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anastasiad Jan 2017
While in the line of ProBook, designed for business people, there seemed to be the uniqueness H . p . ProBook Four hundred and fifty G2. The girl, like several involving your ex sisters and brothers, is a great doing the job unit and not simply because in this article, together with built in images plus distinct offered. So besides office environment tasks will even enjoy uncomplicated online games. An awesome replacement for catch several wildlife along with one particular rock. I'm wondering what otherwise is able to you should this ProBook 350 G2?

Design and style ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2
That 16.6-inch device has got dimensions 375x262x23-25 mm, and its particular body is employed matte soft-touch plastic material in addition to lightweight aluminum. Forces and hues the product, although it is kind of typical, or in other words conventional. The lid as well as the bottom on the ProBook 400 G2 black, while the important area ?silver. Alternatives back again of your pc, the idea contains the air vents, compartment, to which includes the ram segments and hard hard drive, and battery power as well as segments to help eject And sealing. As to the design, plus there is very little authentic. Include and also basic aspects slightly rounded physique truly becomes smaller, except that it is actually fuller regarding some mm.

Whenever we talk about the fat from the product which can be 3.One particular kg, it is not only smaller for such a style element, but the best, in order not to experience irritation whilst traveling as well as business trips. Also, the laptop is created perfectly, whatever the case, a distressing experience with this functioning, he does not go away.

Present, sound, net camera - Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
A monitor with the laptop includes a 16.6-inch straight as well as a quite minimal decision with 1366?Sixty eight pixels. Naturally, correctly could be plenty of, these days this determine will not be specially beautiful from the little brown eyes of end users. Incidentally, your settings and also distinction is too higher, in case you utilize a laptop at work, although not since crucial for the duties to generally be carried out about the ProBook 400 G2. As well as the matte present surface area is a lot more secure versus the lustrous, not only for motion pictures also for office work. In terms of taking a look at sides, they are not hence vast in which, without decrease of image quality watch training video or even photograph from your facet, as opposed to just staying straight while watching computer screen. In addition suggested choice: show by using Entire HD-resolution, effect regulates, in addition to aid pertaining to 10-finger multitouch.

The notebook can be a A single.Three mp web cam. It is actually sufficient regarding movie telephone calls in Skype, to maintain in contact with friends and colleagues. In beneficial gentle snapshot from the camera, will probably be far better.

Intended for sound recording production suffices two music audio speakers based over the keyboard set, along with the adjustments DTS Sound +. The seem is definitely sent with out deformation, with the exception that in addition to high frequencies would choose to find out a little bit of striper. Sadly, a laptop isn't adequate quantity so that you are probably certainly not well worth parting together with earbuds. As well, the product is usually a business-class, therefore the acoustics in the primary premiums and are not made.

Keyboard set along with Touchpad ( blank ) Hewlett packard ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2
In the key-board, waiting in this laptop computer, there are plenty of benefits. This can be mostly a waterproof surface that won't complete towards interior pieces poured the liquid. It is usually a tropical, full-size, incorporates nampad.

The particular control buttons employ a centre system, forced without having a lot attempt but not also noisy. Recommendations and it's away from the key board, they are accountable for this introduction of the laptop computer, the initial involving cellular quests along with mime.

A touch pad includes a beneficial receptiveness, completed through the help of two-finger scrolling, along with both horizontal and vertical. Moreover, you may move as well as focus, make use of. Manipulator doesn't besknopochny, listed here there's two actual personal computer mouse.

On the right on the known as is actually a finger marks scanner, it has the reputation is quite easy regarding business enterprise vacationers and everything those who used to safeguard computer data out of prying.

Efficiency ( blank ) Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Brand-new makes 64-bit main system Microsoft windows 7.One. Just in case Hewlett packard ProBook 450 G2 (J4S24EA) covering the low-voltage dual-core Apple company Central i5-4210U , which has a time clock volume of one.7 Ghz as well as a storage cache inside third volume of Several Megabytes. The following chip is made in Haswell 25 nm technological know-how, how many its features consist of service regarding Turbo Raise, which allows to boost the frequency to two.Several Ghz with a one lively nucleus, together with Hyper-Threading, through which the two cores is actually refined approximately three facts water ways in unison. As you can tell, compared to the forerunner Center i5-4200U the following a bit improved time clock pace since the bottom, and something by which the actual brand operates in any style Turbocompresseur. I must say which Center i5-4210U handle business office chores and also media, however if you have to have a stronger notebook, then otherwise you can pick an extensive fixed with primary Central i7.

Graphics Credit card Apple company Hi-def Graphics 4400 incorporated while in the nick, is a wonderful selection for easy artwork chores. Such as, looking at videos, modifying shots. Although with more intricate operations better equipped reduce let loose AMD Radeon R5 M255. Its rate of recurrence is definitely fewer than 940 Megahertz, he supports DirectX 11.A couple of and has now Only two Gigabyte involving of memory space standard, DDR3. Performance of this credit card wool, to ensure superior image quality, particularly, is certainly a great way pertaining to games. In between incorporated as well as let loose visuals can be turned.

As to Cram, it offers a couple of video poker machines, one of which is well worth menu 8 GB DDR3L-1600MHz. Certainly, this could be adequate ability to arduous uses in addition to rapidly do the job, especially since book is possible to set up the maximum amount of Memory ?04 Gigabytes.

You are able to retail outlet data on the hard disk ability associated with 650 Gigabytes and a quickness with 5400 innovations every minute. So as well as office docs a person undoubtedly fill out "piggy bank" the laptop computer multimedia data files as well as game titles. With regards to the settings as a drive generate may be mounted Hard disk drive smaller sized quantity or perhaps 128 Gigabyte SSD.

Locations as well as Marketing communications * Hp . p . ProBook 400 G2
Only be aware that on the appropriate side from the journal is really a more compact volume of slots compared to a eventually left. So, for the proper you can view this built-in visual push Disc +/- RW SuperMulti Defensive line, adjacent to which are a couple Universal serial bus Two.0 ports and a put together microphone connector and also a headset connector. Towards the end faces visible position with regard to Kensington lock.

For the complete opposite aspect can be a choice of distinctive user interfaces. That VGA, High definition multimedia interface, plug for your wall charger, a couple Browse 3.2, along with network RJ-45 dock. As well as the plug-ins within the kept area from the HP ProBook 450 G2 increases the in-take to take out heat.

Indications within the pc enough, but they're never situated in a single location. Several is seen higher than the key-board. Inside remaining corner is actually a lighting switch on, for the right ?a couple of Led lights (do the job instant multilevel, silence). Additionally, you will find a screen within the keyboard set ?Num Shut as well as Hats Locking mechanism. Although within the nose is simply the LED in the hard drive, which is given near the greeting card reader, reading formats SD, SDHC, SDXC.

Cellular connection in a very pc through Wi-Fi 802.11b Versus grams / d along with Wireless bluetooth 4.1.

Battery power -- Horsepower ProBook 400 G2
Horsepower ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2 Battery Package with 5 parts. Lithium-ion battery power features a volume with 30 Wh in addition to asking for 65-watt power. On the independence in the notebook is not a great deal hard work Data, doing the job devoid of re charging mode internet surfing two to three hours, plus within a weight connected with at most A person.Several hours.

Realization -- Horsepower ProBook 450 G2
Hence, this particular novelty, portion of a series ProBook, will appeal to those people who get the job done each day with a notebook computer, but he was no unknown person for you to leisure. Which H . p . ProBook 400 G2 will assist keep, making it possible for to try out, focus on new music or check out video clips. Is the fact a visit to this kind of hobby will not likely continue to be very long, because the small operating duration of the battery pack. Of course, too high-quality illustrations or photos through the present, you cannot put it off, since settings and contrast are small, as well as timetable is certainly not the main stage. But that notebook computer ?it is just a viable option intended for everyday projects.

The price tag on this gadget is concerning $ 800, which could in part end up being revealed by way of current fruitful satisfying, the presence of a finger print scanning device and also a water-resistant keyboard set. However with the price tag, search along with similarly functional in addition to profitable type. Generally speaking, should you prefer a notebook typically for function for pleasurable will be 2nd, for the ProBook Four hindred and fifty G2 will not seriously imagining to pick out.

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Kim Essary Nov 2018
As her words grab my heart with each and every message or poem I read,
It truly saddens me to be so far in distance, I can't offer her what she may need.
Never have I layed my eyes upon her, I can only Invision her beauty by her poems and words of wisdom.
Her soul sweet as the blooming flowers and heart as pure as gold.
It's as if her soul is that no less than angelic as she has touched many on this site and more.
What saddens me is soon she will no longer be with us as her illness is growing worse day by day,
My Dearest Kim Johanna Baker, there will be a sadness and void on this site and in my heart the day the Lord takes you away.
I hope that she may see this before it's her time to go, for when the other angels come for her I want for her to know.
The impact her sweet soul has left for all of us here on HP, some more than others , some of you like me.
So if you would or care to join me in my dedication to a very loving soul that makes this site so pleasurable, feel free to leave a comment below.
We love you our dear friend , our dear friend Kim!
Please feel free to repost this for the ones I don't know
Never met this wonderful lady but she has touched me and my life so dearly. Kim Johanna Baker
Hungered for a taste
  of your elixir's essence,
drunken inhalations
   of your poetry
a splendiferous whirl
 of time & space 'tween
darkly scented moons
    and sun's adoration,
blithe starry nights
amidst meditative new
dawn's effervesce,
 spirited of the heart,
gleaned in the soul,
yearnings of another
  chapter's paradise
universal experiences
etched of hourglass sand,
 written upon endlessly
    chimerical verses
wildflower gardens drenched
    of dandelion's plum wine
swooning under a
hypnotic scripted spell,
intoxicating power
of unchained symphonies
dancing amongst skies'
released euphoria
 resonating in a song's
   reprised melodies,
breathlessness of delirium's
  celestial pauses
  in vaporous breezes'
  unfurling undulation,
captivated by rhythmic
  destiny reverberating in
     *****' pleasurable calling
  quenched of sacred
     offering's quell
transcending earthly
   persuasions' rhyme,
let me lick the nectar from
   your  poesy's  insatiable  lips,
sweet mercy's healing
   captured in rapturous
   surrender's reawakening ~

Je veux que vous tous,

tu me manques*



Ce que vous manquez de moi?
Je te veux - I want you
tu me manques - I miss you
All is not what it seems
Because I was an atheist
Long before I realized I was God,
But that was much, much later
Then, at that time, I succumbed
To the lurid but exciting depths
Of freedom, the joy of love and danger
Of searching and of knowledge,
Embracing every moment;
I surrendered to ungovernable impulses
That invoked within my very existence

Still to realise the true extent of this
It's perhaps best to start before the beginning
Before the earth embalmed me
A time when Cyparisse had not
Yet set root in my belly
Nor made sap of my blood
A time when it was possible to speak
To Panza's donkey when I thought of Zanzibar
A time when the vagrancy of my soul
Had not yet embarked
On its erratic itinerary
Plunging me eventually
Into the bright light
Of tainted and squalid reality

Like oscillating libraries, noise oppressed,
Contradictions of dreams
Suddenly I took flight,
With violent wrenches of imagination
In Persia being worshipped
Beneath the moon by Gods;
Caressed by those impetuous charms
A dazzling vision
I thought of death the only sister of charity
Whose dark night has no malevolence;
Black and white, silences that migrated
In sonorous symbolism took control
Shimmering like a painting of a sorrow

Streaked with unashamed colours
A single tear from a promethean candle
I would move to lick the stain of destiny
That pillar inhaling its black perfumes
Like a communicant on his knees.
Exiled in reality, I saw what I had never saw
Or only thought I saw now condemned
To see what has never been seen

Words corralled themselves in my mind
Writhing maggots on a corpse
Wriggling for position waiting to be pronounced
How they flew, taking wings
Hovering for an instant above the page
Hunting out the detritus of man
To feast upon the putrid flesh of misery
I too went searching
For my ancient feast; for Zanzibar

However hideous pages
From the note book of the ******
Imprisoned the words, stampeded the search
Scattering it in many directions
Shattering blue-white eyes
A castrated country, century, impotent, impure
Like politics, the ******* that can be purchased by coin
Like so much bread in the market,
A thousand profanities became the popular song
But silence is the real language of the fool

For he alone bears witness to what he feels
Misfortunes not understood, weeping the popular ballad
Morality and law, parades of red robed Judges
Carcasses, a circus for carrion crows
Yet like a cannibal the dead were still buried in my belly
The gloss of reason hiding madness
Like so many veneered fronts in a proud precinct

Paraded in full view, silence is demanded and got
The words wither, fake time continues,
To count the unrelieved falsehood the chimera of life;
Reason did not imprison me
My life being not heavy enough
Was allowed to take flight
To float above the reasoned realm
Revelations of the truth realised only by detachment
Devoured my mind increased my errorless purpose
The search for Zanzibar

Accepted values; valued only;
Because of this acceptance
Are accepted as value
Thus accepted in silence
The fools resign themselves
To a false reality
One that nails them to a poisoned cross

In the gardens of the dead
Like rowed tulips that
Gardeners know how to match
I found myself, among those who had gone
Remembered yet forgotten
Whose edifice unlike their lives
Reached not upwards but down.
I smelt the scent of unknown things
The perfumes of eternity that histories bind;
Intensity, a murmur; gurgle, as in a child
Yet extreme its aberrations
Like celluloid hand that
Had never known toil
Or wiped sweat from a brow
Laughed yet grimaced
Its smile a crimson smear
The sorrow that it felt
A burnished hand upon its nakedness
To see its enshrouded presence in such a garden
One well stocked and growing
Caressed my being with its glee
To turn white feel the touch
Of its venomous fingers upon my flesh;
Its purpose, to prevent any search for Zanzibar

The stench of death
Then cast its' new
Yet antediluvian gaze
Upon its purpose
Odour of grave
Faraway nonexistent
Yet it is perfume to those
Who feast upon its scent
Moistures mingling with the air
Its common purpose
Floating like un-forgiveness
Its atmosphere ozone sans holes
Its meaning ever present
Its' outcome to halt
The search for Zanzibar

And so the stencils of oriental scribes
Like black shadows overpowered my reason
Floating high above, adrift on an expanse of darkness
However, presently that azure ink
Raised its curtain before my very eyes
Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage
On which I was to set my drama
Where the phantoms of my imagination
Would enact their mysterious mysteries;
A poetic alchemy

Then a golden spark of pure
Nocturnal light blinded me
In an instant I saw, observed
The sun drown in its deathly sea
Its healing wings spread
Fear would see it rise again
Still searching for that fatal flaw, happiness
How many lives do I need?
How many existences will it take?
Incarnations a hundred times
Searching for Zanzibar.
Awakening to continue to
Live the saddest of my dreams

Furtive footsteps through Cimmerian landscapes
Ah such enchantment, do you understand?
Ah such a charm, listen to its undying echo
Feel its charge, that siren call
Cosmic summons, the vagrancy of mind
That caresses the imagination
Whose tender touch can place you
At the apex of the universe
Can lead to Zanzibar.


And so the subtle and foolish tortures
Inflicted upon me by I, my quest began
One that would ascertain, take centre stage
Make an unheard appearance of a philosophy
That, I am everyone and everyone else is me
Eventually at some point
In time and space we are all one
All linked, for we are condemned
Yes condemned to live these lives
This is why the dead have dreams
Dreams about the tyrants and demons
Of other lives of who they were;
Who they have yet to become.
Nourished on half truths,
Forever pulling at the thread
The rotted rags of reason
Those tattered twines
Unravelling the stitching of reality
Of hallucinations, empty illusions
And tarnished dreams create a constant struggle


Therefore for every conscious thing
That happens in the world
There must be a responding reverberation
Within the human soul
Let us put a halt to the calls
For the death of imagination
And demands for imagination to be silent
Such absurdities
For imagination is the true door to reality
For only in imagination
Can there be a bearable act
Of self examination
It is memory that hurts
More than the imagination
Always prefer the imaginary to the real
Imagination is neither an exit
From our nightmares nor
An escape from reality
But the place we are all trying to get to,
Zanzibar its shared images
Its story, its own life a new reality.


Mysteriously in the midst of unknown
Mazagran landscapes I feel
The full impact of fleeting visions
Without the limitations of space or time
Feel the act of experiencing their reality
This requires no explanation, no proof
Either together or separate
Because simply they are,
Judgement, condemnation
Punishments are gone
There is no cleansing a world
Without consciousness
Landscape devoid of people
'La Lune' growling in the orchard of the sea
Calypso again one or ten
Eucharis, tempest or temptress
Take both the meaning and the experience
Taste the tear drops of the sun
Telemachus searching, searching
Zanzibar

The idol, tentacles undulating
Vibrations of collective knowledge
The blank face, featureless
Touching around the domain of Atlas
Speaking in a thousand different tongues
Moving but still, blocks my path
Disturbs the line of imagination
Makes reality quiver
Dream flowers sway in its cosmic wind.
Yet Alhazers' iridescent arch allows
The steerage of my passage
Without pious pilgrimages to empty silences that
Contain an eternity of tears
Who graciously offers coverage
For the echo of footsteps
Allowing the magic moments to come


Robbed of sunlight, artificial night shines
Its deception attempting to secure knowledge
Of a future unknown, winning only it's unattainably
Offering instead knowledge of the past
Master of silence, offers only knowledge
Of invaded consciousness
Bedlam of paradise where Eros and Pan
In congress sleep, close at Zanzibar.


Lifeless beauty that lives everlasting
Time that reason cannot change, only help.
O enchanted torture you have stolen
The taste from my mouth
Masked I against the spectre of reality
Proclaimed the age of 'hasashin'
The creator of recollections, maker of memories
Possessor of impulse giver of echo
That rings in the ear
Cloud cast its surroccoian shadow
Air tinged with the aftermath of fire
Floating in an Asian wind, so subtle
Like a breath suddenly the sound of song
Of dance rents the solitude
Silence is slashed like a canvass screen
Happiness pours forth unconfined
Unfettered, both faces of Kandinsky as one
I extinguish the light, turn to the wall
Gazing upon its Janis face
My eyes behold the giver of pleasure.

Then I found myself in an extraordinary place
Whose skies where made of crystal glass
Water of the enchanted land was blue-grey
Bridges zig-zagged its shimmering domes
I stared as masts and parapets came to life
Its people, musicians sporting
Tangerine and white livery danced
The air filled with the sound of their music
Then as if from nowhere a light hit my eyes
Blinking, this apparition was gone
Can I not always believe what I see
Just because I see what I believe
The inhabitants at once became spectres
Engulfed in thick clouds of smoke and sulphur
Erinyies roamed, inflicting madness
A circus of the macabre sped past
Its symbols of death fluttering frantically
Around this false and fragile world
Suggested children, like creatures in an imagination
Were made ready for their rebirth
By the touch of the poets pen
A thousand Cheribino

In another, swirling sonorous scenes
Stormed the citadels of my mind
Marched through my imagination
Mab engulfed the long closed
Cemeteries of my thought allowing me
To see the dreams of others
Like precious pearls prised from their shells
Their visualisation so intense
Joy overcame me at once
Then a swarm of kisses descended upon me
Like a regiment of famished men
Feasting for the first time
I freely gave myself as the main course
In the most beautiful of banquets
In another, yielding to these seductions
I was enraptured by portraits of beautiful young men
Which appeared to be on the point of speaking
They were most mysterious their intrinsic
Charm so beautiful, stimulated desire
Whose assuagement was so pleasurable
That it might be called pure ecstasy
A perfect pleasure which had never before existed
Entirely individual and new

Thus upon the horizons of my mind
Had been shed a mysterious light
In which I now saw everything bathed
I was summoned by the Prince
Knowing dreams have no limits
I obeyed his call
For a long time failing to set
Foot on the shores of reality
Drinking from the wells of magic
While angels danced on grassy slopes
Disturbed by flames
The stars shot out their fragrance

Sweet smelling; blue abyss
On I went to the court, the court of the Prince of
Poets, a visitor to life
There I spat out the bit of liberty
Embraced the Prince
Courtesans mocked me, ridiculed
Laughed and taunted me
Their jibes merely part of
Their own deluded reality, not of mine
They did not serve my purpose
Dressed as they were
In meaningless words
Clothed in phrases of falsehood
They tried to make me compromise
There was fire burning in my eyes
Vivid dreams were eating up my mind
They wouldn't let me be
There were dead men lying
By the sides of the road
With daylight in their eyes
I saw villages under the sea
I stood at Galactic central point
Watched the earth burn
They did not know
The way to Zanzibar
Could the Prince show me?

However each morning I awoke
I found myself in a purgatorial fog
I roamed lost the alternative harbour
For my soul still distant
The Prince, I discovered, existed
In a twilight world of mysterious ailments
He denied his feelings
Such denial only immersed him
In maintaining the world of external restraints
It created emptiness, a vacancy
Filled by material concerns
I pleaded with him
The emerald gene came down
Soon the leaves of grass
Whispered another order of existence
Strangeness of sensation
Intoxication of vision
Unhinged for mortals
And as the sound increased one cannot
Describe what else it is that has been
I viewed a world transparent
Devoid of illumination within which
Was never a sea or land
Then the prophets were ******
For they were all liars
And I saw the most beautiful flower
Unfolding out of its own roots
For such a flower cannot
Unfold other than it does
I stood on the threshold of Orcus
I met Abbas Effendi the Gene without a name
Bab, Upanishads spilled music in my ears
Called to me in the most spectacular of colours
It was wonderful for the colours
Were like my dreams, red, black and green
I witnessed the three, sometimes as one
Other times as two, again and again
The self eternal and inseparable sons
Of Shakyamuni caressed me with their thoughts
Their music and colour moved about me
In ecstatic rhythm like the peaceful
Waves of the ocean as upon a shore
I read the sentences of silence
Breathed the perfume of never fading flowers
Walked in cherry blossom snow
Heard Hafiz reciting in the night
I saw for the first time
The unfinished likeness of others.

Then one day the Prince
With a sweeping theatrical and
So to speak, allegorical flourish bowed
Called me an exiled angel
Said the time had come to travel
To leave the images of naked heels
Imprinted in the clay
We wondered
Then as if by magic, suddenly the shadows
Of houses, halls, and a church
Emerged like enchanted islands in a fairy tale
The spiritualised forms of civilisation
I was approached by a graceful youth
Draped in cobweb lawn
He was pale, delicately beautiful
Spanish looking, but his name was Alexis Sonyeuse
Whose family it was said was
Related to the French Emperor Napoleon
It was also rumoured that he had
Had a tempestuous affair with the Bishop of Monaco
And once slept with his half brother Julian Apollinaire
When he spoke he was at once original
Delicious, moving, droll and discreetly melancholy
Listening to him was like breathing
The perfume of wondrous flowers
But the scent of datura hung about him
Paralleling his every movement
  Another youth, Edmond also greeted me
He was a young man with aristocratic features
A complexion pink, like a girls
And a bearing at once charmingly gracious
And audaciously insolent
His shirt was strange, the lining
A peculiarly orange colour
A flame coloured taffeta
Like the petticoats of a *****



They looked at me
Furtive glances emanated from their eyes
Training a profound stare upon my person
The two youths took me to 18 Avenue de Friedland
There two boy servants
Adoum and Outhman greeted us
Spinario's lay about its confines
Frezans caressing them
As they touched their feet
A hundred echansons moved
With dazzling delicacy dispensing dreams
In drops from crystalline cups
Here I witnessed the tragic faces of the population
Urnings, cleaning in the midst of anarchist trials
The room a fiery red, stained with light
The caress of forgotten thought
Like the thickness of a sorrow
Musicians playing on broken strings
Crimson ******, who defied the King of Naples
We moved past wretches
Like Virgil, but Danteian
Saw the usurers heard the rustling
Of lute strings the clinking of grey paper
Observed in this Minatare's lair
The purchase of a twelve penny dagger
Liberty of speech meeting its great reckoning
In a little room, Ingram the poltergeist
Of misfortune was there
Dead Scythian, who ever loved you
Loved you as you might, loved you at first sight.

This was a new and exciting world
Whose environs were populated
By the most mysterious and colourful of people
I was introduced by the two youths
To a suicidal young painter who
Was rebelling against his class
He was a somewhat forced intellectual
With an over quixotic passion for equality
Still he was warm, kind and impulsive
Poetry, he made it known
Had opened his mind to the invisible
Beside him was a painting
Exemplifying a new kind of observation
In a style absolutely faultless
Each structure clear, each brush stroke
Falling exactly into place
Inscribed in the top left
Corner were the words
"Quod me nutrit me destruit"
An introduction to himself of a tall youth
Whose eyes possessed a constant
Vagrancy of desire
Who seemed at once, for one so
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
To serve as a sub title I would call this antidote presented in a flowered bouquet first of flowers then
Thoughts that are found in such gifts of treasured beauty an antidote in the central theme of my life

Trying to give any and all relief from pain and suffering if nothing else it will serve as a brief distraction
As you read unfortunately we can only win small victories but anything to help just possibly it will make
A crack that will lead to understanding and more winning can occur

The gold bejeweled lives I have known they the towers the earth’s perennial flowers they were the all
Consuming hours of my life others view life conceptually one part is a stone wall that grows the figwort

With the other English Ivy Hedera the first has the notation of growing in old ruins here
Is the represented tendrils of the heart ever growing ever showing a map of feelings ether joyful or

Tragic within their sinew your strengths and weakness are displayed yes they are hidden to the natural
Eye but in quiet conversation they reveal themselves in the loveliest ways they are rhythmic waves that

Flow over those that we love instilling in them our secret otherwise unknown selves then now I would
Like to present the main body of this piece what are the first words women say when they receive

Flowers how lovely is their words for this to happen their heavenly Father stood before this blue globe
And spoke to the wayward wind my desire is to make an unquestionable quality that will be the very

Essence from where its fragrance is derived he told the wind go and do my bidding instantly the wind
Split into four parts from that time till now it is called and said gather from the four winds in obedience

To the master one part rushed down and felt the tearing of mountain peaks it screamed with delight
And pain it soothed itself by quietly passing over knolls that stood on lonely hill tops then through vales

And valleys it made progress looked across the great span of earth to see what its kindred brothers and
Sisters were finding in its drift and wonderings it noticed one was awaking the wild African world then it

Turned and whirled as it picked up the scent of Africa’s coffee fields instinctively it knew where it must
Go next to the southern tobacco fields it delighted in the pungent promise where in parlors ever so

Humble the tiny pleasurable string like smoke would lay on the air and from a great distance far from
This domestic scene it could see its fellow kiss and roll across the earth’s great rivers the Nile and its

Rectangular pyramids the burial enclosures of the pharos with reverence they silently passed to deepen
This they drove onward until they felt the sacred Ganges below they drank of the sighs of millions of

India’s people refreshed by this dearness to link themselves to the one true God they set a course that
Would take them to where in future days a Union Jack would have the notoriety that the sun never set

In far off lands without its shadow proudly waving it pointed glory folds back to the Thymes where the
British crown would nobly reign and one of its greatest achievements would be the land of free men

That it spawned so out to sea it turned to visit this kingdom not of royal crowns but the garland of
Freedom that rested on every man woman and child it was home for many waters the Mongolia the

Ohio north lay the Great lakes in its center the old Mississippi it followed it down and made its turn west
To rivers called Rio Grande the Red Brazos on to the Colorado the snake and if they could be heard

Speaking they be saying Chisim Platt fairest blue bells I know your home in these familiar dales and pick
Up the from the arid desert from dry river beds biting sand go to its roots and you would know long

Ago waters that held brimming life over the gold fields it continues and dips into the blue pacific
Washing sand an grit its next stop was turquoise waters rainbows and waterfalls it fell into the swaying

Palms coconut papaya pineapple layered it with richness it would create the fabled trade winds it turned
To view it exact opposite its brother wind that came down from the pole it knew Russia’s Siberia Alaskan

Tundra at this point it heard the Father state you have done well he drew a great breath that captured
All that was gathered in the heart of the wind then he turned to carpeted fields that stood incomplete

Flowers were as a sea but they were empty petals they were the reproductive part of flowers but they
Were barren of vividness and true deep colors but worst of all they were odorless and then God

Breathed upon them the secrets that the wind had stored from the four corners of the earth in that
Moment flowers became the true marvel and were forever established as the hallmark of romantic

Expression first picturesque layered with gratitude stillness the chill from the pole that reached down
Through the Canucks of Canada there is the splash of **** frost felt if not known the enticement of the

Soul of cool contrasted with the deserts heat cacti drenched in sunlight never to be complete always in
Rays that makes it beholden in glimmers it shimmers it touts a glory born from harshness it lingers as

Indescribable beauty burnished sands its court this is also found in the allure of flowers hidden within
Is weariness but it is the refined kind it speaks to you not of tiredness but of rest of shade and shadow

A quest is announced do you not feel a sweet breeze how else does its fragrance come within reach
You’re carried back to mountain meadows meows from baby mountain lion kittens are laced within

The story flowers release through their fragrance and truly this just one of Gods many gifts to man
And the greatest Rose of all is His Son the Rose of Sharon
Wendell A Brown Jul 2014
When I think of what you share daily
So bright my day is always made to be
For you are like the sun at its very best
Which God lovingly allows each day to be

For you are all the sweet happiness
Which my heart tightly holds within
And you are also the blissful ecstasy
Which each new day seeks to begin

And I always seem to find myself dreaming
Of many beautiful new ways each day
So I may never be without the brightness
Which I feel your heart sending my way

My Life finds each moment made pleasurable
As I find your soft radiance blessing me
And I find to be much more priceless
The embrace of your brightness I always need.


'Precious memories of love shall abound in
the dreams of many,  yet your love shall
be a true lasting reality to only me.'
a beautiful note
Simon Apr 2021
Everyone is just another flower at heart....
After all, being another flower from everyone else, gives you the most pleasurable specifics in the right place...when you only feel tolerated enough to advance your very cause into the next adventure (that is truly within the smell of the pollen that perfumes the petal like a fragrance that isn't tolerated in it's own self properly). Even when truthfully...it's all about the smell that directs that very such advancing cause forward into the next district of measurable causes (when and only when), you have become finally advanced enough to truly (now and forevermore) surpass the very self (that you once were, only just a few seconds ago, depending on a flowers perception of time itself). Then forecasts it's own weighing measures into even (the next distract of measurable causes) that combines together an even more stronger fragrance that balances correctly, (when and only when) things truly become one with one another.
In any case, those very pleasurable specifics become the very documentary of a flower becoming just... "Another flower."
But is such terms or pleasant metaphors enough for this very emotional written appeals the very abstract piece one is even wanting to read, or even take the time to truly focus on (by concentration, alone)?
Flowers at the end of the day, don't mask their own intentions (when their own petals start falling, because of aging regrets).
It's more of the very already (possible) defining examples that don't let the petals (with emotional appealing problems) that just don't know how to show themselves, properly. After all, when petals fall from a flower, it's probably because they have yet to show their own hidden beauty.
In essence, when you shed the petals, it isn't of the very cause for when seasons change and flowers go to sleep, or end their own lifecycle with the changing of seasonal tides, or even potentially becoming plucked clean by an enforcer at large who see's flowers ugly (because they see themselves as nothing but useless opportunities at large)!
Regardless, when another flower does this, it's because the very first impression comes off as the obvious spectacle of someone hiding their own shame away, for the oncoming tide of self-insecurities that don't give them the very such "open-minded" source needed for the very availability of shooting forward and simply coming out for being who you want too be....
And that is not of just being another flower... But more the result of a flower changing her own ins and outs for being the very tolerant of their own attitude and behavioral willpower at large.
Whatever happens, nothing can prepare (for what just another flower truly is), is for them to be in the very safe regarding hands of their own potentially past self-ridiculing of oneself.
When and only when, those very petals that you have spread your own fragrance (in the form of beautiful pheromones).
Those very same petals will begin again.
Reattaching itself, accordingly.
And then reversing time (as if looking back at a film roll of many sequence of events) that may help you into reversing your own perspective (with time, that is).
In the end, what you really thought was a big deal (once...) Became the very maneuvering ability where you are now ready to begin re-growing those fragile, (yet strong willed) petals at heart.
This is entirely dedicated to someone who (while only talking with them for only for a few moments in time...) They have in a very mutual respect I now have for them and for their own work, (as by how they have completely reflecting on mine in such a positive sense). I want to truly dedicate them with this poem. :)
Everyone who views this, check out "Just Another Flower's" channel.
You won't be disappointed. Thanks!
Daz Mars Apr 2015
as feeling a bit ***** would have liked some head
with your legs spread wide open upon my bed ,
I'd make my way down to your **** ****
there I would stop for a pleasurable lick
I would admire for a time your ***** divine
until my **** started bursting and pre-*** started to shine
I would then push my way inside you your sweet ****
and what would follow would be a series of grunts
until the pleasure did build to cascading end
and explosion inside of you of yin and yang
Ah, and t'is young, young snow!
Encap but my soul with thy witty love-
as th' dim sun hangs thin and low
with feelings torn into tiny drops!
O, what an eternal whiteness thou art,
blessed in thy very ardour and at heart,
a picturesque view to my solitariness,
andeth how heaven-like thou looketh,
in t'is windy afternoon starlight-
far, yet delicate just as thou very art,
like tunes proposed by th' songstress,
and free but wild as they'th always been-
to my indeedst, pleasurable senses!

And oh, how fatal imagery is in thy eye-
which all th' blueness, and all fierceness
from our hollow yesterday!
With tongues of icy cold-fire
thou caressed me and asked me why
until my time was even thy own time,
and my fate was sealed in thy hands
as I wrote t'is poem within my den.
Ah, how thou consoled but ***** me
with thy beautiful yet glorious ignominy-
just like a vain chord of hardness;
thou corrupted me now and again,
making me stick to my black pen
and think but of thy thoughtful rain.
I dreamed of love, I dreamed of hate,
but kept I returning to a name
t'at my ***** first refused to create;
and bizarrely it was a morbid shame
t'at I, my snow, could still not let it go
and wander alone into thy blows
once and again, back and forth
as how I knew it would suffer, and die
just like an abandoned little lie.
And am afraid it shalt stay there
with its innocence, so rosy and bare
Yet perfect and gleaming with flair
and a hoary light to my heart so fair
and with which to be a perfect pair.

Ah, relieve, relieve me of t'is sheer nonsense!
Like a little dome, I am high now but unsure;
of t'is choice t'at's so inane but pure.
My snow, my snow, shalt thou show me
ways in which I am to catch my destiny?
And be guide to all my radiant tears-
show me what masks I might needst wear
and the better ornaments to be in my hair.
Be moonlight to my cheeks and make up
but doth tell me whenst I ought to stop.
And love, love, love, how I long for 't,
as I soweth t'ese stranded days bit by bit.

And ah! Drain me again of my conscience
by thy lightness and tactful defiance.
Teach me, teach me to forget 'im
and all sorrow t'at infantile may seem.
But wake, wake again and further trust
all th' thoughts and membranes of my blood.
And bringst here but my love to me,
just as I have relied my secrets on thee.

Oh my dearest fresh, fresh snow!
Full of wisdom as thou art now
Ah, but t'is time just let me know-
to greet him and flatter him how.
As aggravated I hath been here in solitude
and my ragged soul-how sore and mute!
But now, just now I shalt trust in thee
To walk and seat him beside me
So no longer am torn in liberty-
and despaired just like all my poetry,
with lights t'at might have lit,
but died soon I started to writ.
Shivendra Om Jul 2015
"Hold on..."

(don't let me fall
from your pleasurable voice
for that long)

...love me on
by Luca Shivendra Om
(C) Luca Shivendra Om
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
Priceless Times


To serve as a sub title I would call this antidote presented in a flowered bouquet first of flowers then
Thoughts that are found in such gifts of treasured beauty an antidote in the central theme of my life

Trying to give any and all relief from pain and suffering if nothing else it will serve as a brief distraction
As you read unfortunately we can only win small victories but anything to help just possibly it will make
A crack that will lead to understanding and more winning can occur

The gold bejeweled lives I have known they the towers the earth’s perennial flowers they were the all
Consuming hours of my life others view life conceptually one part is a stone wall that grows the figwort

With the other English Ivy Hedera the first has the notation of growing in old ruins here
Is the represented tendrils of the heart ever growing ever showing a map of feelings ether joyful or

Tragic within their sinew your strengths and weakness are displayed yes they are hidden to the natural
Eye but in quiet conversation they reveal themselves in the loveliest ways they are rhythmic waves that

Flow over those that we love instilling in them our secret otherwise unknown selves then now I would
Like to present the main body of this piece what are the first words women say when they receive

Flowers how lovely is their words for this to happen their heavenly Father stood before this blue globe
And spoke to the wayward wind my desire is to make an unquestionable quality that will be the very

Essence from where its fragrance is derived he told the wind go and do my bidding instantly the wind
Split into four parts from that time till now it is called and said gather from the four winds in obedience

To the master one part rushed down and felt the tearing of mountain peaks it screamed with delight
And pain it soothed itself by quietly passing over knolls that stood on lonely hill tops then through vales

And valleys it made progress looked across the great span of earth to see what its kindred brothers and
Sisters were finding in its drift and wonderings it noticed one was awaking the wild African world then it

Turned and whirled as it picked up the scent of Africa’s coffee fields instinctively it knew where it must
Go next to the southern tobacco fields it delighted in the pungent promise where in parlors ever so

Humble the tiny pleasurable string like smoke would lay on the air and from a great distance far from
This domestic scene it could see its fellow kiss and roll across the earth’s great rivers the Nile and its

Rectangular pyramids the burial enclosures of the pharos with reverence they silently passed to deepen
This they drove onward until they felt the sacred Ganges below they drank of the sighs of millions of

India’s people refreshed by this dearness to link themselves to the one true God they set a course that
Would take them to where in future days a Union Jack would have the notoriety that the sun never set

In far off lands without its shadow proudly waving it pointed glory folds back to the Thymes where the
British crown would nobly reign and one of its greatest achievements would be the land of free men

That it spawned so out to sea it turned to visit this kingdom not of royal crowns but the garland of
Freedom that rested on every man woman and child it was home for many waters the Mongolia the

Ohio north lay the Great lakes in its center the old Mississippi it followed it down and made its turn west
To rivers called Rio Grande the Red Brazos on to the Colorado the snake and if they could be heard

Speaking they be saying Chisim Platt fairest blue bells I know your home in these familiar dales and pick
Up the from the arid desert from dry river beds biting sand go to its roots and you would know long

Ago waters that held brimming life over the gold fields it continues and dips into the blue pacific
Washing sand an grit its next stop was turquoise waters rainbows and waterfalls it fell into the swaying

Palms coconut papaya pineapple layered it with richness it would create the fabled trade winds it turned
To view it exact opposite its brother wind that came down from the pole it knew Russia’s Siberia Alaskan

Tundra at this point it heard the Father state you have done well he drew a great breath that captured
All that was gathered in the heart of the wind then he turned to carpeted fields that stood incomplete

Flowers were as a sea but they were empty petals they were the reproductive part of flowers but they
Were barren of vividness and true deep colors but worst of all they were odorless and then God

Breathed upon them the secrets that the wind had stored from the four corners of the earth in that
Moment flowers became the true marvel and were forever established as the hallmark of romantic

Expression first picturesque layered with gratitude stillness the chill from the pole that reached down
Through the Canucks of Canada there is the splash of **** frost felt if not known the enticement of the

Soul of cool contrasted with the deserts heat cacti drenched in sunlight never to be complete always in
Rays that makes it beholden in glimmers it shimmers it touts a glory born from harshness it lingers as

Indescribable beauty burnished sands its court this is also found in the allure of flowers hidden within
Is weariness but it is the refined kind it speaks to you not of tiredness but of rest of shade and shadow

A quest is announced do you not feel a sweet breeze how else does its fragrance come within reach
You’re carried back to mountain meadows meows from baby mountain lion kittens are laced within

The story flowers release through their fragrance and truly this just one of Gods many gifts to man
And the greatest Rose of all is His Son the Rose of Sharon
Julia Betancourt May 2017
you don't understand how much faith i have in you, maybe how much faith i have just in people in general.
it's a whole ******* lot, and all they seem to have done is prove me wrong; that i should not have trusted them that much, that i should not have believed them that much, that i shouldn't have had that much faith.
i shouldn't have faith.

almost all of the time now i can think only about the people who have left me, and not because i'm not over them, but because they aren't bad people. they're just not. so what if they decided they did not want me in their life? that’s their decision to make, not mine. never mine.
i cannot judge anyone for walking out when there is always a door in the first place, isn't that what they're used for anyway?
everyone has the right to leave me whenever they want, and i simply cannot complain.
maybe i can criticize them on the way they do it, how abruptly, or quietly, or suddenly, sneakily, if they lock it on their way out or not, i don't know.
but i can’t blame, condescend towards them just because i may not agree with what they want for themselves. it really doesn't matter who i am, it doesn't matter what i do for anyone. i can give them the world, or i can give them nothing but a night’s worth of affection only because i care to make myself feel pleasurable, either way, they have every reason to get the hell away from me.
then i start to think, well, what about me?
does it really even matter anymore to make my way up in the world and try to give off love just as much as i’m never granted it? well, i don't know the answer to that, either.
i know it isn't my fault. but that's exactly the thing; it's nobody’s fault. no one can be held accountable. no one can be blamed. so sure enough i just ask myself where the hell all my tears fell down to. you know, like, what was the point of crying in the first place?
and it's scary to think, people shape your views on love, even though i always tell my friends “don't let anyone ruin your outlook”, they shape it anyway. maybe they don't ruin it, but they determine how you determine it for yourself. not through control, but through the experiences they now pass onto you. you can't erase a memory. they become a part of your life, i don't care what anybody says. they're still there, always, because they're the one who made you feel differently about a certain color or the way the sky looks or why people **** themselves or why this answer is that answer and how that answer gets you this answer, and so on. they change the way you see some things, and those “some things” somehow change everything else, change you.
people say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, well where does love lay? in the hands of humans who have utterly destroyed just about every single little thing they've touched with their fingers?
what did we create, or, recreate?
we made a monster out of love, a death sentence, a punishment, a curse, a drug, a killer.
what the **** did we do? and why?

there is one person left, one person who can prove me wrong for believing everyone will always continue to prove me wrong. i want them to prove me wrong. show me that not everyone is going to take away my faith.
that fate, maybe, i don't know, exists?
are some things just a word in the dictionary?
i want them to prove to me what everyone keeps on telling me when yet another soul walks another hundred miles away from me, that i “give good energy” so one day i must get it back.
prove to me that, my love, is maybe not just worth something temporary? is that possible?
does anything really last forever?
again, i don't know. i don't know much of anything.
will you just show me?
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Lost love

I will relate this true unforgettable love story the desert is a forlorn lonely place it runs the gambit stark even sullen and then at
A single turn it enthralls captivates and then the many moods feelings in-between it could really be a telling of human life in so many
Ways my memory of Salt lake is a nice one we were moving to California I remember the climb up the mountain that was some what
Unpleasant I even stopped in Laramie Wyoming had the U Haul checked out it acted like it had a four banger engine would cut out on
The straight a ways and it wasn’t that long ago back then that I put ten cars in the junkyard they were too old and I was two young I
Tried to out run and out do Robert Mitchum when he played a southerner who ran white lighting in Thunder road the time I was driving
A long fifty eight Pontiac without a muffler on the back roads to Herrick town was sort of a reenactment the muffler came off a few
Nights before I don’t understand why my mother left the car behind when she and sis went to Pennsylvania with her sister she even
Took the keys with her talk about lack of trust what can a seventeen year old get into well in a long drawn out search a key was found
And more than usual group of guys were sleeping out why not leave lakers go up and take ma’s car out for a spin start out slow well
Out of the side yard anyway a little more tricking putting it back so past Black desert Ray Cherry’s on the back road to Assumption by
Now the accelerator is stuck to the floor the problem a lead foot anyone have teenagers driving pray good and hard I God and hands
of steel holding the wheel when literally my blood felt like it turned to ice water from the thrill that was now in God’s hands I hit the
small bridge back this way where the road turns back left where there used to be oil well operations right there I was flying low at one
Hundred and fifteen miles an hour soon would be Dukes of hazard air borne all four tires and car at least twenty five through the air
The front tire came down with a hard jarring bang ice water veins and a heavy wide poncho and God kept it upright went down turned
Around lost ten miles an hour of nerve went back one hundred and five miles an hour same little shorter flight but this time we
Landed right on top and in the middle of three chug holes if it had been the tire and it had went in I wouldn’t be writing this or anything else
But the muffler came off with a fine howdy doo as the car banged back on the ground so I gunned the car down by Besons turned it off
And coasted back into the yard went in and told a barley awake grandfather at two thirty in the morning how the county ripped off the
Muffler he fell for it next day I tried it on Ma all I got was right did rack off nice through the hills and bottoms. There is a high that goes with
Speed but there is also is a special quality that emerges out of slow deliberate movement as witnessed by my slow climb up the
Mountain pulling a T bird and a load of furniture more pleasurable on the down grades your still fighting not to over brake but the black
Night the air and the road the trees all enters your conciseness these feelings returned as Yvette set in studio and told her story it is
A story of youth, innocence lost to mindless cruelty it happened with the little dell reservoir shimmering bright under a full moon thats reson
Zack’s mother calls him the man in the moon and the purpose of the trip Zack was into black and white photography he
Wanted to photograph this lovely vision capture it where it would be a favorite item to share with his many friends it would be what
Lived on or at least one tangible part Yvette laid the background of the story how all through high school Zack and her were in all the
Classes together and when she would enter he would all ways make a comment she grew to enjoy and look forward to what he would
say it was tender young love taking it faltering first steps on this night he called and asked her to go she didn’t think anything of it she
Hadn’t done anything special as far as dressing in fact she had washed her hair hadn’t even dried it there is something basic naturally
Raw about a woman with wet hair whatever it is it causes the male heart to beat faster anything is powerful when left untamed. They would flash out to the place this story unfolded the quiet silence the full moon electrifying the water with a glorious sheen and the grass back lit with light causing the gold
Grass to beam without words or action there was a shout coming from nature’s heart and soul it reminded me of the modern western
I read thirty years ago called Goldenrod this perennial plant found in meadows served as the name of the ranch in the story. Yvette says as they
Turned into the final lane that led to the parking she felt a hint of a first kiss in the offing everything was picture perfect and it was nothing
Strange when the white pickup pulled into park that happened all the time at first the stranger kept his distance but he slowly worked
His way toward them finally just feet away he asked them where the path went to they gave him an answer she turned her back she
Said she hoped Zack turned also because at that moment the stranger pulled out a gun and started shooting the first shot killed Zack
He emptied his gun one bullet knocked her down then the shooting stopped then she realized he was reloading in that moment her
Father’s voice spoke in her mind if attacked by a grisly play dead more shots she felt the wind and speed of the bullets pass her head
One on the side caused a ugly exit wound but through it all being shot four times she lay still with her eyes open then the killer touched
Her leg she said she didn’t have a concept of being shot but now it was something that terrified her she thought he was going to ****
Her everyone thinks about that he put his face close to hers she could feel his breath on her neck his purpose was robbery as he went
Through her pockets he withdrew and she heard Zack’s car start later as she retold this two a group in Utah’s Capital building where
She is now a lawyer and a victim’s advocate it must have been strange to get in the person’s car you just killed and have Neil Diamond
Come an and sing. So when the gunfire died down and the night swallowed the terror a future wedding and life with Zack was forever
Gone his spirit dispersed among the stars and his spirit captured and held in natures wonder the new life reality capture was swift since
He left his vehicle his story an immigrant from Uruguay first stop New York then Utah unhappy with life he became obsessed with
Death he just wanted to watch someone die pathetic he was going to then **** himself guess what he had a change of heart got a plea
Deal to avoid the death penalty Zack’s family finally agreed they didn’t want the day twenty years in the future when he would be put
To death then the protesters do like they were doing as timing would have it in Texas at that very time praising almost the killer’s life
And demeaning the victim so he got life without parole then as a true snake has tried five appeals saying he was depressed at the time
This was his last appeal and finally the family has peace, Yvette suffered victims survival syndrome she left her heart on notes she left
On Zack’s grave it showed the depths of love that was dammed far more so than the little Dell ever could be Yvette married but the
Young man in the moon was to powerful a hold so she divorced she does have a seven year old little girl that helps push back the dark
Shadows of that night Zack sister was the one who had the children her one son bears her brother’s name and even looks like him
Yvette’s ending words was she just once to run up and hug Zack and talk to him about that night when love flew away on wounded
Wings to hurt to fly far so in the desert the wind whimpers love denied finds not a heart as its home lost fulfillment blows among the sage
In the eyes of a special woman there is a haunting stare you can read there torment sorrow pathos in the raw she found comfort
In service of helping others this is her and Zack’s story and severe as it is it is also a story of youth that is gone the same as our stories
I want to relate one other special story in this exaggerated time of *** nonsense without love or consequence or responsibility this
Happened in a youthful time of innocence it was moving touching and in one way reflects the time you fell in love this won’t get you
But as the saying says the glory contained in the rose comes by the price of pain from the thorn to walk in the past you can tear a hole
In the heart and soul where tears are stored in abundance I found this out for myself I set down from Carol’s house in tower hill at
a church in the parking lot as I relived those special moments between two people young innocent love that would ignite and through
Days and nights that were to short proved it wasn’t to be what was it I can’t really say but I’m sure you know as well as any of us can
know I know it came from left field not expecting it but it’s all right to cry in a church yard even if you’re my age any time innocence
And love is called or damaged it carries poignant painful waves to roll over you sometimes with other things at play in life they can be
Too much there is a song that says I wouldn’t take anything for my journey now no and neither would I take anything for my memories
Of friends and youth and lost love.
Chinedu Dike Jan 2020
In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning of
a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure
waves flushing over the now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto unimaginable
bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
ushering him into 'well-being' in which
he's covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition,
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to restrict
his usage of the opioid to a social activity.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use — indulging on weekends;

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetting where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative; prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses,
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug, by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system;
thus causing it to be less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the mind-blower, he begins to suffer from
the terrifying side-effects of the narcotic
which show up a few hours after his last use.

The pleasurable but short-term therapeutic
effects of the insidious drug is now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others; with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The on set of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The casual user who
thought he could quit the habit at will without
stress, has progressed to problematic use.

The drug is now a major part of his daily routine
that is slowly becoming chaotic by the day.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work
and take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester
inside him: the insidious drug is tightening
it's grip, as his body's physical dependence
on it is now generating an addiction to it.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied by
emotional, mental, and behavioural problems:
the trio classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently napping during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the severity of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the depressant increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car
or working at his job; always desperate to
to avoid withdrawal as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high — swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the drug,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the expense of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body system is low on it.
The more he indulges on the depressant
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the opioid,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts — a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
ahead of his job, his goals, family, love,  
friends, hobbies, personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy-world,  
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: his ongoing attempts to wean himself
off the drug are negated by a dysphoric mood
and sickly comedowns that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Rather than a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one indulges in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or engaging in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain (happy hormones);

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system, the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the feel-good hormones, that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in a bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for the
delicious thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
the spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
are the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It's all about his brain seeking to maintain
a normal, healthy body function (Homeostasis).
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that
over time, the regular surge in the 'pleasure
juices' disrupts plasticity in the reward region
of his brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability to
synthesize happy hormones, or respond to
any other stimulus other than the ones being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline, is due to his compromise brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, very often coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and they curtail his
ability to feel real, authentic pleasure.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing, he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced,
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
losing touch completely with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has gone beyond
a combined desire to ward off its painful
comedowns and to experience its euphorical
pleasure again; it has become more crucial

than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern of
drug use, he would stop at nothing to relieve
the cravings for the opioid: he would cheat,
steal, lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations where they have
to sleep with their wallets under the pillows.

Jewellery, gadgets, or any other easy
to carry household valuables that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For weeks at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
such prolonged periods of avoiding home,
even on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after every discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son who had always had his act together

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who timidly buries
his head in low self-esteem to conceal
bloodshot, dilated pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little or no influence over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts with
crashing on friends' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would retire wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Broken, sick, starving; the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is presently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his loved ones proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction,
he staggers into another costly rehab.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy
on his brain, whose structure and functions 

are badly impacted by years-long use of
the drug. The healing process is a labour
of commitment and discipline, coupled with
patience to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task,
he's expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together, many
addicts have been able to crawl their way out
of the sinister shadow. A big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them are 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', are
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it several times before;
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction, which
convinces him the only option is to carry on

using the drug, is blocking him from seeing
the avaliable escape route. It has shut off
his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it enslaves
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober — when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
Over and above all other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of horrors of the street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices
he slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control...

In a fit of extreme anxiety, the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him closer and closer to
the brink of nervous breakdown. And suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering, the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony,
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction. To unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experiences of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole, a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:

"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "
René Mutumé Jan 2014
Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
he asked me why
I'd absorb his ardent spirits
and chain want of soul
he knows why
I demand total control

...to convey my lust for pleasurable pain

this ache in thighs
denies an uttered sigh
as I cry inside with lust

strutting before him in nylon and pumps
he jumps through hoops, leashed;
he begs and flex, hungry for what is next
while I slap his hardened ****
tick tock its almost time
unwind and rock
to tease and please
I think not;
as heat of breath
taunts each slap of ****
his moans go unclocked

...as he loses control

Mistress, please he begs and moan
how long? watching hardness grow
long, strong in fits of hunger
he whispers and drools,
Mistress!!!!!

...your sweet ambrosia I know

eager beggary to be unleashed
ready to pounce
unload every ounce
but, I won't as I blindfold
and ring his ****
fore, his time is still
on the clock...tick tock

I smile, while he gropes
in the dark...leashed...now bark!
tell me! are you hard enough?

...I tease and taunt him some more

...**** now hard as a rock...lash of whip...whack

...in your corner...I'll be back...after Jack laps wet ******
Written By: NVMeeks aka Goddess of Sensuality
brandon nagley Sep 2015
i.

(Pradip Chattopadhyay)
A man of many stories, letting out thy soul, love, and worries;
As thou giveth us tale's of faraway Land's.

ii.

(Angelina lopez)
Thou hast had it rough since thou hath joined, we art here to helpeth thee be happy and support thy voice, continue in love.

iii.

(Gary L)
Man like me of cell's, man of freedom's Bell's, a dear friend;
A brother to the end, and a speaker of truth in all fashion's.

iv.

(Mysterious ♈ Aries)
Nothing to compare to thee, thou art different than most;
To thee I raiseth a toast dear poetic, to thine openness and pen.

v.

(amiee)
Writing deeply of thine life, of all thing's wrong and right;
As a scholar of inspiration, a poetess of this nation, striking rich.

vi.

(Rainey Birthwright)
Rhymester of old fashioned polite, stylish bold and bright;
As the star's thou writeth upon,,dusk til' dawn.

vii.

(Pax)
From the land of the Philippine's, a tropical place so green;
Thy writing like coconut water clean, as mango juice supreme.

viii.

(Bill murray)
Comic to this site, speaking strange thought's from thine mind;
Though finely crafted is thine character and stance, Old shine.

ix.

(Packin' Heat)
Writing of kisses, reality, wishes, heartfelt aura's;
Untamed, flaming writing of amour' and flora.

x.

(Katie)
A wonder of oldened growth, gold Glow's from thy throat;
Word's relic, ancient, keep them like seen ghost's.

xi.

(Poetic T)
Poetic darkness, poetic scream's, I heareth and feeleth thy pain's;
Like rain thine jotting is intense, no money shalt buy thy sense.

xii.

(SPT)
Compassionate caring being, writing of displeasure, and pleasurable thing's; as thou art a Free willed spirit living beyond.

xiii.

(Cecil Miller)
A man who hateth plagiarism, with narrative's of truth;
A poet on the loose, not tied in some noose, unchained spirit.

xiv.

(Tommy Jackson)
From the land down south, writing for thine amour', and thy guitar, keepeth on with the rock and roll and love in thy house.

xv.

(beth stclair)
I've written for thee before, but thou art one of mine top inspirational being's, a novelist of heavenly thing's, dear friend.

xvi.

(Vicki)
I've written for thee to, thy tongue canst sure speaketh and groove; making melodies of thy living's, and daily giving's.

xvii.

(Impeccable Space Poetess)
A poetess indeed, spreading delightful poetry seed's;
As I prayeth thine hard time's shalt get better, this is thy letter.

xviii.

(Sourodeep)
Romantic of midnight deep, awaketh us from ourn sleep;
As thy word's we keep tucked under our cotton Pillow's.

xix.

(Arfah Afaqi Zia)
Writing word's of love of past and new, a supporter, one so true, I thanketh thee for all thou doth do, continue in light poet.

**.

(David Ehrgott)
Writing master of thy own argot, thou art honest to the government's scheme's and plot's, awaking all who hast forgot.

xxi.

(His Bad Girl ***)
Telling verse's of amour', opening to all thine yearning door;
Telling of amare on thine own shore's, continue to seeketh love.

xxii.

(Randolph L Wilson)
Speaking of sweet glory of Georgia and the south, of the peaches succulent to one's mouth, new thou art to h.p. welcome friend.

xxiii.

(Earl Jane Nagley)
Mine lover, mine queen, mine reality, mine dream, forever we shalt be, as thou art more than worthy, I thanketh thee for thy support, wonderful writer of Yahweh, to me thou art mine muse, mine angel of the celestial church, giver to mine birth, empress to mine search, ruby of mine shine, chalice to mine wine, hand of eternal time, O' how great thou art, O' how magnificent thou art!!!!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©H.p poets dedication
xxiv.

(Natalia mushara)
Thou hath hadst hardship to, continue on, keep going through;
Overcometh the bad and the rude, be thou, be thou oh poetess.

xxv.

(its gonna make sense)
Woman of the unknown, bringing on the 6th sense;
As in suspense thou leaveth us to readeth more.

xxvi.

(Elizabeth Squires)
Old fashioned designer;
Of poetry in its original form.

xxvii.

(Paige Pots)
Woman of the cross, continueth to preach Christ's word;
Scream it, bleed it, to those whom haven't heard.
Poetic T Oct 2020
She was so, what's the word I'm looking for?
  not *****, some would say submissive.
There is no way she was that, more *******.
But she never let it show, she'd have a way of
controlling the situation to make you think you
        were in charge...

How could I explain it? more like your in a desert,
         thirsty and see a fountain in the distance.
Running towards it your strength disperses,
  and you believe what you see even though your
            swallowing the passing of time.

Even as you choke, you still believe you've
quenched your, I mean her thirst.
          If she was poker, she'd have the winning
hand every time...

So back to the moment at hand, she was so dam
         rough, I had scratches that looked like I'd
had a sleepover at Elm Street.
I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it...
I liked it when she made me trickle.


That itch while at work, as my back
was healing, it turned me on knowing
that she still lingered even though we
weren't near.
       She had this suffocation issue,
but it was kinker than just naked...
        

It was in a summer dress,
                    and only in the summer.
Like she was seasonal?
I'd lift her dress up. she was pantiless.
           But before that, my hands were even
within her thighs, she was damper than
the grand canyon dry around the edges,
       but between she flowed...

There was no finesse it was all or nothing,
     no gentle hands, deep and hard were her ways.
She knew what she liked. But like a drug,
Its strength diminishes over time,
and the thrill was now near non-existent.  
And a frustrated woman isn't one to be trifled with.

So we got others involved, ones that had
the same suffocating view on life.
Constricted on the normality of ***.
The first one, ***. It was embarrassing.
  We'd guest they were more inquisitive
         than had done it before.

We'd had them sign a waiver on the obligation
of what it entailed. A few drinks later,
Ok, more than a few and it was a melting ***
         of flesh, we were all over each other.
      She strangled my other half one-handed
constricting her flow of air, the other fingers
in her mouth being ****** erotically.

I'd never thought of how ****** this would be,
it didn't matter that it was a woman,
the fact she was arching so much.
All because of another stifling her breath.
                    I had my fun though I was deep
in the other,  **** deep as she didn't want to
be penetrated in her flower, she likes her petals clean??
   My other half could see me over the other'ss shoulder.

Enjoying the fact of both woman were in my bed,
              I was getting close, and then it changed.
She saw that I was about to pleasured by another.
Her hands clasped around our new acquaintance.
For such a petite figure she had a grasp like a clamp.

I felt her clench around my external offering,
           and the smile off my other, it was suffocatingly  
pleasurable. All three of us slumped at the same time.
The bedsheet was drizzly with the fulfillment
  of all three of us. I'd never experienced such a
moment, it was unexplainably fulfilling.

We rested for a moment, and then as I pulled myself
from this sweaty gathering, I needed to ***.
I know wow how romantic, But you open a valve,
waters going to pour eventually.
   Walking back to the bed all smiles.
     She looked at me with fear, but with a hint of
excitement.
                    
"She's dead,

                            "What dead tired?

  "No you ****-wit, as in you just pleasured
yourself up a corpse you necrophilic *****...

I laughed, as I jumped into bed thinking she
was hoaxing me. But she wasn't moving.
  Holy crap that was an ****** to die for??
  She looked at me sheepishly, no not really I got
kind of confused, she was strangling me and i
was so turned on.

But then I saw you about to lift off, and I didn't
like the fact that it was in another and not me.
So I tightened my grip, I heard her throat crunch
under the pressure, and she came,
either in exhilaration or that she'd just died...
Is it wrong that it was a multiple's!!

I've had doubles with you but that,
                                               I'm still twitching.
Oh' not to the fact that there was a dead blonde
in our bed. But the fact she had a multiple with a dead
woman on top. I brushed that thought away as we
had more concerning things,

I said to her,

"Do we phone the police,
             she signed the waiver?

"Do we phone the police!

  She said in a sarcastic manner raising her brow,
  
I could never do that dam thing, she was like
a **** trekky when she did that Mmm..
        I'd live long and **** the **** out her in
that cosplay outfit, pity I broke the ears last time.

Crap, I'm getting distracted.

I  could see where she was ******* from,
       why the hell does the dead woman have
***** *******,  whoops my toothpick just
became a great redwood again.

Are you getting stiff off seeing a dead woman's
******* you freak? They are kind of just there,
As she lent across and licked them.
         Oh, there cold, she looked at me
in her I'm ***** look.  We shouldn't waste an
opportunity really, as she opened her legs
and maneuvered her so she could scissor her.

What you waiting for, put your piece in her gob,
her mouth cold against it, but moist enough
that I face ****** her till we both got close
            kissing each other and ******* at the same
time, wow that was intense,
                                        we both sheepishly smiled.

We both got in the shower, the bed damp still from
                  when all three were breathing but her
head slumped to the side and you could see it dripping
out her mouth as if she was sleeping and  drooling
                       on the pillow.. that's gross.

After we were all cleaned up, we had to decide
what to do, the police wasn't an option.
   We'd watched enough dexters to know that
cutting her up was going to be way too messy..
And last time I got a paper cut I fainted.

Grabbing some cling film out the cupboard I started
To wrap her up, beforehand we went to the store
and brought 15 liters of bleach. I used a kitchen
a utensil  with a short straw-like funnel and proceed
to bleach the inside of her ****.. and gave here a detol
mouth wash, we put the rest in the bath and put
her in there, she hadn't started decomposing and
rigor mortis wasn't overly making her stiff like a plank
so she easily sank to the bottom.

After lunch we let the water out, god she looked clean.
But her eyes had become white, like ghost white
staring at me, like she'd known what we did to her.
I tried closing her eyelids but they wouldn't shut,
so I used a permanent marker to color them in..
   What was I thinking, now she looks ****** possessed.
Drying off was like a ritual we were gentle and making
sure her hair was brushed nicely.


Then with the 6 boxes of cling film, we wrapped
her up nice and tightly.
Crossing her arms over her chest seemed like
a nice thing to do. You never realize when
someone says dead weight, just how heavy that is.
We did that nursery rhyme as we threw her in the boot,

A leg and a wing to see the king and yeet...
    I gave her a 7.5 for landing. As we drove off
we took the map out, using sat-nav was a no, no
as we could have our steps traced back.
   There was an old coal mine just twenty minutes
away, what was cool was that there was an opening
that was so deep but not many knew about it.

I know how convenient is that. We parked up and
we knew we'd have to be quick so I slung her over
my shoulder, walking along I got really damp?

"Babe, what the hell is going on?
                     "Is she peeing on me?

I started to gag, but then the bleach smell hit!
       Phew! she was leaking bleach all over my jeans.
Thank **** for that, I knew these were going
to be burnt later anyway and had a spare pair in
the boot just in case. What I come prepared.

As we got to the opening a couple was standing there
throwing a rolled-up rug down the hole?
we both just looked at each other, what's up?
                              Nothing
What's up with you?
                     Nothing!
We just smiled and dropped our cling film roll
down the same hole. they pulled a knife we pulled
a baseball bat out.

Look, we know what we've both done,
   and if we walk away now you, we,
well neither of us will get hurt or have to throw the
others down that hole. How about the saying.
You didn't see it, so it didn't happen,?

They walked off, we walked off calmly.
That went a lot better than I thought as I laughed.
But just as we got to the car we heard a twig snap
right behind us, out of instinct I swung hard
catching him square in the temple.
as he fell he landing on his accomplice.
She was screaming Oh'my god help me..

My other half leaned over her, foot on her wrist
pulling the knife out her hand.. What were you
going to do with this then.

            "*******, she yelled.

No how about I mouth *******,
and with that, she raised the knife up
and shoved it into the hilt of her mouth.
God, i love this woman.
   As she lay there gurgling..
I mean the noise was nasty..
  So she just trod on her throat and silence.

We looked at each other, and started kissing,
    and before you knew it we had steamy windows
handprints visible to what had perspired in here.
As we got redressed and the tension now reduced
we dragged these two both to the hole.
I mean  my girl just grabbed his feet and like
luggage threw him in. She's so awesome.

You do realize we got from accidental murders
to nearly serial killers now.
And you know what it was such a turn on.
     I must admit we were both turned on by death.
We found their car and drove both down the country
lanes making sure that cameras were nowhere near.
We burnt it out, but not before doing donuts in a field
to make it look like joyriders had stolen it..

After that, we had plenty more lovers, false addresses
to entice, and snare our next lover into false security.
We got tech-savvy as well, in the car we had a scrambler
that blocked their mobiles. most didn't even notice
they lost signal, some did and were over-cautious
                   If they didn't come then unlucky them.

But we remembered that everything was to happen
in the bedroom. Gosh that coal mine is now a mosh pit
of broken voices, that crunch just as we orgasmed.
  That never got old, as everyone was different some
***, others ****** them selfs, that was new and gross.
But luckily we had mattress protectors on and plenty
more in the cupboard. To date, we must have made
love and silenced at least 12 over the last few years.

Only in the summer though,
  and the dresses, god she looks so hot...

Got to go through as our new friend
just turned up in guess what in a summer dress
of all things.
           We just looked at each other and smiled.
David Cunha Feb 2023
Time skips in between screen time emptiness
Mind's fuzzy with the traffic sounds
Eyes blinded by the flashing lights
Hands struggle to reach something pleasurable, at least,
As the heart beats excited for the minute-lasting serotonin blast

The hair grows an inch each week,
The numbness comes in days and leaves for a couple hours by bits,
The blood's rage meets the grinning face of guilt,
And the will to change is temporary.

What will it be when I'm 70?
What will change in me?
What will it be like when I'm not me?
And if I'm not me, who else should I be?
Why should I care for the fate of the world?
Why can't I be cozy for 20 years and die alone, slowly?
Why do I have to get up in the first place?
Why do I have to belong to the human race?
Racing indefinitely
Pretending to wear the shield of bravery for someone else's dream-****-like-fantasy,

What are all these brands and all these bands of crows?
Eating fleshless people with money for bones
Why is the circus always in town?
Why does the TV lie?
Why does the Internet lie?
Why do the people who run our money lie?
Why do the people who run us lie?
Why is it all so fake and sly?
What is all this bellyful hunger?

What is it that I can't grasp?
Is our nature really all that nefast?
If this is peak humanity, why should it last?
- David Cunha
february 8, 2023
4:00 p.m.
Eener Nospmoht Nov 2013
My nose began to bleed. Outer space was my calling since infancy. Never again shall I let my mother's daughter down. The cold ***** told me I was a friend then took my Burger King satisfries. All is alright. I took her to Sandals and pushed her in the stingray tank. Oh brutal memories. They sting with a pleasurable swoon. I hammered the nails into my deck with a pressure similar to that of my car tires. Hard. Tight. I whimper with a paper cut. Hand sanitizer heals the hurt. Also alcohol. Or playing darts with my cat. You're the ******. Or is my ex boyfriend's half lover? He said leave, so I stayed.
QuiverCoeur Mar 2012
So this is as it was, the old wound still itches
Glimpses of your face and my heart still twitches
If time heals all wounds then what am I to do
When my life has been frozen

Since last I saw

You soften your eyes as they flickered to mine
Skirted the contact then burned deep inside
Gritting my teeth in the pleasurable pain
A razor machete in welcome invasion
Expertly wielded through my jungle of thoughts
Clearing a path and discovering

My soul lost in

Your damp forest of evergreen trees
Rooting my soil and growing up through me
Bringing fresh life to my stagnant dirt
Oxygenating the air of my earth
Reversing pollution, reviving, refreshing,
Regressing the growth of the thorns in my flesh and

Cutting the cancer that
I might live,
Leaving your legacy scars.

So this is as it was, the wound still itches
Glimpses of your hand and my heart still twitches
If time heals all then what can I do
Since my death was frozen
When last I felt you.
Silk blocks my ability to see
Soft pads circle my ears shutting me into silence
Music begins to flow coursing through my body
Jumping as hands grasp slender ankles
Fur circles one then the other
Turned around and around so disoriented
A hard bump knocks at the back of my knees
Buckling and graze the chilled feeling they land upon
Gasps escape parted lips
Melodic music seems to beat forcefully with each movement
Chills flow through naked flesh

A voice reverbs in my ears
"Are you nervous ****?"
"Y-y-eees" trembles out thinking it had to have sounded like some little girl instead of the mature woman kneeling here
Morose tones begin to play
Calloused palms greet soft ones
Pulling quick and efficient succulent flesh lays across
a thick padded cushion

The drums beat frantically, I realize it is my heart beat
No music playing last the time, my breathing comes through rushed paniced
Inhaling deeply filling lungs then blowing out forcefully
Soothing frazzled nerves, repeating the breath
Hands separate, one wrapped in something unsure what
then the other, they are pulled straight out
Allowing ample globes of blush coated tips to reveal to any that watch

Crying out at the forceful pulling,  rearranging of limbs
Thoughts run rampant scrambling calm with slight fear and confusion
Body jerks as the apparatus moves beneath my spread flesh
I feel my belly tight as muscles **** and pull tight and repeats
Crying out as booming dark music explodes in my mind
The movement jerking beneath again
Unable to fathom how I look I feel a breeze slither over pale half moons
Finger run along the inside of the restraint as something pulls it further away from the other, then repeated
Chill air hits my heated moist ***** sending goosebumps all over

My body fully supported arms up with back arched exposing glorious flesh
Legs parted wide as waist is supported by the bench
"Who do you belong to"? He asks.
" No Ones"
A slice of fire then a second close by erupts pain across the backside
Teeth sink deep into my lower lip as the same words come through the headset
Senses impaired heighten every syllable
Still ******* air from the first blows as four reign down upon my  
arched back, tasting blood as teeth cut through plump skin

Thick fingers grasp the hairs upon nether lips yanking
Digits knead the skin of my *** soothing the first marks
Feeling the tug on hairs again, squirming as the moisture flows the cavern, body begins to move
Yet again "Who do you belong to?"
"Myself" I say proudly
Again heat, white hot, kisses thee skin
One, two, three, four, five
Labored breathing panics me
Fingers grtip and knead the marks, it is not pleasurable but it hurts not either

Thin pieces dance across my body
I figured out it had to be as flogger
He was an expert, especially with this contraption leaving everything but my stomach bottom of thighs urtterly exposed to the wicked implement
The tongues begin touching all over as I strain to hear and see
Nothing but blackness and morrocan drums playing tribal beats
Lightly stroking, followed by searing bolts of lightening touch silk flesh,
Breathing raggedly, gasping for air, pressure building in the pit of my stomach

As the flogger hits every piece of exposed white
Fingers massage puffy lips that swell to protect the golden pearl
Not hearing him he chuckles knowing he has me
Thump goes the flogger, chains clank as I squirm
Pressing towards his hand wanting to be touched that special way
Pleading escapes, I cringe knowing I have made that mistake
Something slides into my throbbing center, stretching my walls
I know I am soaked as I feel pinches against flogged streaked skin
"Please" I cry
Again he asks "Who do you belong to?"
I form the y sound suddenly changing to once again "Myself"

The implement is left inside my love tunnel
Vaginal walls gripping and releasing
My breath catches hard in my throat as something cool
bites hardened peak,
Breath let's out with a loud moan as the other peak is trapped in the vice grip
Hair is cinched tight pulling the upper body up more
The clamps bite harder
He turned my head towards his as lips touch I feel an excruciating heat soar through my succulent peaks
Tears flow across cheeks gliding down until we both taster the salt

His teeth sink into my lip as the hand twists the chasing, the other the chain to the clips torturing my *******
My velvet reaches out to run across the teeth
He releases the bite as our tongues clash like symbols
***** throbs as it struggles to not drop the object
Pressure still building, traitor body plays to his tune
Rejecting nothing
Balking not at all
Wanting, needing, yearning for this
Our tongues dance as he pulls and releases that murderous pleasure wreaking havoc over the numbing rosebuds
Fiery locks are released
Fingers remove the implement deeply embedded in my sweet honey
Digits slide deeply into my well
Pushing against them yearning for deeper

I feel the pumping in and out
Each ****** grows harder and goes deeper
My hair being used as an anchor
Burning the scalp as it pulls
He must be able to hear the music as each move is punctuated with the caressing noise
The headphones are removed relief flows over as I can hear

He whispers "Who do you belong to?"  He asks again
I feel his fingers pull out causing a sense of loss
Something presses sat my entrance pushing lightly
Trying to glide over the honey
Lifting on tip toes pushing back
Feeling the thick mushroom push into their tight entrance
Gasping for air as he growls loudly trying to fight plundering
Needing my answer first
The tip teasing me without mercy
Pulls and releases my hair

I feel something strange being smeared in my thick juice
The warm presses against my clenched puckered hole
Crying out as he teases both orifices
My body strains tight like a bow drawn for firing
"Please oh please **** me, take me"  
I feel both openings being pushed against more
Knowing he won't do much more unless I give in
He pushes the egg deep into my tight ***
Cries of pleasure float over the music still playing in the room
His hard length still teasing the slippery tunnel
Leaning over pressing my body hard against the contraption
Growling out "Who do you belong to?"
You! You! You!
His **** rams home plundering my overly taut well
Buried to the hilt my cries louder than the night

He begins to move in Ernest
Taking and consuming His
My body being played like a well oiled machine
Slamming into me, our bodies slapping
Skin to skin
Pressure building faster as I was already close to exploding
He knows I am close
Salt from the sweat drips into my mouth
His hand yanks the egg from my *** starting the spasms
Rippling over his rock hard length
His growl rumbles within vibrating upon my back

Pace grows faster, frenzied
I feel juices dripping down my thigh
My love tunnel overflowing with essence
Crying in frustration I scream harder
The machine moves as he pumps in and out
Loud moans flow out as the movement let's him go deeper

The music is crescendoing cannons errupt
As he plunders the chain is suddenly ****** based
A reaction like dominmos begins
Hips buck against his as sdpasms caress his ****
Floods of honey burst free coating his implement
Flowing down my thighs as the explosion rocks through my body
Riding every ****** as his teeth sink into my neck
The shooting **** hits my wall spewing until empty
Laying against my body, his sweat mixing with mine

Both breathless and satiated for a spell
Blindfold and restraints removed
Lifting me up as my legs give out like they were jello
Cradling my head to his chest
He lays me upon silk
Eyes close as lethargy begins to settle
Soothing ointment is rubbed into red stripes
"Sleep Mine". He whispered
" Yes Master" she says sleepily

A smile crosses his rugged features
Finally he had pushed past that wall
She is Mine he thinks
I won't let her forget, took way to long for her to admit
Next time perhaps he would try a cane
Moving her on through
The joys of pleasure and pain
Property of Jennifer Humphrey copyrighted.  Please do not use without giving credit to the author.  I can prove it is my work so please write your own don't steal mine.   JH
Austin Sessoms Apr 2023
Okay, you want to live again
Same question as before:
What for?

I know you’re asking me

Of course I’m asking you -

You see I’m also asking me
Because I’ve answered this before

You’ve also given reason why you shouldn’t

Well, I wasn’t asking you
I’m asking me
And I’ve done a lot of things
I always thought I wouldn’t

But now getting back to me

Of course
It’s always about me

It is

I know
Sometimes I just get bored exploring
“What is wrong with me,” or
“What might make me want to live”

I think there must be some reason

I think there must be some reason

Even you?

Of course you would, but still I wonder

Yes, I wonder

So what for?

Much the problem with connection
If only tethered by affection
Or some pleasurable action -
If there is no obligation
Without pleasure or affection
Should I not just altogether
Discontinue interaction?

I have wondered

I have wondered

There’s continued interaction

And still
Much of it is pleasant
But this isn’t necessarily
Sufficient reason for existence

So you, ask

As if you would rightly know

To be, with reason
It might be said then
Is something beyond you

And beyond me

I think so too

But still
Some reason ought to do-
Regardless if it’s me or you
To think of it

I have to choose

So anything?

Not anything

Then anything that comes to mind?

There must be joy
That we can find in what we do
If I can say what ought to motivate us
You
Or me
Or I
Or somehow us together
Living to enjoy the being
Doing not to cement or gain
Or fight so often
Being for the light and wind
That make clouds, trees, and grass dynamic

For the wind again
For the flight it makes possible

Yes
Even birds could not be what we hope to see
Without unseen
Often unappreciated
Natural forces that peak our interest
Only because of some spectacle

And there is much spectacle
Jasmine Oct 2019
I long for
(Sigh)
Wait give me a chance to settle in….
A night in with the four walls staring at us not making a squeak,  
Maybe good music playing in the background to set the mood
How about a high mood to set the company just right
How about the exchange of thoughts to get conversation just going right
Haha, is that really what you thinking?
How about I tell you what I’ve been thinking…
Well, let me enlighten you, I think of
You
Every single second of every minute
You are running a marathon of memories in my mind
Oh, where do I start?
No let me begin from the beginning when the walls were staring at the both of us
You settle me in just right, under your arms, in your bed, while the music is just doing the most in the back
Oh no we had more than enough to talk about cause our thoughts kept popping like pop ups on an internet site
Can I be granted the permission to share the moment when you kissed me and how it felt like the first but instead it was our fourth
The kiss may have been our fourth but what came after that mmh
Our first….
You handled me like a woman you’ve known for months (sigh), more like you studied every curve on my body
Every turn, every pleasurable moment felt like moments I was never going to feel again
My breath felt like it was my last
Your breath against my neck felt breathtakingly
When you reached your utmost pleasurable moment, with my nails engraved in your back, that kiss you planted on my forehead, just had to have a skip a beat in my heart
Oh no I think I’ve shared enough to describe my desirable craving
Which is YOU!
i wrote this poem missing my ex
Grace Jordan May 2015
You know what, this is not a love story this time. In this case, it never was. I thought it was, but I was mistaken and lied to by my lonely heart. And For once, I am standing my ground and telling you what you deserve to hear.

*******.

******* for making me so dependent on you that I was scared to stand up to you, even though you were cruel to everyone I loved. You may have thought you were cute, you may have thought it was your odd way of love, but it was honestly just an excuse to be an utter ***** to everyone and none of us should have tolerated it.

******* for competing with me. I am not a competitive person, but you'd laugh and comment how you were better, smarter, more mature. It drove me wild. Not only because your arrogance made me want to drive you into the ground, but also because it made me feel like I had to prove myself to you, brag in front of you, compete with you to feel worthy.

******* for turning on me at my weakest. Over a boy for god's sakes. I was your best friend, the one you turned to and confided in, and you started to completely disregard me over a boy I had feelings for first. You had no respect for our friendship in any facet, and it made me regret letting you in at all.

******* for always being at the back of my mind, for being so infuriatingly insidious that I have to always check up on you and worry about you even though you don't deserve it. For doing things that don't make me feel anything but pity and concern for your life, instead of being proud and maybe thinking I could accept you.

******* for making me want to **** myself. For being the selfish catalyst who showed me the cuts on her legs and made me feel so guilty that I didn't deserve life. Everyone deserves life, even the cruelest of people, and to purposefully make me feel that worthless, just to try to win me back, was the most heartless, selfish, thoughtless thing you could have ever done.

******* for being similar to me in any frivolous way, because now I am utterly terrified to be anything like you. Obsessive, rude, cruel, thoughtless, and selfish. I fear for my boyfriend, my friends, everyone around me because I know being your friend has given me the capacity to be just as ruthless as you. And I hate you for it.

******* for making me forget anything pleasurable about our relationship. All I can feel is a burning frustration when I hear your name, or an overwhelming sadness, or endless anger. None of it is pleasant.

******* for everything you've done to me, and **** the dark part of my heart that exists now because of your knives stabbing me in the back.

******* for still making me think about you, and ******* for any part of me that is like you.

I'm done with you. This is the end. Its ******* over.

And just remember.

*******.
Danielle Pope Oct 2017
It was that 1st touch... skin met skin, chemistry burst into the atmosphere and love rained down on end!
Oh how good it felt, feeling that strong connection, it was magnetic how it happened, all that passion and affection.
Never before have i felt such a love so strong, when we bonded with our souls, we were one for but so long, and still, i feel you as a whole, my hearts song .
Swarming inside my inner being, floating with me into serenity, seeing all that i am seeing, friends and lovers for infinity.
Your hands gave me bliss, crafted from some type of magic, every time i felt your touch, my heart began to panic!
Please don't stop! I need it, i crave it, i want it, i yearn it, i feel it before it happens, then chills and thrills go up my spine and juices run straight down my sultry vine.
Ahh so divine, your lips so soft and full, light sweet kisses i cant escape from, forced by a gravitational pull.

Our lips fit perfectly together, from every single angle we tried, and when our mouths were open, i felt as if i could fly.... or fall!
You made me melt, to much pleasure to contain myself, tongues intertwining, warmth constantly rising, butterflies and anxious cries were things i failed at hiding.
You rubbed away my tension, from head to toe and reverse, back tracking all my inches, constantly being rehearsed.
Your best performance was yet to come, yet everything you did amazed me, i kept on thinking where did you come from?! Thoughts were scrabbled, vision was hazy.
What was i thinking? where am i? ****** i just kept sinking, deeper and deeper into your love, till i felt lifted into ******, top of the mountain way up above...
That tongue...*** just thinking about it makes me moan, licks and ***** and nibbles broke me down and put me in a zone.
Upon my throne, i was your queen, and you showed me why you are my king. Gently you held me and caressed my body, firmly you ****** me , inside i screamed.
Ooo your strength turns me on in more ways than one, your dominance simply enticing, inviting me to play on and on, calling me, so exciting!
Constantly making me wet, dripping with juices of pleasure, heated and throbbing and set, bliss beyond knowable measures.
Tension rose, you lost control and took advantage of my body, and when you did, lord have mercy, I've never felt so **** ******!
Breath was shortened, grips got tighter, sweat was beading from combined desire, it felt so good, you deep inside me, taking me higher and higher.  
Massaging me from the inside, oh my goodness what a beautiful pleasurable ride,.. i still sigh.... i couldn't bear it, seeing the passion in your eyes.
Your girth placing pressure on my spot, felt so good that it hurt, made me hot, i was left staring, almost speechless, while you savored all my sweetness, i forgot.
All my troubles faded away, all my worries began to plummet, nothing else mattered but what you were doing, as you sent me in route to my summit. They way you touched me, gave me tranquility,  made me want you to touch no one else, to yern for no one but me, to not even pleasure yourself.
What kind of foolishness?! laughing out loud at my own  unexplainable stupid-ness, i had to taste you i wanted all that i could define, what was your flavor, mmm i savor  the memories in my mind., i can still taste your sweet creamy goodness, seventh heaven, you put me on cloud nine!
What a ride! So much more we did together i cant cover it all, everyday I'm loving you stronger and deeper, i know you'll be there to break my fall, a ride like this deserves applause, a man like you that has no flaws, is to be cherished and loved forever without a purpose or a cause.
When we made love i saw your light, when we made love i met your heart, when we made love we became each other, from that 1st touch... we made a spark.
Ayeshah Dec 2013
I never been on

Verses & Flow or Poetry Slam

don't get me wrong

I'd love to be

but me sharing like that on "mic"

scares the ******* life outta me

yet I admit

I want to in fact would love it

But right now-

I can only tell you how I feel
&
this is how I let **** out

express me&sometimes; let you in

so this is a poem I've made about this dude.

A dude whose comforting and new

a dude whose lenient

and beautiful inward & outward.

He talks to me of so many thing

and he has a mind that speak more

volume then money....

I've been know to deal with them  baller's

those who'd spend on me-

the moment I call em.

He's gentle and kind,

mindful of me & my needs

even

funny even at times

when he's joking round with me.

He lights my way and makes me see

not of everything physical,or ****** either

but of inspiring dreams

for me to do better

than what I've been told I could barely achieve

from listening to past assaults

and dead weighted-ended relationships...

To opening the ******* door

& letting me just be ME....

My hair weaves

he complimented

and my braiding techniques too

from my beautiful big lips

plus this luscious **** hours glass phat *** shape

he says baby your amazing

then kisses my forehead

like Taye Diggs did in both The Best Man movies.

When he touched my breast- not in a ****** way

I felt finally safe-

cuz I asked did you feel the lump there

he kisses me on my cheek

tells me it's ok even if my hair falls out

and all my weaves went away,

he's seen me without em,

seen me with out makeup too.

No need to worry since there isn't even a lump,

so he says & I smile widely.

but if it was I'd still be the most beautiful

this he promises me

and looks me right in my eyes.

This dude says he watched me sleep

sometimes until the early morn

and looked at me like I've never

looked at myself.

Mind you I know I'm fine

but barely was I ever able to know my wealth,

to even ******* know myself worth

or who I really was.

Sadly so beautiful but yet I'm so tainted & insecure

He's seen this about me long ago

yet I thought before him-

that love had to hurt

that the pain I've caused me-

from dealing with other types of "love"

from dudes due their share was somehow real

Other dude's who'd spend

and who'd **** me deep & put my *** to sleep

was what love meant

this "love" I was so used to-

was pose to be fist knocking back my head

eyes black in their sockets,

clothes ripped off

and me being slammed to the ground ******

and left bleeding

Left, deserted, abandon

and me sore bruised-

from ever part of me

cops coming once a month

or when he ****** his boss & I went the *******.

Or love was him- telling ole girl in Chi Town

how much he couldn't live with out her

while sitting on the toilet in my house-

in my bathroom after ******* me

and calling it making love.

Or love was pose to be in my head

when he let his cousin get away with ****** me-

yet I was the who got her *** beat.


I thought from

the age of 6

that I was pose to lay there

just spread wide for you

and let you use me

pinch

poke and rule me!

I didn't know this kind of man

so every time dude came around-

I'd chase him away.

telling him

NAW man I don't date white boi

(that's slang for boy)

but
I've dated the Italian and he liked them easy women

the ones he could change and manipulate

I've dated the Natives born of this "America" land

he showed me what my mother tried to hide-

like a drunkard father beating her at night

this was the Native

who wasn't taught how to eve3r be a man

Then there was Paul-

a mixed up race/breed Native too-

Apache yet Mexican and yet American

in New Mexico they're called Chicano's

so guess that what the **** he was

he had the short man complex

and couldn't bother to talk

he thought *** would be pleasurable

but sadly for me & him

his baby toddler *****

just didn't do the trick.

So hurting worded voices loudly spoke

caused me abuse,

I guess it's still my fault-

I allowed them to hurt me.

The smooth talker,

Casanova,

The Ballers,

The players with the nice whips

(That means cars y'all)

The man who could **** out my mind & my brains

get my ***** wet before he even got to my house


The Mr. Fix it-

whose good at fixing ****

but not for being committed

cuz his check wasn't enough to even put a dent in my rent

and his habit of scathing his *****

and calling me ***** just didn't work.

So these are them type motha fuckas

I'm used to-

like ole boy

who'd carry my books

and help me with all my assignments in college

for a peek yet talk and brag about the *** he hadn't ever hit

not me but that's the story he told

lying since his reputation depended on it.

Sorry but this was my thinking this was how it went

& how it was meant or pose to be

yet
the Egyptian had it best

on top of all these dudes.

His was the ultimate

because his lies where centered

by half truths

which I know

know were more lies

than his word sworn on a Qur'an,

he'd **** his best friends wife

then beat me into submission,

**** me- buy me....

BUY Me,

Bought me

like a slave from way back when

buy me

love me

then buy me some mo

He'd buy all kinds of **** to keep me claiming for me

houses, cars, jewelry,

and name brand items- I'd have a black eye,

ribs smashed to pieces,

but **** I looked real cute

limping round  in my new **** from

Sax 5th Avenue, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada & Versace.

**** name it & I maybe already had it


this is the same man who saved me from

being ***** by my foster father,

yet he became like the foster father

he saved me from

seemingly

after we've became husband & wife...

So when dude comes calling

I hold back built higher walls,

push him away,

fight and get in his face,

waiting for the monster to come out

waiting for him

to slam me to the floor or ground

I never believe a word he says

always looking for a reason or excuse

calling him lair and fake

telling him to ******* & go away

never really given him a

chance for him to be my man.

I be mean and I make him wait

but he says I know your pain

and together we can make it

just let's take it day by day.

He kisses me lightly,

caresses me tenderly

massages me to sleep

listen to my every word

and gives great advise,

has been a friend and part of the family

he has opened me

to expressing his own

pains trails & tribulations


never judgmental or abrasive

not even abusive

not even a little bit.


But
my ****** up mind is so scared

so afraid and ****** I'm worried

.

Honestly my hearts succumbed to his un-willful ways

but I can't fathom

once more being hurt

and I don't know if I even want to

yet I think I do.

So tell me help me please

explain

give advise and tell me

how do I say no when for many months now

he's been making me the center of

His Universe?!

Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®
This has a lot of cussing/swearing in it so if you're not into it or any other ****** language please do not read it thanks.
Tim Knight Jan 2013
Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.

The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.

Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.

Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-hom­e-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.

He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.

Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.

We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid ****** building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.
facebook.com/timknightpoetry
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Consanguinity: A Commissioned Poem
(How Well Do
You
Know Me?)


This request, from wolf spirit aka quinfinn, accidentally hit the spot of what was foremost on my mind.

Cosanguinity:  A relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship (distinguished from affinity).  A close relationship or connection.

Poetry, mine, yours,
Ours,
Invades my consciousness.

We write poems on the same subject,
Even the same title,
But a few days apart.

Insanity,
Coincidence,
or
Consanguinity?

Perhaps we are reading each other's stuff
Too much.

But that's crazy,
Or
Consanguinity?

Yet,
And yet,
We see the same things
So incredibly different.

That is the answer.
We see the same thing and I am
Struck down.

A billion sights.
A billion words.
Yet, the human computer,
Sorts, collates, and generates
A billion different writes
In a similar spirit,
Employing the same phraseology.

All right.

Alright.

Malaysia.
Minnesota.
East Coast.
West Coast.
Geographical differences.
Time differences.

No difference.
A billion differences.
The stylistic differences enable,
No, correction,
Ennobles us to coexist,
Value each other,
Learn.

Observable differences.
But more interesting,
More pleasurable,
are the incredible, visible, signs of
Consanguinity.
Mere affinity?
Kinship.

A poem?
Nah.
But at 1:11am in my location,
It's what's on my mind.
Now that I know the meaning of
Consanguinity.
Somehow in my mind these two poems are linked.


Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.
June 18
Creases and folds
Rich lustrous strokes
Bold soft voices spoke
Touch like a ring of gold

In sheets we make things
Crumpled and messy
Like a raging tsunami
A delight in all human beings

Slapping and slammings
A rhythm worth hearing
The pounding and bounding
Sweet pleasurable pain it brings

Beyond what a body could
Handle and take it would
For it is what we wanted
Like a forbidden affair sorted

The melodious chorus
Of wails and moans
The harmonious beating
With stick and stones

Like origami birds
We bend and break
To cure our heart aches
For we are like paper burned

Ashes we become so far
Fragmented in the wind we are
For we never ever will be
As happy as anyone thought it to be

For like origami birds we are
Folded and bent to hold so far
Manipulated by love and hate
Blinded by our own cruel mistakes

We will tear and break
Like every paper bearing weight
Flying into the winds of fate
And burning into the pits of heart break.
I just broke up with him. :/ Guess it was always one-sided. And the worst thing is I found a rebound to whom I took advantage of. Although he knew that I just did broke up with my ex, he kept insisting on pushing himself to me. I just don't know what to do anymore.
There is this deadly eater

Which eats through even sweating

A sneeze gives it sharper teeth

To chew the human from inside

Merging blood is its travelling aeroplane

Pleasurable kissing its smooth vehicle

We're lucky the air begrudges it

Or it will wipe us all out

Lovers must be shunned

When they are caught

Because love can't protect

It's  wicked claws

It laughs at hand sanitizers

Because it is stronger than weak bacteria

And waits on death to get more flesh

One cannot be too careful

It kills even hands with experience

So stay away from handshakes and hugs

And be wary of high fevers

Ebola is real

Don't joke, don't laugh

No drug is known to conquer

So stay alert and stay alive.

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2004
EBOLA, SICKNESSES, AFRICA
Nigel Morgan Jan 2013
Gradually as darkness fell the wind that had beset the travellers all day subsided and the particular silence of the lakeside clearing assumed a presence. It was a silence of the discrete movements of animals and sporadic calls of birds, the settling now into stillness of trees wind-tossed for a night and day, the breathing to and fro movement of a large body of water that already held the night sky’s reflections and would soon be enveloped in moonlight. Zou Fen rose and beckoned Meng Ning to accompany her to the Emperor’s Hall. There, they stood together on the long veranda and looked down through the sporadic trees onto the lake.

‘It is said that the Master did not discuss anomalies, feats of strength, civil disorder, or the spirits,’ said Zuo Fen quoting Confucius. ‘It is for you and I to disregard sorcery as nothing but illusion and cunning. We must bend our thoughts to seeking explanations from circumstance.’

‘We know, my Lady, that Yang Mo had already seduced the Emperor and his guests with his many and infamous illusions. To achieve these feats of the miraculous would have required a sizable retinue and the most careful preparation. It is unlikely that the Emperor would have countenanced such sorcery in daylight hours, so we might imagine how with the play of lanterns, fire and smoke Yang Mo was able to make the impossible seem possible. Like the actor he undoubtedly was, he was probably a man of commanding presence - all eyes would have been upon his person, all ears tuned to his words. And round about the harsh clangorous sounds and shouts of his assistants would be sustained as his illusions began to unfold.’

‘Wisely spoken Meng Ning,’ says Zuo Fen, ‘a most convincing exposition. So we must imagine how after a long presentation of illusory wonders, the imbibing of much wine and other intoxigents inhaled or consumed, the first presage of dawn comes upon the company. Guests and their consorts seek the privacy of their quarters, lights are dimmed, only the meditative music of the zither sounds in the Emperor’s hall as new confections of poetry continue to vie with the ancient verses. Then, as the Emperor rises to seek his chamber there, half hidden amongst the wraiths of mist floating on the lake, lies a sailing vessel, its single sail empty of wind, a spectre at once marvelous and shocking.’

‘But an illusionary boat, possibly a vessel that could not and need not run with the wind, something constructed, a shell no more, made out of the lightest wood or taut cloth that in the blue dawn would seem more substantial than it is, fashioned and placed in position by Yang Mo’s assistants at a right distance to evoke the illusion of reality.’

‘The Emperor summons his court and its guests, summons Yang Mo, regarding this as a step taken beyond what protocol allows, a violation of the ancient spirit traditions of the lake. Yang Mo stands his ground suggesting that this is his greatest illusion yet, that there is no harm done, and should the Emperor decline to sail on the ****** waters he will take himself away from his presence boat and all.’

‘At this Xie Jui, the second wife, lets it be known that she regards with some contempt the prohibition of a vessel’s presence on the lake. She wishes passage on the boat and if the Emperor will not accompany her she will go alone with Yang Mo. At this the Emperor is incensed but challenges Yang Mo to explain how he will deliver Xie Jui to the vessel.’

‘This is where, My Lady, we will need to seek the Red Slate Path that, it is said, Yang Mo prepared to take himself and his passenger to the waiting boat - only to disappear from view in front of the very eyes of the assembly. Our task for tomorrow perhaps?  Jia Li can be our guide as she surely knows its location.’

And so, as the three quarter moon rises over Eryi-lou and the chamberlain takes his leave of the courtesan, Mei Lim appears from the near darkness to escort her mistress to the small chamber where they will pass the night. Zuo Fen remains in a trance-like state but allows the ministrations of her maid to prepare her for the business of sleep.
      Meanwhile Meng Ning, intoxicated by Zuo Fen’s presence, does not return to his quarters but takes the terrace steps down, down to the lakeshore. He allows his official skills as a poet to fashion an array of characters he will first commit to memory, only later write out in his fine calligraphic script, and then destroy. Whereas Zuo Fen commutes between dream and reality he has no such pleasure. This is a stark, cold place at autumn’s end. But this condition only seems to excite and fuel his passion for this woman, this gracious, mysterious woman with whom he has spent the recent hours in close proximity. Her face floats before his eyes; her precise lips and still perfect teeth, gentle chin and youthful neck, the beauty and grace of her bearing seated cross-legged like a sage before him.  He imagines for a brief moment her long nakedness revealed in the bright moonlight under which he now stands. Holding this momentary image close to his physical self he makes his way up the many terraces to the small wooden chamber in which he will sleep.
       Despite her journeying and the revelations of the day Zuo Fen lies awake. She is savouring a very different quality of the night in this remote place. For many years she has remained wakeful in the hours of the Rat and the Ox to welcome her Lord Wu should his goat cart find its way to her court. She would like to rise and reflect on the images that hold sleep from her – but fears to wake her maid without whose close attention she might falter. This natural world beyond her court and the Emperor’s gardens are of an almost constant wonder. She reflects that as she gets older each season seems to become more vivid than its predecessor. This autumn, with its vivid dreams and visions, she likens to flowers picked from her garden, their colours and textures continuing to hold true and firm. Between such thoughts the intimacy of her time with Meng Ning remind her of the delight of human association. Aside from her dear brother Zuo-Si she has rarely known that keen intimacy of another man - other than her Lord. Though she has, she reflects further, in the writing of The Pale Girl, allowed her mind to explore the variousness of the body’s pleasure. To school Meng Ning in the arts of passion would be pleasurable indeed, and she considers he would be a most willing and attentive student. She imagines, for a moment, guiding him towards the exacting refinements of touch and stroke a woman requires to achieve the deepest coitus. Her body stirs as this thought takes hold and caresses her towards necessary sleep.

(to be continued)
Ashley Dec 2013
Dearest,

This thing is claiming me again. I write only to express a great need to see you, or call you, or maybe even crank up the engine of this beat up junker I'm sitting in now. I'd very much like to see you again, or once more, even if it were just your eyes. It's been three years. Three years since I last heard your voice, or laugh, or saw you smile. ****, do I miss that smile. It's been three years since you left without a decent goodbye, you ***. You never had a ******* clue - but, anyway. That's not why I'm here.

I was thinking of you today, as I have every single one before and will continue to until my breathing ceases. Did you know it's the anniversary of when I realized I was hopelessly in love with you? Of course you don't. I never told you about that moment, or how I really felt. I swore I might, before you were gone, but it's been three years and I never did. So that's that, I guess. This is such a waste, writing to you. Yet here I am, painstakingly scrawling these thoughts whirling around in my brain on to a sheet of loose leaf paper. The best part is knowing I'll never send this to you. This is going to sit here in my pocket until I wash it, or burn it when I'm searching for the cigarettes I don't smoke, or even lose it on my walk through the city.

I walk every day, and not just to and from places. I walk to think. I walk to clear my head. Instead, I will pass somewhere you've been -- somewhere we've been -- and I will be right where I started again, plagued by the ghost of you on every new corner, in the middle of the crowds, and at the foot of the subway stairs. You are everywhere, darling.

You'd be laughing at this point, probably. You'd be thinking that I ramble like I used to and still don't manage to say enough to ever convince you that I'm true. Or maybe you'd be thinking how wasteful this is to this sheet of paper. How unfair that this piece of paper gets to carry this nonsensical message to you -- or not, actually -- and how unfair that it gets to sit in my pocket, close enough to be lost. Or maybe you wouldn't think that at all, and you'd be just blankly reading all of this and wondering whether I'm just bullshitting around the truth, like I've always done oh-so-well.

Or maybe you'd just be thinking that this is so typical of me, keeping things I'll never do anything with for the sake of keeping them. You always thought I liked the act of keeping things rather than the things themselves. Perhaps you're right, because I've always wished I could both keep you and be rid of you and the toxicity you bring.

But at the end of the day, I'm the one writing you. Maybe my feelings learn towards the former of those two extremes.

Anyway, you would have been right about the bullshitting thing. I'm really writing because the emptiness is back, eating me out and wringing my guts inside out, and it isn't even pleasurable. I wrote because I haven't done so in some time, and it's been a long time since I wrote one of these one-sided letters to you. I used to write more; I used to have dozens, even, though I never wrote those on loose leaf paper in an old junker, heat off in the middle of winter. Really, I'm freezing right now. This is ridiculous. And I've got to stop bullshitting to you, I do.

You know, I can almost hear you responding to this. I can hear your voice somewhere in the back of my mind, answering me. And maybe that makes me more insane than I ever was. Maybe this hollowed out body has finally been done in, and I'm just beginning my descent into the clutches of insanity... or maybe I just can't tell you the truth.  You know me well, you do.

The truth is that I ******* miss you so much, it hurts to breathe. It physically causes my chest to ache, for pain to shoot through my entire body with each pump of my heart. Unfortunately, my heart is beating ceaselessly and my breathing has yet to stop by choice, so it hurts every day, every single second. I am always missing you. There is no other truth but that.

I think that, by allowing myself to write this, I'm hoping this idea of you can save me. I know already that this is the dumbest thing I've let myself hope for, more stupid than letting myself hope for you and for change and for happiness. The point is, letting myself do this at all is stupid, But I can't stop myself. You are worse than any drug I've ever known, and I pity those whose lives you have touched only because I know what it's like to be cut off from you. God forbid you leave them, someday, and they end up like me. Or a few shades less crazy than me.

I haven't even eaten because of this emptiness. I can't eat, actually. If I feed the monster, it erupts and soaks me with self hatred. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid to do anything to infuriate it, and it's always angry. It's always whispering to me, sexily and sweet, asking me to do things that are so wrong. I'm not listening, and I'm staying clean, but it's hard, dearest. It's so hard when you've got nothing to cling to, nothing to even dream about hoping for.

This emptiness takes and takes, and it does not give back anything but empty caverns and the memory of what it was to feel. It takes everything I've got and it dumps it on the ground, spreads it around and sullies it. And when it's tattered and worn and filthy and unrecognizable, it crumbles it between its fingers like it's nothing but ash. I hate this behemoth more than I hate living through it. It's never-ending, the terrors it brings, and it pounds against me when I trap it away. It is invincible though, and it will always win. It's invincible in the way I believed we once had been, a long time in the past. Like us, I am not as invincible as I dreamed.

I'm sorry if I've worried you. I didn't mean to tell you, not truly. But now that the words are out, I seem to be a bit less empty than I was. Maybe I'll find my way out of this... maybe. I hope you are well, and smiling, and the world treats you kindly. I hope the night sky is beautiful where you are, and the lights glimmer in the distance exactly as you've imagined them. You deserve it a thousand times over me.

-A.C.
Ochiogu Kevin Feb 2010
Medical preys;
unwanted grasses
on female pasture;
yet over determined to exist.

Victims!
to pleasurable sins

Murdered!
by we who bekoned them.
To save faces

and intergrity;
To erase footprints
and outcome of our sins.
but you never cease to surface,
at any ****** call;

Never afraid of the death
warrant
nor the murderous act.
Brave unborn souls,
sacrificial lambs
of human immorality,
''cleansing off our sins''.
Yet answerable
to any ****** call
wishing it sinless
by matrimony.
Beauty of a marital love,
essence of a matrimonial
act.innocent
of all innocents,
One with God!,

Wisdom of the ancient!
The first measures
of purity.
But; where goes
the astral wisdoms
after the humanization?
where you compelled
to be born,
revoltless of the ******
of your unborn kind?
was it karmic purposed?
Edna Sweetlove May 2015
This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.
Wanderer Apr 2012
Rubbing sharp sleep from tender eyelids
Unable to see clearly yet
Already the heady, green desire afflicts me
Pleasurable thoughts swirling around an exhausted brain
Yesterday was difficult
Tomorrow no better
My tin full up of sticky sweet African mango
Going no where
Sliding softly into all my sore spots
Just what I needed
To start my morning
Poetic T Sep 2020
I ******* words
     And *******
    
.     Stanzas..


And my *** face
      Is the ecstacy

Of the pleasurable
        After thought.

Is anyone else hungry...
Carmen Ray Oct 2012
I opened my eyes once just to see if his were shut as tight as mine.
I could tell by the way he moved, how angry he was with her.
It was nothing between him and I.

It was pure emotion we couldn’t express to each other without imitating the act of making love.
We were the only ones left there for the other
or maybe we were just there.
Probability.

I do not love him.
…but he breathed like you. Kissed like you.
He was built like you, cried like you.

I hope you understand.

It was my only release.
It was not affection for each other that drove us into such a passionate entanglement but the restrained love we had for each of you.

The Anger. The Sadness. The Loneliness.
We were open journals,
and we filled each other with feelings that words could not express.

…I missed you so much.

He’s the only one who could ever understand how much I did.
While our bodies were dripping with shame,
what else could we have done?

I felt his feelings for her and they broke my heart.
There was no stopping.

The tighter he held,
the softer he whimpered,
the more it pulled me in.

The more I understood the less alone I felt.
This dismal place became less painful.

I was not out to hurt you.
It did not bloom from spite or revenge.
Not for you.

While his body did grind into mine,
I felt the pain of his anatomy and I used it against myself.
His body was my only way to repair and destroy myself all at once.

It was pleasurable due to the dream I had woven into it,
and I could feel his muscles forgiving me.
Forgiving her.

I wonder what he felt come from mine.
Relief, I hope.

Once the sweat and tears had dried,
and our bodies lay throbbing and limp
there was a sense of calm neither of us had ever experienced.

Although I’ll never be able to tell you how I feel,
I know I confessed everything I could that day with my writhing
and with my heat.

It was all for you.

Even though we did not let it happen through love or adoration
it was not meaningless.
Our souls confided in and approved of our scene.

That’s all I needed.
For it to be known I did not cheat.
I did not cheat you and I did not cheat myself.

Now, I don’t think I could love you as much as I do now had it not happened.
I found us that day.
Buried beneath years reconstruction and restriction.
More importantly, I found myself.
Lodged in between the freezing of time and heartache.

I’ll miss my innocence, but not my ignorance.

I opened my eyes just to see if his eyes were shut as tight as mine.
I had never felt so utterly complete.
Olivia Andrews May 2016
I throw angry words around like punches,
Like fiery lightning in crunches of dry cereal and no milk,
I am my own lightning,
I am the icy fire of a dragons hot breath,
I do not fight with fists,
Only narratives and figuratives,
I hesitate when it gets personal,
Oh so personal that my very own words that I conjure up from my wizards hat choke me for days on end without a single reprimand,
Oh how bitter this butter does taste upon my poetic pancake,
When will I get the recipe right and not left,
Left without a decision but to drink orange juice hope so sour yet so sweet,
What comes after hell I ask you?
Certainly not heaven or life of any pleasurable kind,
No, not that pleasurable kind you with your pervy mind,
I see you thinking such things of me as you read my poetry,
What a mad woman this must be,
To utter such words that mean nothing to me,
I am certain I must be hated and disliked by many of whom I adore and cherish,
Oh how I wish this feeling would just perish,
Perish like a mess in the presence of someone with a severe case of ocd,
A case of 12 or 24 either way you get what I mean,
I am such an irritating figure with a sad face of rash doings and thoughts,
Hark,
Hark my words I say for I birth them from my heart's womb.
An anonymous girl ©

— The End —