"prostituted" poems
&
Then ?
& ........
( (
• •
) )
( we fly together ! )
• •
Little girl
Child of the forgotten grace and promises made
By the ancient Elders
///
The picture of a child / seed planted purposefully
In the DESSERT
Watered by LOVE
••
Humanity is broken open
And it is crying aloud
The MYSTIC BEINGS come
From out the SHADOWS
And await
For its YOU
who MUST appear
/:/
( the first angel )
•
IT IS YOU WE NEED
••
From out the prostituted gore
Of this abased and abusing treachery
Called OUR WORLD
/:/
We shall STAND OUR GROUND !
( the EARTH is ours )
••
Understand
Your Worth and your Power
Are the same
GOD's NAME IS YOUR NAME !
///
Is there PURE AND PERFECT LOVE HERE ?
Yes ! Yes !
Yes indeed
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
She came from a broken family
Which had nothing to eat
As an early age she discovered
She could offer her body for bread
Shame dominated her existence
As day after day she prostituted herself
Being good in her profession
She earned a reputation
One day she saw a Stranger
And she could not help but wonder
The Man had a way with people
And spoke words like salve to the soul
Several days had past
Yet He was all she could think about
She knew the Man had awakened something
Could it be Love?
When she heard that the Teacher was invited to a Pharisee’s house
She decided she would go just to see the Teacher
In her clothing she tucked an alabaster box
Then went quickly to the Pharisee’s house
There she witnessed how the Pharisee showed no respect
The Teacher received nothing upon entering the house
Neither handshake nor kiss, nor basin of water to clean the feet
Not even an oil to refresh His head
His humiliation so reminiscent of her own
The ********** could not help but throw herself to Him
There she began to kiss His feet
Washed it with her tears and wiped it with her hair
Soon the woman reached into her garment
From it revealed the alabaster box
From this box she pulled a flask of expensive perfume
And poured the fragrant oil on the feet of Jesus
Her perfume, her primary form of advertisement and shame, was now gone
Compelled by the Love she had never known until the present moment
She gave up the primary means of her occupation
The aroma once meant to allure now become an aroma of worship
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
His dog chased her
through the woods.
The rifle can **** from
three-hundred yards.
Watch her leap logs
and sidestep
sticks grabbing
at her shoulders.
There are three Gods
in the woods,
behind any tree.
No one is as ruled
as the lawless.
No one is as sedated
as the frenzied.
Sympathy couldn't be
measured in screams,
but measured
in her breaths.
Beyond the
honeydew horizon,
the senseless cease.
The half-life of eyes:
her only escape.
Where the tree-trunks
are furnished by the
candied corpses.
Her feet chomp at the
prostituted ground.
She will die, here,
whether she lives
or not.
For what is stolen,
stays.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
The day that must carry mourn
Wouldn't surprise me if it stood gay
The day where most would expect to hear cries
Wouldn't surprise me if it stayed guffawed
The day where my soul would deserve silence
Wouldn't surprise me if it gets filled with jabber
The day I shall be dressed in my wedding dress --- a stripped hood
Wouldn't surprise me if it didn't shine any light
I'd be disappointed not if the grave that would be expected to hold me as my bed
Decides to throw me out instead
For I, a guilt filled being, doesn't deserve a polite farewell
Consequences of my crime-filled mind that religiously only deserves hell
So carve on my stone when the time comes
“In the memory of … a prostituted ****
Who only wished to provide for herself in a land unknown.”
Oh! Who am I kidding, I will not even be privileged to become a memory unless I atoned.
~ AllTheLovePS
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 3:55 AM UTC
I heard whispers of a secret sound,
from Alexandria, hidden under the ground,
it was the steady beat, beat, beat;
more like a heartbeat, than a busy city street.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice.
Three times of pleasure and of heartache too;
of a blood-thirsty conquest, the people's coup.
It was a global awakening, felt in the birth
of a bleak disregard for the marketing church,
a trinity of profit, of heat, light and gas;
of teenage lovers, beneath the underpass.
We stole through the farmland,
I pressed to your chest;
we sang to the autumn,
the coming of death.
We learned in science, of covert destitution,
prostituted knowledge to save the institution,
of rockets now missiles and force-fed thought;
where opinions are rote, and all politics bought.
The whispers returned in Sumerian sound,
tattooed on my skin, tattooed in the ground,
they came back to me, in my deep, deep sleep;
gold hair descending from the great castle keep.
I climbed from my body, led up to the sky,
as oceans gather from the tears that I cry,
in solemn disdain, for the conquest of man;
their synthetic wasteland, their three-year-plan.
We collided in memory,
as time was stripped away,
forever we were kissing;
forever we would stay.
I heard catcalls from a stone-circle mound,
clear as citrus to the basset hound,
whilst Jesus was caught dealing on the street;
exchanging numbers with the ****** he'd meet.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice,
three lovers now nothing but a status update;
that we're nothing but slaves, licking the plate.
An introvert awakening, the three states of water,
hoping one day, to nurture a daughter.
To teach her of love without any condition;
to tend to her strength, to be her nutrition.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:
Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,
Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,
I am my city.
Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life
My city is me.
The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.
We are one.
I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
My church,
My heart,
My city full of dreamers.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
There is a war on the screen
Full of filth that goes unseen.
Yet all I can do is sip peppermint tea
And regurgitate conceited poetry.
Of days too long where I long to hold
Purpose in me, a spirit bold.
To go forth and spread a message of love
And pray to the science of the stars above.
But it’s a caterwaul of profiteering
And adverts for the hard of hearing.
It’s to my heart, this world’s poison is seeding,
My once hopeful head is now receding.
So it is with compromise that I do age,
A prostituted soul on minimum wage.
I’ll escape out into my fictitious streets,
Where fairytale lovers still care to meet.
Where words are read and held to *******
To imprint the words upon the tremor of chests.
Where misfortune is fickle and lasts not long,
To where the dandelions may sing their song.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
Do not say to me
that in life, is offered freedom.
Do not lie to me
and tell me everything is okay.
I am finished with the sacrament of stories,
I am done with lying through my words,
this world is falling apart in maladaptive chaos,
through the will of man, of companies and debt.
Do not sing to me
our prostituted freedoms.
Do not give to me
the ******** you've been fed.
I am past the need for fair and approved judgement,
I am beyond words for the injustice displayed,
from the cruelty of man to all species,
to the decimation of a low-income estate.
Do not offend me with
the policies for tomorrow.
Do not pin your bias
to the colour of your tie.
I am tired of fighting through this longing,
I am exhausted in the mere light of day,
because each day in your power is bereft of all hope,
each day in your power, we're enslaved.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
On Monday, the cattle feed for 50 minutes.
There are nine prostituted crocodile in Honduras
and Greece. Morocco is not only the Moon
and surrounded by it. Diana showed her a time
that God very much understood. Wednesday,
feed the animals for 50 minutes. Honduran Jews,
Greeks and nine animal harlots. Morocco
is not only the moon and surrounded by it,
Diana Harris tried to show them how to show
more more often. Monday it will be your animal
feeding for 50 minutes. Honduras is the first
Greek nurse with nine prostitutes and crocodiles.
Morocco is not only the Moon and surrounded
by it. Diana's customary poison. Gamma,
than that he should limit its action to the use
of the Side of the Moon. But the suspect's Katharian.
Teens go to ask the Queen for their Pomeranian
Gen. lifestyles and wine? In ancient Greece,
Monday and Thursday philosophers and great-grandchildren
Lance's rebellious nephew Henry. God was in hell.
There is a 1 on the Moon to the moon.
Many are very bad. He knows that the day of the sun,
Apollo, and the light of present-day Amazon.
Albert's medical plan, so the Moon. Rome
this month. Women are very popular in the North.
This item can not be deleted. And it was
an abysmal level crisis in Mexico in 1964,
and many people, including "the United States,
William Hill, Europe, and John Green,"
he said, "it is a good game." Two answers:
Igor and William Williams, Vitalemens,
Goldfunts gold and blue ***** of stars and planets,
Canada's forests, hambosomas, marigolds
and two doctors from Africa, Northern consecration,
the rest of the earth, the rest of the city,
the Jupiter Moon Moon we were deceived
illegitimate and illegitimate children
in Tokyo Moon / Sun and the life of their ancestors.
"Age 64 1-9 of blood in men, blood is not bad,
not that of blood in Brazil, the Russian Natural
Qamirate Brazil is the last major climate
change in the world. Julian and animal life
of Ammon, the pad is the poet's life and legend,
history and glory in the United States the blood
of the people of Abu Dhabi.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 12:46 AM UTC
whose the gentleness emanating?
what shall we do tonite?
where shall we go?
who dreams shall we enter?
AND WHY?
--------
in the shadow of shadowy men
gulf coast oil killers
prostituted politicians
madmen and their greed
-----------
cant you, too, see THE CHILD?
am i the only man here?
tell me
and survive
----------
whose the gentleness?
it is you too
who carries THE CHILD
to the end
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 12:41 PM UTC
gentleness
even the rain!
and you, too-----may be
gentle, if you so choose
--
amid the massive suffering
that is here
---------
soon
the country shall be broken completely
only poverty and violence shall be here
only war and crying children
amid
love songs
love songs prostituted
by greed
--------
amid the suffering
and the fear
------------
gentleness
even you!
even you may still
live for justice
for a while
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 10:13 AM UTC
she used her strength of character to destroy a king
and thus everything with her was contaminated
life was cheap to such a female who had ****** in her veins
she took the time to arrange her hair and paint her face
she prostituted her gifts for the furtherance of evil
determined to abolish all that interfered with the fulfillment of her wicked designs
as the daughter of the devil
she suffers a worse retribution
there was no sign of repent
she was rotten root to branch
an unrepentant prophetess who has beguiled the people
persuasive
her influence was wrongly directed and her misdirected talents have become a curse
savage and relentless
this strong women carried out her schemes
nothing but a pawn
packed off the the highest bidder
she represents a view of women good that is opposite of the one extolled
magnificent and defiant
hurling insults at her murderers
as the daughter of the devil
she suffers a worse retribution
there was no sign of repent
she was rotten root to branch
an unrepentant prophetess who has beguiled the people
an inhuman wretch incapable of pity
oh so void
she's so ******* empty
as the daughter of the devil
she suffers a worse retribution
there was no sign of repent
she was rotten root to branch
an unrepentant prophetess who has beguiled the people
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:56 PM UTC
Come to edge of town
The ole bridge
Over the gentle stream
Spring and summer
On the other side
••
Some speak of solitude
Of winter rags and coming death
•
Of remembered holiness
Of lonely years in old hotels
Of prostituted high school girls
Of children come and childhood slain
Of wars for gold for god for peace
••
(The ole bridge at the end of the lonely dying town)
••
Look into the mirror it IS yourself
Crossing over
COME!
DONT BE AFRAID!
••
Old lover
We know you
We know you are gone
We know what you wanted and what you did
We know of the lovers
We know of the kid
Of the murders
Of the terrors
••
Still
One image remains
••
Come
The bridge at the edge of town
Everybody crosses over
Even you
Even me
.••
Everybody accepts their fate
(The sense of love)
Eventually
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
The Child wails
Somewhere beyond what you see
He is
There
--
Everyone is
Beyond what we see
.
The mirror is busted
We are alone
-----
The mother moans
The prostituted century
.
The winners and the losers
& the children-- we
Beyond what we see
We are
-------
We know "to look"
But it has become
Easier to just not care
Idley written poetry!
///
New York City
Dreams are dead
---
A child wails
Is it you or is it me?
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
I’m used over and over again,
my prostituted heart, it’s all temporary love,
everyone leaves, with my heart on my sleeve,
I give everything I have,
I jump through hoops for affection,
I beg for her love,
I desperately need you,
why am I treated like this,
I look to the sky, I ask for mercy,
please give me my eternal fix,
give me her smile, give me her voice,
I can listen forever,
give me her touch, give me her warmth,
I can hold her endlessly,
she doesn’t stay, why is it so easy to go,
I’m left in despair, she’s all I need,
but she’s always gone, always out of my reach,
down and out, I’m left used and forgotten,
I’ll never know true love,
I belong alone, I deserve to be used,
so just leave me,
used and alone
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
All the splendour and all the luxury of the piper goes back to the primordial material where it was created! The eyelash-spiral liquefaction of celebrity divas; The sticky gum of dovetail make-up shall be forgotten; And when the abundant rain-channels of the honest soul Are full, and the root-root of sensible sadness Has passed through every hesitating, half-weary man! For the world of Hyena has always cursed and despised the known child-fearer!
In-happening, in-between chattering souls, the wretch stumbling can seldom keep order! In every petal an orphan self shudders for the coming Spring! Like solid concrete or prison wall, on the bustling fields of our memory, seems to halt The sacred age of memories in peace! In every prostituted maiden there still lurks her angelic, girlish self: that her ancient craft may mean only survival and hope for tomorrow! She will interact with this superficial, cupping world if she consciously surrenders herself to it!
Like a sentient, childish angel, when from his cracked, twilight-flooded lips eagerly oozes the faithless, flowing blood; he commits sacrilege who raises his destructive fists to exotic flower-stalks! We should cling stoutly to the World! Without cheap pimps and lice, in a deep-feeling and enduring trust - Now and Here are already shattered from us! - With enduring trust we should go on, persevering in humanity on our bumpy life, and as we often fall, stumbling on our limp, we must learn to stand up!
Feb 19, 2022
Feb 19, 2022 at 1:35 AM UTC