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Poetoftheway Aug 2018
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
False Poets May 8
when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,

when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...
Robert G Page Jan 2012
by
rgpage

face down she rests her naked form
head turned from her lover's glance.
eye's closed she lies and knowingly waits,
(a) loving touch starts passion's dance.

his huge hand moves across her back
with strokes the touch of butterfly wings.
upon her creamy skin so smooth
its path now set toward splendered things.

his pace a slow deliberate score
her passion's breath he brings,
from touch so soft, igniting sparks
with love her breath now sings.

his steady course she knows so well
with yet every touch as if it's new.
her sparks of passion love's embers light,
love's embers loving hue.

down past her rear with feathered touch
just knowing where to go,
behind her knees his fingers dance
to passion's steady flow.

their hips now in synchronic dance,
love's voluntary ride, she feels his
passion grown so hard,
now pressed against her side.

he cups her breast so gently
as if it were a flower,
its ****** earlier soft and small
now hard with passion's power.

and in her ***** great sparks erupt
her soft and pleasured flesh.
with juices flowing, desire's high
to meet love's natural crush.

now she turns to meet his lips
her passion running high.
with savage hunger she pulls him in
her hunter now the prey.

tables turned their urge well matched
desire holds the pace.
she takes control and guides his love
with feminine stealth and grace.

to places only she could know
where sparks ignite
small streaks of light,
that illuminates her soul.

together they fend love's tempting end
to stay their lover's dance.
to take control and reach their goal
the essence of their romance.
False Poets Apr 3
words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly  
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely

but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create

ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly

when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^

when you understand my poems perfectly then,
their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the
nth reinterpretation,
a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last




p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...


9:15am  April 3, 2019
^ Book of Esther 1:22 For he (the King) sent letters into all the king's 127 provinces, into every province according to the writing thereof, and to every people after their language, that every man should bear rule in his own house, and that it should be published according to the language of every people.
zora Dec 2017
He said Your name

as He reached for me, reached for the child
who He says unbuckled His pride and knelt
with sin and sweat (or is that blood?) on her back.
His reverence pleasured itself against the length of her throat
she left her mouth agape,
gagged to submission
but he wouldn't know the better.

and as He sunk deeper, wounded me, and sunk deeper still,
soul scorched under his Divinity and Damnation,

He said Your name.

in that moment, oh God oh God oh God
did You forgive Him?
trigger warning: ****, csa, religion
i wrote this a long time ago, but no matter what i do, it doesn't feel like i can say enough.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
5:00am and folding laundry

when the inspiration tank is yellow lit,
and E stands for more than empty,
g e n u i n e emptiness,
try this remedy that is a
first generation family secret!

fold the laundry.
all kinds.
his n' hers,
blacks n' whites
really clean and

and the kind that never get clean,
no matter how much d e t e r-g e n t
you use, how oft you wash 'em...


Instructions:

1. fold only when wearing t- shirt, tank top, briefs (optional)
2. put on Pandora 60's rock n ' roll (folk rock - highly recommend Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts, The Wedding Song, The House of the Rising Sun)
3. dance, shake, improve your moves when nobody's looking
3a. control yourself, if you must sing, at the top of your lungs is not acceptable.
If alone skip, skip to no. 5
4. every third piece give a sniff, get high on
fresh starts, clean notions, the idea that all can be washed away
4a. Every third piece of hers give an extra sniff,
so you can know why love keeps you alive
5, if you have to sing, then only loud acceptable
(***** the others, you're doing the folding, they're sleep-dreaming)
6. drink lots of water
7. have pen + paper handy cause ain't no doubt
the poet puppet muse masters gonna smack you
when folding sheets alone.
8. finish the write and post it ASAP
9. always leave the single socks on top of the dryer,
a prayer to the laundry gods for the
safe return of their better halves
10. finish
11. If done correctly, you need to shower (wash hair!)
12, around 6:00am, all scrubbed and clean,
fold yourself back into her arms. Snuggle, spoon.
13. when she mumbles you smell clean, you reply,
                                  "been folding laundry, writing poetry,
                                   and the clean smell done fell on me"
14. if alone, despair not, read this poem and know we are together
15. believe this day is full of possibilities,
write me a poem, put the load right on me

there are stains that cannot be removed,
deterred by this gent, and his a-gents,
they are history, treat'em with respect
and not more
deter-gent

every poem must end,
so when the folding is done,
whisper:

*the day ahead is full of possibilities
like the pleasured making of my clothes happy soiled,
so I possess an excuse, a reason, a rationale for living
to fold laundry again!
I have no idea where these crazies come from.
"But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Maestro Bill Joel

For Harriet Tecumsah Watt

11/24/13
zebra Jun 2018
when i met you
you were at the hands of ghouls
a gimping coterie of Satan's
who pleasured at the torments they inflicted upon your innocents
who bound your feet
bones in a vice
making you
their Chinese fantasy
a delicate *** trinket
a manacled smooth petite beauty
in agony
bending you into twisted branches
those heartless devils,
drinking red ice cocktails
you put your heel on their throats
by craving death
that will teach them!
gloating at your fear
filling their emptiness
with your trembling
your dreams faded
into the body of a wounded kitten
has God
given us the cold shoulder?
hacked angels wings to stumps
and left the doors to hell wide
leaving your soul a torn crag flaming?
little ******* fire
screaming in the cave of self
would he weep at your alter
and kiss your scarred tissue
begging your forgiveness
lamenting his snide toys of fate
sweet cursed apples
and sly snakes
twisting raptured seductions
your life, cross and curse
a burnt offering
a blood light blinking
with no fire escape
oh
Eve
blamed by the idiots of religion
for everything
only a child
who sank her pink mouth into a serrated moon
now always weighing death
bathtub ******, red ribbon glamour
dreaming paraphilias tide
eyes a ghastly vacancy
floating like a feather
mud,
tabernacles grave
a buoyant shell
sinking
in crimson clouds
a smiling dread
what does it take
for God to redeem himself?
must we storm paradise
before he fills you
with perfumes bliss
and effulgent lights embrace pours through your soul
like lanterns rose sky?
A poem partly based on a true story of a girl in the care of a foster Mormon family

This poem is based on a true story of a dear lady friend of mine who yearns for death. Who poses dead like a strewn corpse as an expression of masochistic love and lust, photograph after phonograph. Lament is a poem about the cruelty of her childhood that transformed her into a woman with an extreme masochistic obsession, a gnawing hunger for voluptuous ****** horror and her own demise.
Graff1980 Oct 2018
Seeking,
the similar spirit
of a suffering soul-mate
who yearns to find
said compatible mind.

Seeking,
at least a part-time
companion
to be mine
without acknowledging
reciprocal ownership,
or ever really mentioning it.

Seeking,
a person with
a passionate
temperament,
who isn’t violent.

Seeking,
a sexually charged
person who likes
to be pleasured all night,
but must be prepared
to enjoy the foreplay
and preshow,
cause the main event
has a short stay.

Seeking,
a self-evolver
who will
help me feel
challenged,
as I challenge them.
cause in sharing
we will both
grow,
which is a total
win.
A gentle breeze, warmly caressing pastel blossoms in this field of flowers,
Wafting their fragrance, light and sweet, filling the air, stirring the senses.
Across the valley, a string quartet pours its music into the wind currents
Mixing with the sweet fragrances, creating a rich symphonic experience.

I see her approaching from across the field, and she seems to see me also
As she quickens her pace, her billowing dress as an approaching cloud.
I hurry to meet her, my heart quickened by her countenance, her elegance,
Anticipating her in my arms, pulling her close in a welcoming kiss.

At last, arms reach for one another, we press together in warm embrace,
Lips seeking that first anticipated kiss that transports to our desire.
We fall together into pastel blossoms, feeling their feathery gentle touch,
Taking in the aroma of their pleasured sacrifice under our anxious bodies.

With string music wafting and building upon the gentle warm breezes,
The now heady mixed aroma of flowers and grass and rich loamy earth,
Semaphores, quietly signal the inevitable arrival of an inner storm,
Lightning flash and deeply rolling thunder, unseen but richly sensed.

High clouds billow the clear sky, a Morse code of sunlight upon us
Winds rising to wash over the rolling, roiling waves of a crystal sea,
Ancient spirits in awe looking jealously upon this sensuous stage
Trees rattling their leaves in perceptible polyrhythmic percussions.

The bull elk stamps and trumpets a declaration of his royal possession,
A meadowlark sings her heartsong in counterpoint to the string quartet.
And the inner storm, receding into the soft outpouring of a spring rain,
Clouds clearing, creating the soothing aura of a gentle sun shower.

Senses withdraw from their heightened pique, tingling in the afterglow,
Now, in self isolation, begins the recovery from an enraptured encounter
Drifting thru soft silken veils, finding ourselves in each other's arms
We breathe each other's breath, sharing heartbeats as we gently embrace.

A gentle breeze, warmly caressing pastel blossoms in this field of flowers,
Wafting their fragrance, light and sweet, filling the air, calming the senses.
Across the valley, a string quartet pours its music into the wind currents
Mixing with the delicate fragrances for a luxuriously quieting concerto.
eliza vy May 23
step-mother cried today.
her dear baby’s gone away—
drove down that sticky-sweet and bubbling mess
by pretty men and their perfect dress,
with blinding smiles and a made-up face,
their whispered words all carefully placed
to drown him in that murky sea;
to push his head beneath the boiling depths
and silence all our final pleas.

and after all her pain and bleeding,
the birthing screams and angel's oath—
she could not **** either,
why should he get to love both?

step-father sighed today.
who led his child astray?
who filled his little head with sickly lies
of milky sweets and buzzing flies,
with selfish lusts and fleshly desires,
crawling skin and ashen-wax fires,
all leading him toward the flames,
him screaming out with teeth sunk in his shoulder,
lost in all the pleasured pains.

and when the moment has blown past us,
and the rains come flooding in—
he drowned the whole world once;
he surely could do it again.

step-brother died today.
all smelling of decay—
two thousand years of blood and pain and rot,
of pretty words and evil thoughts,
the tangling vines haloed all round his head,
the circling crows all gorging the bread
that's dripping down his broken spine
and spilling from that ruined brain,
his body stained with water, blood and wine.

and when the spike had pierced his body,
would his spirit be released?
the wounds healed three days later;
was it worth it in the least?


but my lover smiled today—
o holy family, everything will be okay.
Kimberly Rose Nov 2018
My eyelids become heavy with desire. Craving an unknown, improbable future. Color swipes behind closed eyes, painting the image my mind continues to reminisce.
My fingertips ignite with warmth. They wander to where they crave to reside. Charting its surface, memorizing the curvature with a texture ever smooth.
My ears perky of familiarity. Pleasured by the sheer sensual vibration of my name having traveled vocal chords, tongue, teeth, lips.
Surround, engulf, indulge me.
Your venturesome soul sails through dimensional dynamics. Could this be you inhabiting in my senses?
Jon York Feb 7
I love the build up... when
touching  turns   into
grabbing. Soft lips into
passionate   tongues.
Your heart beating faster &
faster...with me longing for
you, your pleasured sighs.

"Push me up against your
mind and rip naked my soul
and I  will willingly concede
the rest to you" she whispered
in my ear and then she looked
at me and said, "the very thought
of you sir, makes me squirm."

You ******* lips as you straddle
me ready to be mine and slowly
you slide down on me taking in
every inch you can, closing your
eyes, you throw back your head
knowing  that soon  I  will  be all
inside  you.

That   wasn't  ***,   it  was  naked
poetry I told her, me being a poet
and  all,  "and if  you  just  wanted
to   talk  you  would   have  wore
underwear" I said, and then she
whispered in my ear, "I want you
inside my mind."
                                                          ­                     Jon York   2019

— The End —