"positioning" poems
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the sheer immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
Thor
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night
when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes
no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo
as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening echo
through the sky
without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching
the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song
*oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true
i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score
you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle
hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like only you could*
tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet
suddenly
a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows
her tender pink ****
a charred flower
smoldering
like a
petite
grilled
calamari
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we
You and I pick verbs
actions
Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives
Transitive verbs take objects
You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words
Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?
For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****
Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.
Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative
And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration
You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you
But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace
Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.
Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis
(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)
But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions
So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives
Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!
Oh! Please, come!
I love the English language... ;)
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
slick body between
shoulders and hips
tiny legs
glued into place
sweeping
resting tail
so smooth in
its positioning
pointed nose
soft grain
days of work
the fox enters
the wooded
cabin.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
Yes, I'm a girl and I'm not trying to justify my body language nor am I positioning the rights of a feminist on the top, but
Yes, I was questioned always, even when I was right.
Subservience was legitimized as my trait ever since I felt this world.
Every time when I was buckled under by his lecherous eyes, I was asked to adjust my dupatta well.
Every action of mine substantiated the height to which I'll hold the name of my family.
I was asked to cross legs while sitting, speak amicably, yet not solitously.
Every time I'd to hide my period stain like a ****** blot.
I was asked to gallop my cramps because letting it out is a bitter sin.
Yes, I get my body scanned by their lewd gaze day in and out even when I put my baggiest of clothes on.
Yes, I'm a girl, and I have beautiful synonyms, call me maal, patola, bomb, ***** *** or a girl? May be, let yourself decide.
Yes, I'm questioned on the extension of the Roti's that I make and the smiles that I couldn't fake.
Yes, I'm a girl and I'll stand, and question your authority if it calls for, call me stubborn. Okay!
Remember, I'm a girl, and if you accuse me of being a feminist if I know, and can raise my tone up and against your authority, humanism needs to be checked then.
-APARAJITA TRIPATHI
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
I am a supreme
Light framed being
Who leaves ferrari's
In the dust
I am sorry for your
Jealousy as I am
Totally terrific
And love wearing
My fabulous coat
Fiercely independent I
Imprint the air with
My personal spots
My proud individuality
Nothing out of reach
I wait for something to inspire
As I hunt lightly
Positioning intelligently
And quickly
Pads on fire
I grab the ground
As I grip the world
With the sharpest claw
As evolving and revolving
Forces compel me with desire
My vibrant cells flicker
Waiting for the right trigger
Spinning and twisting
They collapse into air
As I rush and rush
chasing and chasing
My focus still like stone
Lands lightly like a feather
As I am clear as
Diamond or glass
Empty of thoughts I am a tunnel
The wind blows through
As I run and run
Soft and agile
I can quickly change
Direction or pace
Perfect balance my
Tail acts as a fulcrum
It is as though a
Silver thread was attached
From high up in heaven
Moving on an electric circuit
I am lightning through the air
Stretching like elastic
Expanding into spaces
I become a mile long
Reaching and Reaching
Into proud new places
Slipping through the air
As though someone
Had oiled my hair
I slide weightless
Air born on ice skates
As I catch my hare
With her swiftness
We find she lifts us
With her fire we catch desire
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
Isela
takes it in
the mouth.
She'd get on her knees,
positioning herself
half-in,
half-out
of focus.
Just enough for Joe,
behind the Cannon,
to capture
the whole thing.
Eric,
the producer,
was on his hands and knees
beside Joe.
'Come on Izzy
work it,
work the dick.'
'That's right,
stroke it,
make him sing.'
'I love it,
Izzy.'
Izzy wanted to bite
down.
She hated each and every ****
she ever saw,
but she had a few things to do.
Her **** had to be new
and renewed
on the daily,
her ***** had to get wet
on command,
and her stroke had to be
so fast
they'd burn the dude
as her mouth
cooled.
After her mouth
was littered,
and her face was a mess
of spinal glitter -- You could make a man
come out of his
brain, Eric would say.
Izzy would get in her car,
wiping her arm
where'd she'd gone
to the clinic
to get pricked
and tested,
and pull a long haul of Virginia Slims
down her throat.
'
It was always the first sweet thing
she tasted.
Izzy would pull into the Terrace View apartments,
all that long black hair,
and wipe all that make-up off,
three napkins-worth,
so she could kiss her baby.
Because Rocco was in for a bid,
and not coming home anytime in
the forseeable future.
Her microbiology degree was somewhere
in her closet underneath those pink stillettos and
more fishnets than fish.
And Izzy knew
that with those double d's;
*** like a backseat,
mouth that could grease
a ****
and her hands
Eric liked to call his own,
that she could pay the light bill
and maybe
put Romeo
into a daycare center
that wasn't full of roaches
and
angry *******
"Someday I'll get out,
but it's illogical
to say
with all the money I'm making,
and it's just a job
when you get down to it,
I've ****** a lot of *****
and never gotten
paid."
Rocco Jr.'s cheeks were always the second
sweet thing
she tasted.
"I know a lot of girls
that got defeated by this game."
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
If ever there was a time to stop breathing I chose a clearing at dawn.
A deer appeared right as the gleam of the sun touched the top of the forest line.
I heard a chipmunk scurrying across the oak roots rising from the ground.
A cardinal group begins to sing in the distance--as their sounds reaches me, I realized I have been distracted and turn my attention back to the fourteen point, white-tailed buck in the clearing.
I slowly lift my weapon.
I set my aim, positioning the cross (in the scope) at the shoulder of this magnificent creature, and I catch my breath.
The situation itself is far beyond a man simply taking the life of an animal--exceeds the thrill of a firing pin striking, creating an explosion that builds pressure, sending a six centimeter long, one and a half centimeter wide copper-coated bullet through the rifling pattern and into a target one hundred and fifty yards away.
I believe that Destiny brought us together based on the choices we both made.
I can only guess the animal's intentions (running away from a predator, looking for a mate, etc)
Myself? I am here because I argued with my wife of 25 years.
The deer drops to the ground.
We all make choices.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
Distance has a particular way of hurting:
It begins slowly, and is self-contained.
Because our mothers would often speak about Love,
and how everything falls helpless in Love,
Distance becomes a housebroken dog.
It is powerless, and whilst I love, I am powerful.
On Sunday, our fathers would teach us to put our faith in things unseen,
and so we grow confident and complacent.
Just when you think you’ve understood it,
It sinks its teeth in hard and deep.
An idealist tries to make it out light and easy
They will often write poems about finding
ideal love in the real world.
But I will write about knowing
real love misplaced in an ideal world.
It’s a world where comfort could come in binary files
filled with digital empathy and memories.
Where typed words and numbers that form
black and white promises could replace
the real and organic voice of reassurance.
Where wires between my webcams and your headsets
could entangle themselves in ways our fingers
used to be intertwined.
Where waiting for an email meant as much as
waiting for you to return home to me.
Where the strategic positioning of your punctuation marks
could transform these passive symbols
into active symbols of love and concern:
A comma, like a shared pause for when our eyes meet
Exclamation marks for when we wave to each other from across the street,
or as a passionate gesture from underneath these sheets.
A question mark for when you’re sick and I am by your bed
Worried, because you wouldn’t eat.
A semicolon for when we argue,
and a full stop for when we finally give in.
A parenthesis for containing moments of vulnerability
that only seem to leak out late at night.
You won’t know it but,
I dream mostly of an online conversation,
filled with time stamps that affirm your presence.
If I’m lucky, I will find an ellipsis
Small creatures of continuity with
heads heavy with hesitation.
…
And - if I’m really lucky,
I’d undo those black buttons of suspense
and see you once more.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
.
I am the one who walks at the edge of the herd
noting and observing the crush.
The jostling and positioning, and re-positioning.
I see, I watch. As the participants dance,
desperately seeking to be sorted, boxed, stamped and labelled.
The reject of the herd, I document.
I can paint a flowery picture.
I can write an apocalypse.
But its not like that, its not black and white.
Its complex. And it is moving.
Constantly. The only true organised motion.
Infinite individual minds, racing.
Racing towards oblivion
carried by the herd.
The weak, trampled; helping elevate the strong.
The strong, elevated; trampling down the weak.
The battle for posture.
The psychology of a single entity
split, schizophrenically, amongst the countless.
The herd travels as one. Inexorably.
United and scattered, evolution incarnate.
I see the hate, the love, the conflicts within.
I see the pain and misery.
There is danger here, on the edge.
I am the one who walks apart from the herd,
finding my own path.
©Pagan Paul (20/06/16)
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
she’s out there on the ice again.
holy night &
positioning the gas-tanks just right.
joseph is her father, and his father,
even if not by blood,
raised flame.
foot to throat, brother remains
in the city working.
he is building a rocketship
in the basement of his apartment
complex.
back to town and dying houses.
foreclosures and fences.
lake of fire.
lights: she lingers in lights.
something so true and alive about the revelatory
of color,
of the world when lit and hit by sun
or our artifice.
her lovers: one dead by heavy
lumber, the other rewinding videotapes
in chasms of the library.
she thinks on his lips.
her dog tracks wet prints
across the carpet and floors.
wish list:
mittens
huckleberry jam
iphone solar charger
explosives
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
Today I went to a
Red-Cross Baby-sitting course.
And we had to pair up with a
partner,
so the girl sitting next to me
turned to me to
practice
heimlich positioning.
So she stood up behind me and
put her arm across my chest and
we went through that position,
and then tried the other one,
where she put her arms around my stomach.
I could feel her breathing against my
ear, and her hair smelled
sweet and fresh and for the first time ever,
I wondered if my hair smelled like my
watermelon conditioner.
Then we switched,
and I put us through the
first position,
and I liked hugging her waist and
feeling her against me.
We sat down after that and learned about
CPR, and the instructor said we wouldn't be
practicing listening for breathing on
our partners,
and I let my mind wander to
a place where we could,
where she put her ear down
to my lips,
and her brown and blonde hair
fell over her ear and onto
my face.
I shook myself out of that
reverie,
and tried to pay attention,
but my eyes were drawn to her,
so I studied her instead.
An over-large grey sweatshirt,
with an icon of two green hockey sticks.
Blue denim shorts with
light blue lace on the ends,
black hightops,
and her socks were the same
hot pink as my own
shoelaces.
We practiced bandaging each other
up, so I wrapped
a strip of gauze around
her right forearm
and she did the same to my left.
And at the very end she rolled up her sleeves,
and I saw why she had me
wrap up her right arm.
Her left contained a
tile of faint scars,
criss-crossed like
spider-webs,
along her arm.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
the button clicks
...
10
dashing
...
9
leaping
...
8
running
...
7
positioning
...
6
smiling
...
5
4
3
2
...
jump and
1!
click click click
...
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
Take me to your room.
Let me through the doors
where your adventures run
barbaric and sinful;
and the opposite of that.
The core of your imagination
where the mountains grow heavy
Where you dream in endless dimensions.
I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
Take me to the deepest caves of your secrets
Take me to the tallest mountain
enclosed by the heaviest Cimmerian clouds
cascading your loudest tears of sadness,
then lead me across your sturdy bridge
where the tears fall with joy and laughter.
I want to take it all in
Steal your thoughts and paint
a picture using you as my only instrument.
I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
Let me step inside your little universal island
Where your password is …
And words are used silently
Our language is silence and poetry,
Emotion is felt in its severest
I want to visit every season through your eyes
I want to meditate with your greens and blues
Swim through your a thousand suns
dive off of cliffs and fall into a sea of honey
Stand on trees positioning The Vitruvian Man
and let the bees shower us clean- how natural is this in your world.
Let us walk through the desert of confusion,
where my name is crying out in pain-
in this expanse you suffocate,
for my name alone binds
around your throat and tugs.
and I am the innocent corruptor of your lands.
With this land I shall leave alone.
I want to lay asleep with you hand in hand
and watch our souls exit our bodies together
hand in hand creating a portal of another land.
This shall be a dream alone.
A dream within a dream
perhaps we go back to the end of a cold November
and attend your birth and steal the tears of delight
You are a universe of three worlds, and within them is infinity
You are so young and unaware
of what I planted in you.
I am the author of your being.
Grow into me and I will watch you like a mother
and raise you as a madman.
Take me by my spirit and watch me
illuminate yours with my black lotuses
that bloom within me attached to the veins of my soul.
Sleep under the orange blossomed moon.
Lay while I embed this into you, lover child.
I will forever be the corruptor of your lands.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
I scrape my forearms as if the hand you have clasped around my wrist is a lion’s jaw.
I don’t do well under social pressures
And I would love nothing more than to lend you my underwear and tell you about my dreams
But my modesty is a jealous ***** and will have none of that
So instead, I put my feet on your lap and touch behind my ears
Positioning them like satellites, prepared to receive any data you let into the atmosphere
I tell you about the boy I loved in high school, you tell me about the book you’re reading
I dress you up to be John Keats
With words of romance swimming through your veins
From your eyes to your hands
The prose you conjure make my eyelashes sweep against my upper cheek
With ***** in your blood and the night still young,
You have the ability to write me a novel crafted out of the moments that have crept through your fingers
I grasp at your memories as if they were butterflies,
Careful not to touch the wings, so that their beauty might be seen by someone else
I sit and watch as your face becomes a sitcom
With all the laughs and pains that a script can hold
I look for places where I might make notes in the margins, trying to make you more cohesive
I glue a penny to my forehead
Face up
In hopes that someone will take it from its place
Looking for the bit of luck it holds and instead grab my hand.
My stomach clenches in knots
Craving an understanding of the words you mumble into your coffee
My toes massage the soles of my shoes
Looking for a foot hold in the song I’m humming
But instead I breathe on my tea and dwell on the kiss we shared in the basement
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
I can be a waste of time,
electrons dripping into my veins
through my eye socket
assaulting my ear canal
directly into my brains.
When my purpose is stretched
between too many ambitions
it is easily punctured
by the buzz of inboxes,
and mindless online exhibitions.
I gorge on useless tips and viral videos
positioning my open mouth
below the gaping search box
as I pull the lever again and again
and my willpower goes south.
Each stray thought, each nagging question
is an excuse to trade concentration
for an immediate rush,
a canonical ******
of electronic validation.
I pull as hard as I can,
interrupting the current
feeding these diversions.
The network inside my brain lights up,
completing my inner circuit.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Dismay
I wanted sweetness, comfort and intimacy
To be soothed and eased
To be held and cossetted
To be your little one
Your pet
Safe again and cherished
Cast down
Deflated
Punished
Degraded
Hopeless
Did you intend that darkness for me?
You have the ability to do me deep hurt
In your offhand positioning
The taste of future abuses
Not even physical force or pain
Twist of your words
Barbed wires you fashion just for me
A series of small cuts
That burn and seep
I felt your power over me
Is that safety?
I contemplated rebellion
I thought about being a brat.
Acting out disappointment and displeasure
Instead, I came to heel
Literally
Ending and beginning with the intimacy of your foot pressing my cheek into cold tiles and the prospect of further violations.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
Darling
Do you mind if my hands clutch your curvaceous margins?
Baby
Do you care if I get a slight taste of your gravy?
Honey
Would you allow me to put a little work into your comb? The deeper; the more you moan
I have a thing for your eyes
I'm attracted to your smile
I have a crush on your thighs
I like your hair
I'm attached to your laugh
I love when you are bare
Inside of your parenthesis says (ooh) (ahhh) (uh huh) and (grunts)
The subtitles of us making love
The rehearsal (foreplay) and role play
Kissing from bottom to top
Positioning from prop to prop
As I come down stage
I forgot my lines
So I improvise
Lick it from behind
This is graphic but I wouldn't label it ****
Because this is to adore
Our character's chemistry is
Action packed
Comedy
Dramatic
Romantic
Musical, for whoever in the other room
Touching, for whoever witness our groove
Inspiring, to the audience as we continue to perform while being tired
As we call for the last scene
Soon as you pass out
The buckling of my knees
The stage grow silent
The house applaud
We bow
The curtains fall
Everyone leaves
Then we work on the deleted scenes
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Rotting as the Wheel turns
Watching as the fields burn
Flesh is falling down from heavens
Graces never known by man, but
Devils rip and tear at fire
Breathing smoke and
Hanging rope a'
Round my ankle cause I
Think its time to reconsider
Our positioning between
Reconciliation and...yet another wet dream.
Bet a dollar that you scream
When the seas all fill with cesium
Call the Father to the scene but
We can't clean up the chemical, so
I'll continue bleeding out my eyes
Eyes can't see their own demise
Look through me as we decay
Together in lifeless harmony.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
In the man on top position of loving,
We had the session of love making,
We both were heartily smiling,
We gasp for air while breathing,
Your ******* are heavily heaving,
And as beneath you I am now lying,
You whisper, "Let's change positioning!"
You just sit yourself atop my loving pole,
And as deeper it goes now the tool,
Your voice says silently, "Atul,"
We look like a rider & saddle,
We both will now explode,
We will never forget this love making,
In the woman on top position of loving.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
summer nights, outdoor bar fights, the smell of alcohol on men's breaths
cigarette fumes from her dolly friends and the smell of leather in her hands
***** converse and scraped knees
tired eyes and gentle caressing
tired, tired little girl
getting lost within a big world-.
tangled in white silk sheets, listening to his records
while he fixes them a drink
hair smelling of perfume, her body soft as satin
and the pillows like beautiful pastel clouds
silent shifting and awkward positioning, don't touch her or get too close.
tired, tired little girl
getting lost within a big world.
******** auburn hair, scarlet lips, soft sighs
brushing her hair over 100 times
little girl, little girl, where are you going?
painted red lips and your pale limbs showing
hair up in braids and your legs lovely but barley clothed yet
tired, tired little girl
return to sleep
don't get lost within this big world.
-the middle
conceptcollection
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Not and then again a kind of annoyance I see here taking place.
I am smiling when I get out of this place.
So fake. The taparoo he speaks of
And less than elevated is my mood as I await the verdict of my income status.
This is what happens...
When one is not of the workman's habits,
Thus is moi.
Whoa! I had not known
Rendering the lone, clone, honed
Underwear so blown out of its natural positioning:
It is not me but his epiphany.
Simply riveting this horor movie ***** and all her galore.
(Yawn)
I'm bored.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 3:36 AM UTC
SHAPESHIFTING
7/25/2014
in under two minutes
I could shed my skin
my limbs aren't my own-
to be in your presence
to feel the warmth
hearing breaths, chest moving
If your arms are around mine
the shift becomes inside
like the plates of the earths core
positioning right into each other
filling each other, filling me up
shapeshifting
I'm not me when I'm with you
I'm indebted to this feeling
take my skin;
my veins -
rip out my entire being
shapeshifting
for you
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
i wasn't satisfied with the cartesian
cogito ergo sum...
it's not that i couldn't stomach it,
it was just: not enough?
people claim that maxim to be the source
of all subjectivity,
and there's nothing objective about
it.
all this modern talk of subject vs. object,
i had to employ a θήσαύρύς.
i needed a square... a solomon's star,
two squares encompassed against each other,
nothing akin to the star of david...
i mean solomon's star, of two squares
imposed on each other, layered
so you get an oκτάγωνον oktágōnon
oh **** a macron over an omicron = an omega!
oh k'tah goo non...
wait wait... i was going to write something
concrete, and yes, it was based on solomon's star...
6 things -
cogito sum
subjectivity objectivity king david (6)
reflexive reflective
thinking = subjectivity = the reflective
thinking = subjectivity = the reflexive
thinking = objectivity = the reflective
thinking = objectivity = the reflexive king solomon (8)
being = subjectivity = the reflective
being = subjectivity = the reflexive
being = objectivity = the reflective
being = objectivity = the reflexive
(alt. given the atheistic scissors of definite / indefinite articles
of the / a a reflex, a reflection)
what this means is, what's generally thought of as
the tetragrammaton, but it's not four letters,
it's the interpolation of the four main faculties,
that are now seen as tripling up, or call them: cubed;
a lament configuration representation.
thinking is subjective in that it is also reflective
(the narcissus bias)
thinking is subjective in that it is also reflexive
(i need a shave)
thinking is objective in that it is also reflective
(i am ageing)
thinking is objective in that it is also reflexive
(i'll just stop looking into a mirror)...
dear apologies for the geometry of the arrangement
of words, i know you'd love to see a tartan pattern
of interchange, but this **** seems rigid, in the way
that i wrote it... i couldn't find a way to write a b a b
as stated, it only came out as a a b b,
or a b c a b c rather a a b b c c.
but do you see what is even more fascinating than numbers?
the arithmetic symbols... arithmetic symbols
are very much akin to diacritical symbols...
i write an over-simplification of a concept using =,
and then all these conjunctional words pop up!
and yes, in terms of citing heidegger as opposed to
descartes there's a great disparity between
being and i am -
self-evident, being = the sum, a total, Σ,
while i am? it's a unitary representation of the total (sum / sigma)
of the possible mode of being -
it's also called ego interference / pronoun inteference
in the conceptualisation of the cascade that's ergo
into the basin that's dasein.
what philosophy call metaphysics?
linguistics call orthography...
what chemists call para- positioning on
a benzene ring;
or what non-chemists call the paranormal.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC