I do NOT write "poetry".
I do write words.
I cannot write "poetry".
I do write words.
I do not want to write "poetry".
I do write words.
Ive never "seen" myself as a "poet".
I spend my time avoiding the mediocracy of **** licking criticism
unlike every so-called "poet" I ever met.
I watch as "poets"wallow in the slough of narcissicism.
Ive never want to be called a "poet".
I do not want to be immersed in the depth of narcissicism
where "poets" spend their lives.
What an insult to be compared to a "poet".
any "poet" even Josef Stalin or Mao Tse Tung or the Dali Lama who all wrote 'poetry'..
"poets" make their homes in  the heights of false humility.
Edward Lear would be the height of unanimity
in his approval of my nonsensical behaviour.
I should throw all of my words out my window
for all the good they'll do.
I have no name or identity.
I have no name or identity.
Names only exist in official documents.
I know who I am.
I am the individual Isness.
Which is a small but equal,individual,independent,nameless,
formless,genderless and non physical Isness formed from the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in this human body.
Reborn lifetime after lifetime after lifetime until I let go, permanently,
of Mind and Conditioned Identity and become Isness realised
which is the true goal in life for all humans.
I have no mind or conditioned identity.
There are words that are a call sign to the ears in this body.
Words that are not uttered by the mind driven liars
on these threads,with their asinine cries
for their conditional love and the possessiveness it engenders.
This is but my latest in a string of bodies
since I left the Isness of the Universe at the very beginning of existence .
Bodies that have been the vehicle for me,the individual Isness,
to be incarnated in since existence began
before the dawn of time or space or .
Ive read my words out aloud in Edingburgh.
Ive read out aloud my words in Formentera and Ibiza and Tanger
and Paris and Amsterdam and Delhi and Calcutta and Bangkok and lots more cities of EVIL and repression.
Ive read out aloud my words in Better Books in London.
I stood next to Bart Huges with Lee Bridges,
one night in  1967 reading words from a blank page--
with Jimi playing round the corner.
I stood in the square of Saviours in the north and
shouted my non-violent words
at the crowd of violent supporters of the Oligarchy.
I am definitely NOT a "poet".
Oh no!.
Wouldn't want to be a "poet".
Oh no!.
I don't write "poetry".
Not ****** likely.
Oh no!.
I only write strings of meaningful associated words.
Or write strings of meaningful dissasociated words.
Or write just words--supply your own unjust meanings.
Wouldn't want to write "poetry".
Sooner write how I adore the flowing lines a curvaceous ****,
or a dragon fly hovering over a Marguerite--irridescant,
or licking a sweet smelling dripping ****--licky lips,
or a cloud floating by serene and bubbly,
or having a stiff **** in my mouth dribbling precum,
or a night sleeping on the banks of the Ganges
alone with humanity as my bed companion,
emptying the warm fresh contents of the attached *****
into my eager mouth,
or the soft grip of a baby monkeys fingers around mine,
or slipping a length of my hot flesh into the **** or **** of the beloved,
or the sublimity of a crunchy salad with balsamic dressing.
"poetry" is so boring compared with these verses and chapters
of experiential knowingness.
"poetry" is used as a beard by"religions" with their vain and bloodthirsty "gods" and "goddesses" and untrustworthy mendacious corrupt but pleasant priests.
"poetry" is used by Monarchs and other assorted Tyrants to proclaim
the " phoney kinship" they have with these vain and bloodthirsty
"gods"and "goddesses" as they enrich themselves with the gold teeth of their willing victims.
"poetry" is used by cruel dictators to proclaim their phoney kinship with the uneducated uncultured and unwashed  masses
as they lead them to the pits of mental slavery and destruction.
All these narcissistic scribblers proclaiming themselves
to be this or that or the other--when all they actually are
is a bag of nothing but cold air--that turns into just-ice..
Insecure and vain destroyers of ancient trees,
filling pages with their deranged and strangled but beautiful syntax. .
Inane tossers of epithets murdering prose with tongues
stored in the knife drawer and sharpened daily
on dead peoples bones...
fake humility abounds among "poets".
Arrogant professors of greeting card messages.
Throw your scribbles to the winds.
Let nature rot them in the garbage can of history or her story.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.
Fozzywhockered.

www.thefo­urnobletruthsrevised.co.uk

His Anaïs Nin-THE MUSE
     Of ****** Souls.

Glancing up from her pipe,
    She saw his gazing to her face.
Eyes connect, she almost freezes in
     bewilderment. Exhaling, lips rise at his, she knows his thoughts.  They
     are her own.

Lighting the Camel, face flickering,
     As the campfire drifts,
Giving way to the glow of the distant
     horizon of the ocean,
He moves his lips to her  neck;
     Lifts her to the blue Ford.

"Dance primal for me, baby.
     These shorts are not needed.
I'll throw dollars you way;
     Or I'll love you forever, for now.
Or eternity. But I must taste you.
     Share every drop of my...
       warm...juice.

That's beautiful. I see you."
     The creases where they should be.
"Glistening slit, where I probe to touch
     your soul; where pain, itself,
Feels the sword, as intensely
     As, deeply, as you feel my ****.

May I join you?" Dance the stars.
     Sway, embraced, bodies toasting,
Celebrating survival; of themselves, the stars,
     Glowing, feeling all their fire burning,
A tingle, a hot chill, moistening her libia minora;
      Now sliding, anticipating his tongue;
Inviting his bell shaped head; come inside,
      find me.

Climbing, standing, rod throbbing, grazing mons *****,
     Precum drips across a tiny patch of hair.
Pulling her, ******* titillate on his chest.
     He kisses her softly, passion deepens; tongues, as well.
I want you. I need you inside me. **** me until I can't move?
     **** my breast, my primal beast. Bite them.

I'll almost ***. You'll pulse at that, then drip.
    Give me that, baby. I need your *** on my ****;
Mixing with my cream, a perfect solution;
     Smooth glide of life. Put your fingers inside.
Stretch my walls. I'll touch my ****,
      My *** covered fingers. My tongue in your mouth.

He grabs her firmly; spins her around.
      His soaking head slips down her crevice;
Across her ****; it tightens, wantinglly,
     Yet like her soul, timidly afraid. This might hurt...
A bit. But if she doesn't have him,
      She will sure die from crave, curiosity, what ifs.

"I'm coming, baby", she cries,
     Distant figures, walking the beach,
With eyes to dilated for detail, see a shadow push,
     Another shadow give and lean,
Over the hood of a truck, banned from the beach.
     They suspect. They do not know...

She is shaking; trembling; pulsating...*******:
     Whimpering, "Please **** me, baby."
Arching a perfect ***, with a dimple he knows intimately,
     She feels his head massage her ***** lips,
Slightly dipping inside. Then "OH MY GOOD GOD!!!
      I...can't...breath!....I...can't...I'm still *******!  

I...can't....oh GOD!  Deeper baby!  I'm gonna *** again...AAHHH..."
     Pushing deeply. Retracting. Slamming.
"Faster!  That ****'s yours!  Just ******* take it!!!"
     **** me!  ****.....ME. **** ME...TO....DEATH!!!!"
She shares her lovely juices, the length of his ****.
    
     The sun illuminati. Not man's, but pure truth.
Now, most assuredly exposed, both the couple
     And ten early morning beach strollers;
He slides out, still strong. Still hard. Very wet.
     To take her up the trembling ***.

"It does hurt, my love. My **** and my soul.
     Be gentle. Tender. Move slowly.
For now. Protect me. Love me.
    Then *** in my depths. I am your muse.

You're a snake in the reeds
And I'm dead set on you.
You've got me walking upright
With a mind full of nothing
But the taste of your lips
And your precum on my tongue.
Watching your eyes
Roll to the whites.
Watching your chest
Rising and caving
In a fathomless succession.
Your skin is on fire
And so is mine
But it's because you lit me
From within.
And you've cooled me so quickly.
Left absent the cheeks
Your hand would smart.
Left empty the crease between my legs.
Stolen from me the feel
Of your finger, your tongue
Your chest pressed
So closely against mine.
But I want to feel you, still.
Run my hands against you.
Trace the curves of
Your neck, your back, your shoulders
And all the places no one can see.
You flutter through my mind
And you undo me with one
Glance from your ocean eyes.
I'm standing here with legs wide open
But I feel you burrowing deeper.
You scare me and that's rare.
Not really, but it's deeper.
It's bigger and more full.
Because I want to taste you.
But I can't read you.
I can't let you in
Because I want it too badly.
It's an endless mind game
And I think that's part of the allure.
Because you've brought me
To a new world full of
Tides that rush past
And sooth while they scrape.
To a place where obsession
Seems ok.

grrooooming and backing wearing and ruff tide tearing ahhh I'm trying to catch onto the sentiment but it passes away from my lips, I am left in the trenches ,  I am left to take on my own tyoe of instrumental twist, taking in the twists, anticipating the next adventure, attempting to throw down into the river with the gators, smiling up at me, in theist little baseball caps,they reach out for their meat of th eday, st

anticipation, anticipation, the black uhuru has a unique sound to them, I feel like I'm listening to something very exotic, it is very alluring

anticipation, anticpation, just at the tip of a tounge, more tickling than precum, no, its a dip, its a small little cusp into river, yeah, into the river

anticipation, I cannot stand it, I'm getting sick of always making it work in my direction, I am tired of not being able to be tired, I wish that my mind would rest, but I feel like I am onto some sort of plan

the times stare ant me, and those who are closest to me understand a few things but there are others that they would not understand, not even my therapist understands, which really makes me feel crazy

Parfumul ftizic umple casa și plămânii,
Iar de dragoste iubita nu s-a săturat,
Hainele plumbuite cad precum bătrânii,
Iar ea încă cere un lung sărutat.

Last night, we made love
in the bedroom, sparkling
candlelight’s surrounding
us in every corner enveloped
in our blazing passion, his
ravishing attraction gliding
through me, a conjuration
of massive fascinations.
His star-filled lips kissing
the secret spots of my treasured
chest, tongue licking my luscious
*******, my heartbeat racing each
glorious second, as he traces the
realm of my body.  The flashing
signal lights shining within
my dynasty, slow crawling
over me, his muscled hands
grabbing my pulsating *****,
massaging my big *****,
while I moaned into the pillow.
I could feel pearly precum
oozing down my ***** hairs,
his deep voice whispering out
to me, I got you wet love.  Look
at my beautiful blossom.  And
as he pinned me down on the
sweaty bed, his horse ****
driving inside of me like
a drumbeating train,
my mouth soaked in his
tasty chemistry, sweet
nectar, every ****** emotion
and motion flowing
inside mouthwatering oceans.

Oh, how Medic hated staying at the base while everyone else went out onto the battlefield. He was tired of being left out, even if he had special chores to take care of. The cool metal against your throat made you shiver. He pulled on his rubber gloves and smiled at the slight fear in your eyes. “Ready, Verräter?” He slowly traced the outline of your face with his scalpel. You barely flinched. “Or are you going to be cooperative and share with me your little secrets?” His accent was so endearing that if you weren't in this situation you would definitely be trying to call you the most degrading of names.
You didn’t answer and his smile grew. You swallow and he starts examining you. Gloved hands grabbed your chin roughly, forcing you to look into his eyes. He definitely got some pleasure as you watched helplessly. “Too bad, you know? You are pretty good-looking. I wonder what I’ll do to you if you don't tell me.”
To be honest, you were actually somewhat enjoying this. This felt like a thrill rather than life-threatening. He slowly receded the razor tip of his tool and instead turned his attention to your torso. “Hold still, Hure.” Your breath hitched. “Or tell me where the Blu team keeps their intel.”
His voice made you melt. Trying to gain composure, you wouldn’t give in too easily. “I- I don’t know.” You lied through your teeth.
He slowly removed your shirt and it took all of your wills to not mold up into his touch. “Which part of you should I cut first?” The cool air hit your chest as you took shallow breaths. He grinned as you writhed under him. “Answer me, Schlampe.” You didn’t know who enjoyed this more. Him, or you. He ran a hand on your thigh tantalizingly. You flinched, lurching up, but the collar on your throat choked you and forced you back down. The unlicensed doctor let out a chuckle “It seems you don’t understand the threat on your life. Tell me the intel and I might let you go. Don’t, and you’ll never leave. Well, at least not alive.”
You stayed silent, both in fear and genuine interest about what he was going to do.
“I think we’ll start with your lips.” His hand went back up to your face, blade teasing your mouth. Soon enough, he pressed it into your skin, ever so slowly, dragging out the pain. A deep moan came from your mouth as the blood seeped down to your chin. He smiled.
“Do you like this, Schlampe?”
You blushed and bit your lip, avoiding eye contact. “Y-yes.” You admitted ashamedly
He laughed. “My, my, my. Whatever will I do with you?” He pressed harder and slashed against your cheek. “But I think I know a way to get words out of your mouth.”  He released the grip on your jaw. He pulled off a glove and ran his hand down to your navel. Goosebumps formed on your skin and sent chills down your spine. His hand tugged on the waistband of your pants. Looking back up at your face, you nod as he goes a little further. “How desperate you are. Even when threatened, you still want this. Pitiful.”  Half naked and strapped on the rather cold operation table, you were shivering. Tugging at your restraints, you pleaded.
“Please don’t tease.” He leaned in close, a maniacal grin on his face and hot breath fanning onto your throat.
“You’re not in the position to be giving me orders. Now, tell me. Where do you keep your intel?” Medic’s hand played with the hem of your undergarments. You bucked up into him, begging for anything. “Tell me, Hündin. You will not get what you want until you tell me.” Finally, you give in.
“I-it’s in the base. T-the kitchen. Soldier insists on hiding it there.”
“Gut gemacht.” He let go of your leg and brought his hand up to your mouth. “**** on them for me.” He said, running his fingers on your bloodied cheek. You eagerly took them into your mouth. He was amused at your enthusiasm. It really turned him on how quick you were to please him. Your tongue ran across each one with fervor, ignoring the metallic taste. You nearly whined when he pulled out. “That's enough for now.”
His attention was focused on your lower regions as he focused on caressing your thighs. Carefully sliding your undergarments out of the way, he slowly slid a finger into you. You mewled out, not daring to have any care, who would hear? Knuckle deep, he chuckled. “Want more?”
“Yes, please.” Slowly and steadily, he added another, stretching you out.
“So well mannered, without instruction.” He marveled, curling them, and slowly moving in and out. “Maybe I should keep you as a pet of mine?” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the thought. You licked at the blood pooling near your lips. Medic smiled and leaned into your ear. "You're doing so well, Liebling." You shuddered. "I want to wreck this tight little hole of yours. I want to break you."
"Doctor," you moaned. "Faster, please." He did as asked and sped up his pace, a  satisfied grunt coming from him. He fingered you roughly, taking pride in how loud you moaned for him.
He palmed his ******* with his other hand. He quickly uncuffed your hands, "Touch me." You obeyed and grabbed his clothed member, grinding against it.
"Doctor. I'm going to ***!" You tensed up.
"Not yet, Liebling." He said. "You'll hold it until I say so." You frowned, trying to resist it. You slid past his slacks and grabbed his ****, precum dripping into your palm.
"I didn't give you permission to do that." He moaned. "But, I'll allow it." Already slick, you ****** him off slowly. Gradually, your speed increased as you fought against your ******. You moaned as you edged yourself.
"Please, Doctor!" you cried out.
"G-go ahead."
It hit you hard. You screamed and violently convulsed, legs shaking. You continued your ******* until the German man finished on your face. You took a minute to catch your breath.

"God we need to do this soon."

I was wrong to fall for the beauty of a man,
to gaze at their glowing galaxy, their hard,
harmonious bodies, their shoulders so bold
and broad, their arms, chest, and abs filled
with the most enchanting muscles, making me
drool over their flawless form.  

They were so attractive, athletic, clean-cut,
dapper, defined curves, hot, sharp, tall,
and so assertive, charming, confident,
hard-working, powerful, reliable, so intelligent
and deep, something that I could never get enough of.

I could enter their world a million times,
drive for miles and miles down the highways
of their intoxicating majesty, coming to a cease
as I took in their overwhelming scenery, blooming
bridges, music streaming from their dynamic inventions,
so romantic, so ripening, so riveting, flesh I’d love
to taste for hours, stroke their huge backs and manly
*****, press my hands on their blossoming *****,
hold your giant sausage, slap it on my face,
**** it, make love to it, show it how much
I genuinely care for its pleasurable palace, massage
the head, feel its sweet precum of endless ecstasy
on my palms, licking its rich contents, devouring
all your amplifying creations of greatness.