tar (quick) sand *****
Big angry things drown
"We gotta gotta drill!"
Penetrate the Mother with a steel ****
Oedipus laughs
As the boulder, finally
Crushes Sisyphus.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
************ the ego
tis seen as a trifle banal
the odd big cranial bloke
belongs to this cabal
tirelessly they stroke
the head to a maximal size
as the inflated phallus
doth give them such a rise
************ shall always be
their pastime of infatuation
as they are so in love
with the ego's glorification
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
Its the perfect costume for a superhero goddess, and it makes her feel invincible; fishnet stockings, blazing red bra, heroine hotpants and the clincher; kitten heels.
Bunny can take on the world, now, appropriately dressed. She's got superpowers, alright, the doom-dogs seem to think so, and they're running scared.
Those rumours, that they trade and use and barter, of baby bunny's beautiful mouth, sloe doe eyes, and inexhaustible tongue. It's been said that she can bring an evil tyrant to his knees as she sinks down to her own, it's been said, she's good and bad, so very bad, so very, very good...
But, listen!
*** bunny's been given a new mission; There's a new and timely terror, and the doom-dogs are, of course, the evil source; find and ******* *** bunny, the formidable phallus of doom.
Only you, ***** tawny Queen of Dawn are up to the task. Don your whiskered mask, wriggle your nose once, twice, yummy bunny, and fly, fly! Find the phallus, save the world.
It's your destiny.
You were born to blow the horn for cosmic ****
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
One on top of the other
still with flesh and organs all intact
and making all sorts of crude noises
and getting into this messy business –
getting your bed sticky and wet with sweat;
ah, you beings of flesh and blood and ecstasies
unlike me
just bones and a mere ghost me now living
lonely and in airless worlds
sent there by you my wife under that man
and you the man who helped poison me -
now you are over my wife
and you raise your **** to the gods
Hheeee…heeee….heeee… Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
I’ll be back every time the two of you fornicators
make love in my bed – shame on you, you murderer;
you took my wife, my home –and can’t even afford
to buy a new bed;
and you even use the condoms I left in the wardrobe...
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
but I’ll be back every time the two of you close each other
like two palms raised in prayer ;
and I’ll pull the mosquito net down a bit and peer in
to see the two of you naked in bed
and I’ve got a bony tongue
long enough to lick the both of you!-
and to see me with my horrendous eyeballs
your phallus will shrink immediately;
and that woman, my former wife and eternal betrayer,
who mixed poison into my rice and shrimps
- every time she sees me, in her shock and fear
she’ll **** you out of bed, every time for sure...
Heee! Heee! Hooooo….
Well, Hello, lovebirds…making love are we?
Heee! Heee! Hooooooo…..
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 1:11 AM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
oh right...
back in h'america it's called
patriotism -
but 'ere, over, Here -
it's called nationalism...
back on the old continent
where and when all politics
is far-right mantra
and then you have
your Victoria and Abdul -
love the curry...
but like the **** said...
i'd prefer the aura and sauna
of the...
don't get me wrong:
i love the food...
but watching the Indian caste
system?
of Indians employing slaves
to build their upper-middle-class homes?
more tanned?
oh, you mean the Sri Lankan
or the Bangladeshi poor ********
sorry... i thought all slave
owners were white...
no?
oh...
alright...
**** you then!
because?
next time you ask...
i'll do what the Nazis did to the ********
i'll twist the star of David sideways...
exposing the prayer mat
and an opened book...
and, as far as i am concerned,
Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague...
now...
compare the geographic literature
and spot the quarantine areas on a map
that constitutes Europe.
i'd rather die...
than fiddle with a phallus for
a taste of the Arabian quasi
harem orchestra of... absolute...
********
Arabian women?
fat hands...
their hands are too fat...
they have to inter-breed to
get rid of their
farmers' market of
fudge fingers and knuckles...
Arabian women expose
what is the most **** aspect
of a woman's body...
their hands...
Arab women have pork chops
for fingers...
and i'm not even sorry
making this observation...
fatty extensions
that you wish could at least
succumb to the esteem
of a pork head terrine.
Arab women can wear their niqab,
or whatever the hell they wear...
one problem...
FAT..... HANDS...
FAT.... FINGERS...
hell, hide them...
these women are worth half the erection's
worth in the *********** market of
feminine hands...
Arab women are no possessed with
geisha hands... porcelain architecture...
they're not tender... slight, polite...
the hands of Arab women are
the hands of European women...
who have a legitimate sway on arable
land, that is fertile with either
potatoes or cabbage;
well...
fat fingers eager to harvest ginger
(roots) -
what can i say...
no matter the diamond,
or the European *****
the hand is still looking
readily available to milk a ******* camel.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.
Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.
The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)
Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.
Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.
Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.
Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)
A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.
Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.
Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.
(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: **** says the wheel and shit-shit , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)
(Translated by Sherin Catherine)
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
.*i'm still an advocate of caesarean section... i believe in animal rights... it's just plain cruel exposing a European ****** to a pan-African phallus of a fetus head **** isn't it **** "technically"? **** me... forget the ******** **** the latex... the ****** ******* one pregnant women ************ and talking Freudian implosion will do.*
personally? i hardly think
******** **** is what men turn
to when excavating
***********
ever watched
pregnant
women
************
while filming themselves?!
ever watch pregnant women
film
themselves ************
ever?
in the beginning there
was the word,
and the word was god...
you hear the talking
of pregnant woman ************
**** me...
who the hell needs ******** ***
when you can **** off
to a pregnant woman...
jerking off, talking *****
paradoxes of Freud
about her yet to be born
son
watching her **********
who the hell needs
******** ****
just watch a pregnant woman **********
oath of god...
hand on my heart...
it doesn't actually encompass a
desire for intricacies of latex...
just a pregnant woman
************
*** mad... *** mad...
*** mad...
******* *** mad as hell...
Freud? pale as an uncooked
pancake dough...
the **** that comes out
from the mouth of a pregnant
woman ************
believe me...
i ****** off to one of them doing it
helpless.
nice try... thinking
a man would turn to ********
***********
can't turn to more ********
****
than a pregnant woman,
************
while talking, Oedipal,
*****
try... try, ******
try to bash that fact out
of existence!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
for logic to work, certain coordination words must be excluded from ever attain a thesaurus privilege, certain words must attain the same consistency as numbers already present, for worded logic to work, certain words cannot entertain synonyms or antonyms, and must be freed from the shackles of sophistry.
can one animate object truly objectify another
animate object?
i ask, because this supposed feminist
narrative of man objectifying a woman
seems rather bogus -
as i have to reiterate -
can an animate object truly objectify
another animate object?
i "think" (i.e. "i" deny) this to be
highly unlikely, near impossible...
i am innately inclined to the puritanical
observation,
that i can only objectify an inanimate object,
point being: a man can no more
objectify a woman than an animate
object can make an animate an inanimate
object without having to subject himself
to hammering a nail into a plank of wood:
using a hammer.
how can an animate object (a man)
objectify another animate object (a woman) -
without, first of all objectifying a part of him
as quasi-inanimate, namely his phallus?
women do not seem to be complaining
about objectification of a woman,
rather, a man objectifying his member -
and isn't that the point, to posses an object
that you're not subject to obeying?
once more how can a woman
be objectified, when in fact man is
attempting to de-subjective himself from
his genitalia?
an animate object can't
objectify an animate object -
since the contradiction is:
both are in animation...
the only time objectification
happens is when an animate object
subject an inanimate object into a purpose...
a hammer is hardly a woman,
while is hammer one-dimensional,
a woman is either mother, sister, vice,
a one night stand, a girlfriend, or a wife...
women are never objectified -
they are subject to the self-objectifiction
of man, by man alone...
and if you think that's post-modernist jargon,
let me spell it out for you:
T, O, G, E, T, A, H, A, R, D, O, N.
objectification happens when an animate
object subjects / encompasses an inanimate
object into a subject of the animate object's
intent...
unless of course you care to disclose
a fetish for necrophilia...
since only in necrophilia are women actually
objectified.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time
To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Ever present life...
Ever present life...
3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ
against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐?
W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̭̝̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦe̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!!
CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE!
Still Sun Tzu
hit my enemy first
in the verses
no physical damage
no trauma purses to manage
I already lived afflicted with curses
from savage researches
Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me,
...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕
But not enough to stop me !
I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE
but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell
sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign
Hi.
Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̭͉̲̱̙̼͎̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅfͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̗̤̞͈̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone.
Passionate like a Shepard's SON.
Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue.
[[God said to me]]:
Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON
You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean.
So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision
Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being
We release the storm my drips speaking.
But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights.
Easily distracted
by how others say
"stay away from illicit people ..."
Illicit people ...?
More like
people illicit
[!?meaning?!]
formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚
Responses from the ghost markers
self-induced parasites better host dollars people!
FC*K that!
>NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE <
-Just watch and listen-
Tectonic plates shift
when I talk back
Demonic cosmic rift silent
when I talk rap
people never seem to mind
unless you say I did that
But you better believe
This ***** not much more than a formality.
Fancy phantasm shorn from reality .
Never base your life in a fallacy.
No waste your life chasing the phallus see?
L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆
Like Harry Potter,
I always catch the snitch
end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
So few leave this life of crime
now I teach yoga
super stack your spine
till that ***** aligned
so try and find me
I’m in orbit right outside the mind b.
To look up my next move in the dictionary
doesn’t make it a **** move, this is :
"My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot
and its OH so scary!"
Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽
I’m married to my Wife,
my Diction,
God and Mary.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
vampiric ***** house
a fearful symmetry
of cleavers for something to love
***** addicted
pearly satin's copulate
a continent of curves
ovoid rectums and raw mouths
in a ritual of sadistic etiquette
drenching phallus tongued spit
like gales of flames
at a masochists invitation
for foot blooded kisses
and heated lopped breast
eager haunches thunder
in a malignant lust
********* utopias **** cyclops
spreading winkling's dribbling
night operas
in a red cathedral of flicker hives
squealing euphoria's hemic arcade
with greased ******* that break backs
fluting throats ***** chromatic fizz
and shrilling wombs flutter like bat wings pandemonium
in the museum of the moon
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
I am the pretender
You must precensor
When I'm an inventor
Who can't get centered
I'm the apologist
You're the psychologist
We have a suitable deal
You provide an even keel
And cook delicious meals
And let my fingers feel
But you do so much more
Going deeper than the shore
You make a difference
By insistence
I see your footprints
In the distance
They lead me to progress
My mind cannot process
Those things I can't fathom
You effortlessly grab them
You were my bastion of behavior
I thought you were my savior
You're more like Charles Xavier
Controlling my mind
To keep me blind
By taking my vision
When you make your incision
And put me in prison
You're Sigmund Freud
On steroids
You fill my void
Then get annoyed
You cured me of my madness
Yet instilled sadness
When I got addicted to your healing
But then heard your tires peeling
After all your analysis
You deemed me talentless
You used to be my example of what to be
Now you're my example of what to flee
You made me hate the number three
While running my car into a tree
Which made me scream ouch
My ejection from your couch
So I hide in my palace
And drink from a chalice
Filled with mindless malice
While holding my phallus
But I learned my lesson
One last confession
Someone that can calm my brain
Can also leave a permanent stain
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
I convinced a man he could prune his own ****
That if he spliced it just so,
two little pink shafts would sprout in it's place.
Wriggle themselves growing into two separate fully functional phallus.
And I watched him.
As he reluctantly reached for the shears.
And went through the five stages of grieving.
"There's no way this will work.
**** you for telling me this secret!
can't I just take a pill to grow a second **** without having to cut this one off?
I don't think I can live without it..."
but just think, I reminded him.
after you do this.
You're gonna have TWO *****
"I'M GONNA HAVE TWO *****
TWO *****
And with almost no other thought, reasoning or belief.
He closed the shears
He opened his eyes.
His flaccid privilege laying there.
"When does the growing start?"
He asked me, pained.
His big brown eyes swelling.
"It doesn't."
"WHAT?"
"I lied to you, it doesn't grow back."
"It doesn't grow back? Not even one?
"Not one, not two,
no **** for you. I lied."
"Lied?"
"Lied."
it was easy,
to convince him.
Just had to promise he'd have two times the power in the long run.
If he risked it all right now.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
GREED GREED GREED
GREED THAT MAKES
THE WORLD GO DOWN
GOING DOWN
ON A WASHINGTON PHALLUS
GOING DOWN
WITH THE PAPER PALACE
IN FLAMES
GOING DOWN LIKE PLANES
INTO BUILDINGS THAT STAND
FOR THE MAN
WHO HAS NO FACE
BUT HAS BOTH HANDS
IN YOUR POCKETS
GOING DOWN LIKE HIS PLANS
TO OWN THE HUMAN RACE
GOING DOWN
AT AN ACCELERATED PACE
GOING DOWN
LIKE A CHEERLEADER
BENEATH THE BLEACHERS
DOING HER PART
FOR THE TEAM MORALE
GOING DOWN
GOING DOWN
LIKE YOUR DREAMS
GOING DOWN
AND GETTING ******
GOING DOWN
GETTING ****** BY THE MAN
BUT YOU’RE NOT GAY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU DIE AND ARE REBORN
TO RECLAIM
YOUR VIRGINITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU RECLAIM YOUR DIGNITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
THE MAN WILL TAKE PITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOU GET OUT OF THIS CITY
WAITING FOR THE DAY
IT ALL GOES DOWN
GOING DOWN
ON THE MAN
WITH THE TASTE OF SALINE
YOUR TEARS ON HIS ****
GOING DOWN
ON UNCLE SAM
WHILE GETTING ******
BY UNCLE RICH
TICK
THERE IS NO TOCK
IT’S MIDNIGHT
AND WE FORGOT
TO WIND THE CLOCK
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.
Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.
Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and sex-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.
Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--
Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.
The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--
Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--
Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.
The door opens.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
i must be the only one
who finds sparrows
amusing outside my window
filled with song,
the same in me trying to imitate
their song with a range of onomatopoeias
never written (thankfully, poets
who write sparrows' song, may you
be disgraced, chirp chirp,
beat-box that **** elsewhere, where
you're welcome by admirers),
the same in me laughing
at the kangaroo hops
unable to use both feet to walk
in the guttering of the carcass plateau of crows...
but there my laugh,
like the last whims of a pope when a robin presides
over the ritual outside the window on the sill...
i find pronouns unable to capture
timing, a class of words for standing still,
they just can't capture timing, they're space
orientated, a man of 70 will say the same
of a man aged 20 about a woman,
but both will be idiotic about the size of
her earrings concerning her promiscuity:
bigger the earring, the bigger the need to feed
her juiced up genitalia lips...
warm **** and cold mouth,
some say in reverse: getting ****** off
is like ice-cream being eaten...
and cold in reverse would give you circumcision
defined lawfully as **** a cold genital
assertion of womanhood will peel the skin
right off... ask for a cake you''ll be welcome
away from the bony **** of your hand's embrace...
perhaps marriage... and that cold mouth
that encompasses all hidden glaciers;
still, the **** is about sparrows in rain rain gutters
hopping along to the orchestra playing only
one tune that's ha ha ha.
all in all, when aroused, one hole warms
up the other cools down... the third?
don't know, don't care, apparently it's exhilarating,
trying to turn men onto all three
and away from homosexuality,
with the fourth (woman's ego) being missed...
could never equate that to a phallus and a hole...
i always felt ***** by that thing, the fourth dimension
once the **** was explored... it's all Dostoevsky after that...
everything is permitted, no deity exists,
i guess a the end is required of such a poem as this.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
.oh... hi y'all:
or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio?
i guess after watching
the disaster artist
and no having watched
the room...
the tetragrammaton
is so glaring to me
in the English tongue,
i might as well be
a reincarnation of
Belshazzar
(but not really...
because, to me,
reincarnation
implies
a fixed number
of people...
and an mingling
of solipsism from
philosophy,
and NPC from the gaming
world...
no, i can't believe
in reincarnation...
saving grace of
the Hindus?
they're not lactose intolerant;
boogie-woogie-boo-woo
ooh things are turning,
freak-y...
why is that a Y and not
an E?
see... the tetragrammaton
is glaring at me...
like an ***** protruding
phallus with the added
"flavor" of a circumcision
snippet...
me? i'm fine...
no snippet...
i can **** off as much
as i like and not feel
stupid -
or catholic, about it,
having, in my possession,
an unsheathed "sword").
p.s. it really is the case
of circumcising men
as a procreational motivation,
no ******** on you...
plenty of ******** on her...
and how the east meets
the west...
back in the east i'd be a blessing...
over 'ere?
i'm a walking abortion...
a nuisance...
something you send off
to fight in incestuous...
here's my 100 year closure celebration:
V!
like the Welsh longbow men... up yours!
who? in the 100 year war...
the French would cut off the...
**** index or middle finger?
they would cut off one of the fingers
of the Welsh longbow men...
so they could fire an arrow...
P.O.W.s...
so the Welsh longbow men
came up with V... a salute
to the French... up yours!
i still have mine!
hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off...
too bad, ol' chap,
you've been given an incentive
to find your missing ********
in a woman's *****
sorry... i actually feel sorry for
you having this imposed on you...
the missing caftan / hood and all...
sometimes i wondered:
does she even know what she's
doing performing ******** on
me? maybe i could cut my torso off
and show her how to do it?
in the east i'd be a godsend,
but in the west i'm an
embarrassment...
great in tissue... greater still
in pointless wars...
auxiliary pageant...
sure sure...
glorify the women...
last time i heard my ex-girlfriend
gave birth to her fourth child...
her fourth daughter...
i seriously should have been
born a ******* Mongol.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****
(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)
Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC