"pouting" poems
her lips were as red as the blood dripping from a fresh wound.
they were as dark as anger and as passionate as love.
they ignited fires, if only under his skin.
they glistened in the light, as she swept her tongue across.
they were all he wanted, all he aspired for.
he watched her painted lips form the soft p's and round o's
of their everyday language.
he watched her lips pull back with sheer happiness
and he found himself grinning along with her.
she took something so common, like pouting with distaste,
and made it so astonishingly glorious.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Threaded brows and polished nails,
Pouting lips and ruffled skirts.
Doing it slow, with a Magic Mike look-alike.
Hosting shows for the richest of the slums.
Wearing glittering rocks, buying Vuittons.
Stolen dollars, well spent before their time inside.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
In a class, I'll sit and listen
they'll explain that I have no rights
as a member of the LGBTQ+
they'll say,
with pride of their skin,
black lives DON'T matter-
all lives do.
I'll sit here, OH YES,
I'll sit and listen
they'll talk about girls being ugly
talking about how
there are only two genders
and I'll sit here
relating women to paintings,
weaving them into my poems,
slightly pouting and confused
with my lack of their said gender.
Sighing,
I will sit here and listen
as they repeat the things
I've heard my entire life
and I'll bite my tongue, though not really
a look will pass by, rage seeps through pores
I'll leak liquid anger
until the toxins correct their rotten brains
I know I should say something,
but there are tons of them
and only micro-me.
Weak.
I'll sit here, and I will listen to them as
we all eagerly await the bell
Save us.
we're far apart, so
my mask is off now,
but when it sounds, when it promises peace
RING RING RING
I will stand, turn,
and Black Lives Matter will be almost
as prominent as a tattoo on my face,
the phrase will melt,
it will stick,
it will attach to my mouth
and say
scream
sing
the words that I cannot.
and I'll keep Sydney's hoodie on
as my bulletproof vest,
her chain against my heart
understanding that
THIS IS NOT A CHOICE
Why would I
ever
choose the pain I went through for this?
only to go home,
and hear more from my step-father,
with the victimizing mother actings
as if it never happens
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
There once was a little beagle who was stuck in a deep puddle of mud.
The puppy struggled and struggled, only to become more exasperated.
Crying and pouting, the beagle finally gave up and let himself slide neck-deep into the mud.
He laid like this all night, until the next morning, only his brown-speckled head was atop of the mud pile.
A small child walked by the puddle and to him, he saw a giant mass of mud with a head.
The young boy screamed in horror, but ran closer to get a better glimpse. To his surprise, the beagle woke up and yelped to be free from the mud. The little boy felt an immediate affection for the puppy and jumped into the mud puddle and pulled the dog out.
The lesson?
I'm still trying to figure this one out, too.
I'll let you know when I figure out the lesson behind this one.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
The pretty devil,
Dressed well,
Full pouting lips,
Cheap perfume smell,
Gets you every time,
All you need
Is to play divine,
Living in your own world,
Boys worship every step,
Although your striped stockings
Seem as if they'll curl.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
5.3k
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
4.9k
Neat orderly lines of chairs,
Rattling biro pens in sweaty palms,
An echoing hall of icy airs.
Exhaling teens failing to stay calm,
A balding figure pouting sternly,
Glares over nervous beings.
Announcing the rules that concern me,
Gulping down that sinking feeling.
A monotone drill bellows out,
I open my paper to 1A.
Oh Christ, what is this all about.
Questions so vague, I don’t know what to say.
This theme remains to continue,
Frying my brain, gnawing at my wit.
A piercing doubt seeps through,
for the rest of the exam I sit.
Seconds to minutes, minutes to hours,
Developing the skill needed to cope.
But my heart persists to cower
Falling lower, as if on a slope.
A bell calls out to signal the end,
I place down my pen somehow.
“How’d it go” asks my friend,
“Alright, double maths now!”.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.
Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.
The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.
Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.
Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.
'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.
'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.
And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.
So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:
'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.
'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.
That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.
'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.
'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'
And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.
As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
She doesn't exactly follow an ambition to be part of a new world
She isn't exactly the definition of your typical post-modern-feminist girl
I'm sorry princess, that you had to have me on this day
But you could have made it easier to find something to say
Jumped up and done some doing about how my foot got in my mouth this way
Instead you're sitting, pouting pretty cause your pretense won't get played
I'll watch you smoke your cigarette, while you're in your loose thread Sunday clothes,
Let's take one of those strings, hold your dress to the wind and see if it floats
Disposable cameras,
Forever fights.
Forever cameras,
Disposable nights.
Hey there weary stranger, I'm sorry I got you confused,
It's just in my lamer moments like this, I don't know what to do,
My silence won't tell you you're beautiful, so I overload and surge through the fuse,
Let me shut up and take you to dinner, if you're lucky we'll both get used.
We're so over the disposable camera generation,
Disposable cameras,
Forever fights.
Now it's a forever rolling fixation,
Forever cameras,
Disposable nights.
So watch out how you smile,
Maybe try to be nice,
Cause if happiness is found in teeth, I friend the crocodile,
And the coolest cats do the same for the mice
So watch out how you smile,
Maybe try to be nice,
Cause if happiness is found in fangs flashed then I friend the crocodile,
And the coolest cats do the same for the mice
We're so over the disposable camera generation,
Disposable cameras, make way for
Forever fights.
Now it's a forever rolling fixation,
Forever cameras, only roll on
Disposable nights.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
Enter the designer:
*"Move gracefully while ties bind you suspended with 2 swords pointing at your throat
don't forget to show your fierce face while upside down and flopping uncontrollably
you must be my definition of perfection.
Now lose 5 pounds for my needle and thread cannot conform to your body!
It is my garment you must fit not the other way around!
Walk the catwalk and toss your hips to and fro, you are not good enough!
Chin down darling it is so much more becoming.
Oh how I'd wished you wore a shorter top making your legs run on for miles and miles.
Your plunging neckline becomes you since you have nothing up top.
Stick to greens mostly, a little mint and sage should spice up that lettuce bowl and drink nothing but water now I wouldn't want you to spoil the seams I've sewn for you"*
Truth:
Bone structures and pouting lips,
thigh gaps and protruding hips,
tiny waist lines and judding shoulders
You are Barbie, plastic as can be
you are a paper doll majesty
Dressing you up, dress you down
Don't dare grow old so don't let your hair down
There shall be no relaxing for you
From your high cheek bones to your flawless skin tone.
**Modeling icon of anorexia for generation upon generation
for little girls with dyslexia of the natural body image
Creating dysfunction in societies views
of what health and beauty is to all girls.**
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
~
*The pouting of her lips in perfect sync
to the groove of her hips, in friction against mine.
The heat of sweet sweaty swings
each stroke firm and refined.*
~
. . .
Alas, another daydream -
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Before I was a poet who didn't know what he wanted to be
Lost in tragedy always being looked down upon by thee
I was never good enough no matter what I did
Always sitting in the darkest corner wondering why this had to be
Always crying becoming the pathetic boy they pushed upon me
But now that I think about it...
I should be laughing not crying
Thanking not dying
Smiling not pouting
I mean it's my birthday after all
I'm finally seventeen soon to be thirty
I don't care that I'm not the best at what I do
Or that i probably won't ever be
But one thing I promise to thee
All these years you were wrong about me
You don't know me
The obstacles I survived to get to where I am
The battles I fought losing parts of me
I would love to see how you survive my war
But until you fight it...
Don't do me
I don't care about your back story;
You sure as hell don't care about mine,
But you see...
To be or not to be
The thing is I am me,
And I am proud to be
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Where Gloria lies
Lydia once lay
Gloria's boyfriend
sleeps beside her
(Gloria)
& Lydia having to sleep
in the cot bed
feels the aches and pains
in a bed too small
and sits moodily
on the red tiled
front door step
gazing at the Square
chin in her small hands
pouting lips
the baker with his
horse drawn cart
goes by
the man with his boxer dog
walks on by
waves as he
is wont to do
his dog sniffing
the ground
her father's voice
sounding from indoors
her mother's voice
bellowing above his
Benny rides along
on his imaginary horse
& rides over to her
sitting there
what's up?
he asks
fed up
she replies
staring at him
my big sister
& her boyfriend
still have my bed
& I'm stuck in
the cot bed &
I ache & feel angry
& I could spit
I see
Benny says
getting off
his pretend horse
anything I can do
to help?
only if you kidnap
her boyfriend
& send him off
some place
Lydia says
what you doing
anyway?
she asks
standing up
& rubbing her behind
which had become
pins& needlely
I was going to ride
my blue scooter
but you can come
& we can share it
along & down
Rockingham Street
he says
she looks at him
& says
ok if I can
have a ride
even if it is blue
or
he says
I can ask my sister
if you can borrow
her red one
will she let me?
Lydia asks
sure to if I ask
nicely & promise
her some sweets
he says
ok
Lydia says
let's go then
so they walked up
to the flat where
Benny lives with his
parents & sister
& brother
& he asks his sister
who says yes
& so Benny & Lydia
ride off across
the Square
on the two scooters
& Benny has
(for safety against
bad cowboys)
his two 6 gun
shooters.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Touch me not say the morning due to the sunrise disappearing as the sun grew
Touch me not say the coconut tree with its fruits hanging aloof,
Touch me not say the frog with bright red spots corking under the Buttress roots,
Touch me not says the indulging and then eluding dreams.
Touch me not says the maiden, playfully resisting her lover’s every move
Touch me not say the open shore to the teasing ocean waves,
Touch me not say the blood colored fruit to the naive traveler,
Touch me not say the blazing sun to Icarus, son you can’t fly to the sun,
Touch me not says the peeved kid pouting and showing it’s irk.
Touch me not says the volcano, feigning to be at rest
Touch me not says the deranged dog, to anyone who dare to come nearer
Touch me not says the humble cosmos, hiding all its beauty on a dark and cloudy night
Touch me not says the hissing cobra, I can **** an elephant.
Touch me not says the steaming ice
Touch me not says the thorny bushes,
Touch me not says the porcupine,
Touch me not says the diffident butterfly
Touch me not says the poet, can’t you see i am working i can’t be in distress
Touch me not, touch me not I am fine ……
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 3:41 PM UTC
He had a bright yellow one, as yellow as a highlighter
I see them now and then on the highway and they stand out
like an important concept in a textbook, something to be taken note of
I rode in it once, and it was so clean, I felt like I could eat off the dashboard
and the doors were attached with the regular bolts and backpack shoulder strap material
which I have never figured out
and he looked even shorter, sinking into the seat, his longer legs stretched to the pedals
and his torso foreshortened and far away
and it was bouncy, and I was sure he could see my fat shake but I think that was the last thing on his mind.
We had dinner with another teacher, and his burrito arrived on his plate, and I felt like
I ate the inside of my taco salad and drank my beer and a few seconds passed and his plate
was empty and his eyes never seemed to leave me, not in a pleasant, admiring way
but with concern and fear, and attraction
and he finally burst forth in a flurry of worry about what would happen to the taco shell
would I eat it? take it? I should have offered it to him, but I can honestly say I've
never heard anyone so upset over a taco salad shell, and the waitress took it away
and I looked at him gently through my beer fog and he seemed to be pouting and squirming inside
On the way back he told me we had no future
At forty one the longest relationship he had had lasted three months
and clearly this one wouldn't work and I remember being confused
because I wasn't aware I had ever brought up a lasting bond
but it's true, I wanted his attention, his acceptance,
I felt so down, even losing a job I hated
and besides, he would leave all summer and not talk to anyone except his buddies
and those he met on the road
He was wiping the slate clean
I never liked him, only craved his attention and didn't enjoy it when
I rarely got it, and on my last day, which I worked hard to make happen
a little earlier than normal
I ran to him and hugged him and kissed his cheek
and it was not a high cheek bone and I cold feel five o'clock shadow,
and the wrinkles on his neck, his neck like a turtle's
and I begged him not to forget me, in a strange rush of madness
and he let out a cry of joy with the kiss
and said he wouldn't forget me, I was in his phone
It was like in Hebrew, where you say someone is "in" the phone, not "on" the phone
and I dreamt about going back to Israel that night, but not of him
He is somewhere with his buddies, in a bright red jeep
and I never really liked him
and can't this be the last time
I pursue and obsess over a man I don't even like
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
Within the church
The solemn priests advance,
And the sunlight, stained by the heavy windows,
Dyes a yet richer red the scarlet banners
And the scarlet robes of the young boys that bear them,
And the thoughts of one of these are far away,
With carmined lips pouting an invitation,
Are with his love - his love, like a crimson poppy
Flaunting amid prim lupins;
And his ears hear nought of the words sung from the rubricked book,
And his heart is hot as the red sun.
2.4k
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..
Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.
Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.
Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.
Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?
Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?
Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
My mom always told me to be myself
I guess she noticed first I was always
different
Not similar to the rest but
I should be happy about that
That I seen things a little differently
And at the age of six I understand empathy
More that any child, teenager, and some adults
She liked to call me compassion when I was little
I hated so much when I was smaller
But I miss it now since she has left this earth
I miss her yelling compassion
Come clean up
I would pout around as I cleaned
Her helping me
Saying compassion
**I know you have some giving to do but please stop pouting
and help you will be done soon**
Even though she isn't here anymore
I never lost this compassion
I would give my last dollar to anyone of my friends who need it
Give them the clothes I own just to keep them warm
Lend them my ear when they think the rest of the
world isn't listening
Sometimes it seems the rest world has forgot
The definition of compassion
Everyday I wake up
I remind one person
About this thing called compassion
Then just maybe they can pass it on
And the world in due time
Will never forget compassion ever again
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.
Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.
Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and sex-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.
Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--
Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.
The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--
Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--
Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.
The door opens.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
She always sits in front of me
Face full of zits
Frizzy tight curls
Tacky clothes
Thin as a pencil
You're so greasy
You're pizza
You're macaroni and cheese
Why are all the girls in this choir so hideous?
I get sick to my stomach
when I look at you
you are the smell of sickening sweet
an arts major
insecure
fishing for notes
following the leader
And worst of all
you're blocking my view of him
You negate the bliss I feel when I see his face
He's looking at me now
But you can't let him see me
I think he loves me
But you're blocking his view
Who else would he want in this section?
And then I glance behind me
Big ***** girl
Blond greasy hair
Bangles
Eighties chic
Blue eyes
Brown coat
Big ****
Red pouting lips
She's not ugly
But by logic she should be
And I realize I'm a fool
It's her
He can't stop looking at her
I'm getting annoyed
He can't control his head
Always turned to my corner of the room
What does she think of this?
But she's gone
I won't see her until tomorrow
Was he looking at someone else?
At me?
I ponder the mystery
Leaving choir and the pizza-faced girl
with a smirk on my face
Maybe I'm not an ugly choir girl
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Goodbye to the past
I watch your hands waving
While my heart's ship sails safely
Across the big wide blue
Goodbye pouting rainclouds
I watch you cry somberly for me
Good bye little shadows
I cannot stick around
A glistening sun comes
To say Hello
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC