Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
Vicki Jun 29
he plucked
at my petals
testing my love,
my strength
in mettle.
naked at last
i'd given him all.
i gave to him
all my petals.

i was soft
and pliant,
let his mind
take me in thrusts,
allowed him
late night pulls
on me as he
doubted and
debated his trust.

he plucked
me of my petals,
my body, my mind,
my soul, till i was
a core apart.
he may have taken
the edges of me
but he never did
pluck my heart.
I once saw a ruffian young
A would be brute
At home, no doubt,
In the grubby grecian clubs
So unworthy of their legacy.

The tilt of chin, and cocksure slant of eye
Told of a life most lived
In unimpressed contempt.
But then he met his girl, and,

The crafted affect cracked like plaster;
No more the aping swagger
Nor the bumptious over pluck

Instead an unhid grin.
And an unhid soul.
And the rapid intuition
Peculiar to lovers.
#love
Evelyn May 9
I met gravity in the deep end. Saw that god is just
a stadium light casting for bacteria at the bottom of menisci.
When her hands held me under, I forgot my name.

Seven years later, the water remembered me. A force timed
and terrible dicing my skin, grinding my scalp into unsieved wine.
Three point eight billion years came and went, a single exhale.

One day the ocean will consume me. She’ll claim my eyes,
pick my bones. Then pluck what is left
and bury it under the weight of every raindrop.
I have heard her pacing the foot of my bed.
I have smelled myself on her breath.
Lexie 7d
You planted roses in my heart
     Now I am overgrown
With these thorns in my lungs
     And petals blooming out my eyes
The only reason my head is held high
     Is because of the stems in my throat
And still you bring me bouquets
     And still I pluck away
He loves me...
     He loves me not...
He loves me....
     He loves me not.
~
Soft, lush green grass twirls beneath my feet.
Pale purple and white flowers speckle that spot.
I lay down in the bed of idyllic petals and grass.
I watch the pearly, cirrus clouds whirl in the atmosphere.
More than an hour frolicks away from my grasp as my gaze drifts across the dazzling sky.
I ease my own worries in that patch of beautiful, rich vegetation.
I rise up and begin to head home with a clear mind and better understanding of the world.
I pluck a singular blossom and twist it between my fingers as I head back to my bleak home still cherishing my serendipitous self-discoveries.
~
I place that flower in a book with the intent of saving it forever.
/              i play a sweet song with a woman's body,
         that's at the centre of the earth...

                     and why do you think they kept
  rule of thumb of harems with eunuchs?
      you really think they had the capacity
                                                for dildos back then?

it's almost hilarious what "natural" selection
isn't, when it is, replica of natural harems...
               notably, with replica,
        replacing eunuchs, with gays, with dildos.
      
  
                          and how many people are fooled
by, attempting to concise
the ownership of cats
           as napping,
             half awake...
                      given my cat?
and what i observed?
               you sure, that, they're
not waiting?
         like opening a window?
you sre they're not harrowed
insomniacs?!
   they always "appear"
to be "sleeping",
  but the, "to be" can sometimes
mislead the concept of
the noun, from the verb...
   to be honest?
      i find my bonsai feline, companion,
to be... a "little bit"
  sleep-starved...
   hence his thespian attitude
in faking sleep...
  or at least acting out sleeping...
    only women shower
reincarnation gifs (promises)
  on cats...
    throw a dog a bone
and let's be over and done with...
can't mortality be mutually inclusive?!
id est:
   mary nichols said (a),
        michael faraday said (b)?
good to be considered
as the anti-thesis of
                      jacob, the tailor,
or cobbler,
  or whatever the criminal term
for ripper actually means...
it's a slang term...
   because what i did with
              the bulgarian prostitutes?!
my affair:
        you get to watch porn.
it's the tattoo of flesh on flesh!
           an inking via tooth!
such trivial pleasures,
  which amount to so much,
and yet...
           experienced with so little
time.
   all of space to be bewildered by,
could not confine man into being,
a man:
   given the temporal allocate-,
             being so...
unworthy of breeding kings...

pauper time!
                  pauper time!
              fuck it...
    and the time we have left,
                         not lost to craft a lament?

how to "steal" a kiss from a prostitute...
how's that?
   oh... you're not a bulgarian
lying about being romanian...

           see you... whenever.

- and yet...

  mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

that folding leg on my body,
that perfume of hair...

     all is and all is lost:
and all is gained...

            with that single, heretical
embrace...

              i spoke of an apple,
i ate a pear,
       but i embraced a peach...
    squish and all "magic": poof! gone!
fly my little dove,
into an embrace of, another...

        but being 2 years apart from
experiecing another human body
to be so intact within such
                    confines of intimacy?

(press me on the retard /
pervert case)

       flesh qua food:

            which you preserve yourself
from infringing
                       a "desire" to ingest!  
oh mirror that: memory!
                  touch of a tombstone!
touch of the socio-economic
                                       vernacular!      

let me revise that one saying:
               i don't write horror novels...
                              
                        ­                         i am horror.    

- - - - - - - - - -

so reiterate the part where i'm
supposed to "feel" jealous...
    while i tell you, about the, "scraps"
          of loitering with bulgarian girls in
the, "meat market"...

              cunt have a madonna
shoved up in there to boot?!

                fuck me!

                                     WINNER!

at least she has a mandible leg
to attach itself to my torso,
and spin a metaphorical
               spiderweb around it...

as i allowed myself to pluck
her previous four phallic etc. examples
                  with my lips...

tooth, by tooth, by tooth,
by even more the suckling
             inertia
       of lip, upon lip, upon lip, upon lip:

and so...

                                  S

but she is... what was already given...

    a lightning storm and a naked
                                       body in a mirror!

your people have porn,
   why can't i, have my desired outlet?
the dutch would be sensible enough,
not to allow such a flamboyant
narrative, continually imploding...

             but the english will;

i.e. the, "naughty" sentiment of
the non-distrubution of "information"...

      excessive potency of marijuana
in the skunk format...

                     well?

                                                     applause!

don't worry, i'll jerk off with you
                                    but my hand is... sort of:
non-synthetic...
     so i guess, given your soft pouch of genitals,
i'll have to imitate anal.
                                           /

— The End —