"prostitutes" poems
Giving joy, getting joy, never coy,
Often pretty, always called a toy,
She sells all that there is to deploy.
And there is she who is demure;
A teacher whose job is secure.
Some say that all teachers are pure.
And there is he who is a professor;
He is his father’s successor;
Just like his father’s predecessor.
The first one we call a *****
She prostitutes her body more and more;
But the other ones we adore.
The professor prostitutes his knowledge.
He also sells his precious time.
And the teacher too makes the same pledge;
Especially while she is in her prime.
We all ********** something every day;
Yet only the first one’s a ********** yay!
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?*
isabella: the french psychology
exchange student -
hung up on her ex-boyfriend -
really in anime movies -
and that american i competed
with on an edinburgh pub-crawl
for freshers -
and lost my virginity to -
probably the only time
i had the ontological parameters
of your atypical man -
"hunting", competing -
oh so, so, enthralling....
(spot the irony mingling with
ridicule, when people "know"
how the modern man behaves,
with his caveman predecessors:
dragging a woman
by the hair type of cartoonish
depiction) -
the other fun time i've had
encounters with h'americans
was in Soho -
two colts, texan tourists asking
for directions,
or where this or that place was...
it almost warmed my heart
hearing that twang
of the tongue...
perhaps someone from arizona?
that has that - "mid" western
twang of the tongue
added to the bite...
snub the Boston high-mind
eloquence, like:
you really really want
to sound european...
never mind...
people say that water is tasteless...
hmm...
so last night i was heating
up one arm of scissors...
and sniffing it...
then licked the other arm of the scissor...
what's in water again?
minerals... a subtle presence...
magnesium, potassium, iron...
you name it...
so yeah... water is... "tasteless"...
eisenzahn that i am.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Parents sent me to see a therapist.
Therapist said you can speak freely and tell me all.
Therapist won my confidence so I opened up and told all.
Felt great having someone to share all and felt cared for.
Mind felt good and school rumors about me meant less.
Parents had a money fight and therapist quit seeing me.
Asked therapist to keep seeing me therapist said no.
Show me the money and I keep seeing you as a patient.
Hurt returned and felt like could talk to no one again.
Therapists are like prostitutes you pay to get a part of your body serviced.
I never will be married in real life.
I will settle for a net ceremony on gaiaonline with a guy I met.
He can't wait to hit it in virtual reality.
Got no real life experience in *** but learning to sext.
Getting better at it and practicing for my online wedding night.
I'm 18, I hate my parents and their ****** up lives.
Mom got home at noon from her overnight date with one of her men.
Men like my mom because she opens her legs for all men she meets on the net.
Dad likes his ****** he chats with on Facebook.
Think he cheating on his evil ***** who got with him for his money.
Dad likes them young like me and she wont be young forever.
She will be like my lonely mom ******** men she meets off personals.
Real life marriage is not in my plan.
Settling for an net marriage with a guy I met off personals.
Am I going to be like my mom?
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
I see Beauty in a **********
Whose feelings you cannot convolute.
I see a Businesswoman in a **********
A **** with brains, destitute
she made a business plan.
At least she did business studies and
accounting at school, sells her body to earn,
A living.
I see a princess in a **********
because no man can resist her.
You know when she starts curling her hair
Even Pastors **********
then we bring the Saints Holiness into debate.
Have you ever seen a ********** aspirate
"I want you" ?
**** Her voice alone gives ****** healing,
Arouses ****** feelings,
Pumps vessels, frightened by the spark in her
eyes, hormone adrenalin give your heart rate a
fast accelerating beatings.
I see charisma in a **********
Married men,leave their wives in bed and
creep to the streets corner just to cuddle with
prostitutes, it was I who said, there's beauty in
a **********
I see Beauty in a **********
I've seen Loyalty in a **********
Yes I did. How? What do I mean?
Because she ***** all men in the same manner
and charge them all the identical amount.
That is Loyalty man.
I said, I see Beauty in a ********** and
I wasn't lying.
There is Beauty in a **********
The Beauty that makes Preachers at church
retire,
The Beauty that make married men divorce,
The Beauty that makes Jay Z forget Beyonce,
The Beauty that makes Julius Malema forgets
his political position
The Beauty that makes Jesus Christ want to
come back, to save his descendants from sin.
The Beauty of a **********
Men have seen it.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Be kind to prostitutes
You never know when they'll throw you a freebie
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
(for Cyril Connolly)
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
4.8k
Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.
Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits
And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more
Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother
Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks
in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes
we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts
we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies
we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
I sleep in a garage.
ten giant tricycles
standing on their backs
sleep next to me.
my bathroom is at sears.
or McDonalds.
or winn-dixie.
male prostitutes post shop
on the street corners
around here
******* ****
for money
for crack"
as one such fellow
put it to a cop.
there's a blender
and a microwave
and plenty of bottles of ***
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
***********
pôrˈnäɡrəfē/noun: *********** printed or visual material
explicit description or display of ****** organs or activity,
intended to stimulate ****** rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings;
erotica, pornographic material, ***** books; **** filth, vice;
hard & soft **** ***** girlie magazines, skin flicks
"an Internet site selling child *********** [?]"
mid 19th century: from Greek pornographos
‘writing about prostitutes,’ from **** ********** + graphein ‘write.’
‘writing by prostitutes’, w/ names & amounts paid;
[the state of mind of constantly thinking about prostitutes or prostitution]
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
at 9, my father took me to confess.
i crossed myself and stepped into
the closet-like space.
"bless me, father, for I have sinned."
at 10, my mother took me to church.
baptist. southern. the pastor spit venom from his pulpit.
they taught me to fear god
and live my life through christ.
at 15, my friend took me to her synagogue.
i sat with her family as her sister
recited text from the torah.
we celebrated her bat mitzvah. held her high on a chair.
at 17, my best friend took me to mosque.
we washed our feet and dressed in tunics
and prayed towards mecca
and recited words from the koran. we were placed behind the men.
the same pattern was played,
over and over again.
swear to whatever god owned
that shrine
that you would give your life for him.
and make no mistake, because by divine reason, it is a him.
and always,
always,
always,
get down on your knees.
and pray.
i remember thinking every ********* time
that prostitutes and disciples
seemed awfully alike.
and then i thought,
"they're probably right about god being male."
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
*i once had a girl from poland over,
gave her the tourism of london,
a daughter of my mother's friend.*
i suffered sun stroke one day out
with her, blonde hair and all,
i was bound to feel the cold shivers,
went to a party with a school-friend
of mine and her...
i was left in a bed shivering,
he later said he didn't want to say it
but did, that they kissed...
like i didn't know the shorthand for
oral ***
now i'm drinking a beer, write
one poem weeping, another like this
one laughing prior, slapping myself in
the cheek...
two slaps to the face i didn't receive
from prostitutes **** your moral
relativism, you people only
know that theft and ****** and ****
are equal in the cauldron of einstein's
space-and-time, i accept physical
relativism, but i loath moral relativism,
it's like giving an umbrella to the man
under a champagne waterfall -
and an anorak to a man under a waterfall
of cow **** -
yep, slaps outside the brothel,
the kind women became knights' sparring partners
for the oath undertaken,
it was a practice among knights to get
a handkerchief to ease the sting later...
but when prostitutes don't slap you
for trying to sort your life in order to provide,
you sort of become two knights,
twin siamese, you slap yourself because
all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into
sex-augmentation procedures and cheap
cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering...
leisurely ladies of societies made rich
by easy money, watching operas
but still preferring to notice what
their neighbours were wearing,
the peasant snobism who are more distracted
by what others wear rather than the music...
a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears
at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new
post-aristocratic society of easy money...
you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks
for more laughter... your brain
becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad
rather than turning docile...
so she came over and enjoyed my company,
spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise...
but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss...
well **** me there's a cataphract -
let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher
cared to exist.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
I feel the blood of slaves as I cut my wrists with diamond blades.
I bleed for them as they bleed for your earrings.
Your wedding rings. Your pointless things.
That platinum chain that hangs down to your waist encrusted with ice;
I hope it gets caught in your oversized rims while you're hanging your head out the window
Trying to spit some game at a pair of graceful underage prostitutes.
I hope it cuts your ******* head off right then and there.
And in that moment when the diamonds scatter across the pavement
In a mixture of your blood and their *****
I hope a meteor shower shines over Africa-
Bringing smiles to slaves in and out of graves-
As if they've just been told what had happened.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Stay away from the voodoo, love.
Resist
the swamp music
the bells on her ankles
her feathered fan
and when she sways
at the hip—
goddess of sudden changes
patroness of prostitutes
and abandoned lovers—
chanting Mambo, terrible beauty.
Say nothing
when she leans close
(cinnamon, tree bark and, faintly, smoke)
and breathes
*If you have no altar,
I am your altar.*
Stay away from the voodoo, love—
her drumbeats and cypress trees,
her hocus pocus
honeylocust.
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
We flew to Las Vegas
and Atlantic City
a lot in our gambler years.
Walked down the Strip
or Borgata
bathed in city lights
pumped up on drinks.
Lester got snatched
for counting cards,
Derrick went away,
drunk driving,
we don’t care
we just keep drinking
and keep losing.
Practicing poker faces
at the table
makes it easier
to lie to our wives.
And we don’t talk about our kids
while at the tables
or in the bar.
College funds gambled away
or spent on prostitutes.
We know we’re
letting them down.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
today bob delahunty visits 3 ladies who preaches god to stop their sons from drinking
the first lady, really gets offended if her son turns off god, mind you, she lets him have
his own beliefs, but in saying that, when he makes jokes about religion, she gets really offended
and says, you should believe in god, god is the powerful being, god is the almighty saviour and
god will be there for you at every turn, and bob came in, and told this lady, that there are
possibilities that god is a myth, and you need your son to have his own beliefs and the lady
got offended for what bob said, and told bob, that god is up there looking over each of us
and i am trying to show my son, that god isn’t powerful, as such, but is a blessing to have
him watch over us, and bob said, you need to understand, religion is a touchy subject ya see
and the lady said your the devil, and she went away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
the second lady keeps her 15 year old daughter locked up in the basement because she didn’t trust
the evil spirits around her, you see she hung around these two prostitutes, because they are terribly
nice to her, and her mother didn’t like what she is doing, so she bought these iron chains, to tie the devil
right out of her, and bob said, this is wrong, we must explain to this lady, that god will not condone this
and the lady said in her defines, my daughter hangs with devil people, and bob said, no, you are the devil
i am not saying what she is doing is rightt, but you make them sound good, and chaining your daughter
in your basement is definatlely the wrong solution for you to do, and the lady said to bob, i want my daughter
to understand what she is doing is wrong, she is disobeying gods commands, and until she understands
i have no excuse but to keep her chained in my basement, and bob hit her with a wooden spoon, not enough
to **** just enough to rescue her daughter from her clutches, and after 2 hours, she got to her feet and said
where is my daughter, and bob said, i rescued her from you, and you need to understand that this was wrong
and the lady mumbled to herself saying
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
The third lady was a little old lady who loves knitting, but she has really bogus beliefs, you see to her anyone
who drinks, was the devil, and if her son went out drinking, she would get cranky with him, no matter what
age he was, you see she claims the devil was giving her the impression that her son is committing crimes
and behaving like a hooligan, and when her son, tries to speak up for himself, she goes QUIET, we need
our almighty GOD, to save you from the devil’s clutches and her son called bob in, because they can’t keep
going on like this, and bob came in to talk to the old lady, asking her, what makes you think that he is worshipping
the devil, you see it’s possible that he is out having a good time at the club drinking with mates, and the lady said
i was raised to think drinking was the work of the devil and when i think of what young people get up to now, no
i am doing the right thing, protecting my son from the evil drunks, no son of mine is parading around on the streets
like a hooligan and bob said, yeah but, i think he is being a man, to enjoy a few beers with family and the lady said
i don’t care, drinking is the work of the devil, and there is no doubt about it, and bob told her, you must understand
your son, and she said i don’t need to understand him, as she walked away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
your the devil, bob, don’t deny it, buddy
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND THE ALMIGHTY BOB, to save everyone from delusions forever
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed reading the news
& listening to Mary's magic ****** seems When Jesus
was asked about the standing recognition of the right
of her daughter's wall; simply talking ardently fell power
to meet **** & Satan forever on unknown ground
leaving it to a computer to maintain the angel prostitutes;
receive gifts, the smoke is full of alchemy, and the fat,
cut off in the field, it is not for the robot to understand
the point of madness; they turn their strippers into many
broken to pieces, rain all through the south & the lowlands,
& the wind guns, the sails & the rich man, on Bob into the ******
of the dog, who is not the kiss on the stripper's lips of a tree
to scratch the muses about the winds, he who is putting it up
at the last time the spirit of it was a monster, holding them
in a small amount of the size of the heart to change the mirror
of a gypsy; Mark & Bettie & the Chinese sense of how much
the light of the angle of the wall of the city, to think of the buried
sand & fled to lay down the knowledge, has set out how
the Christians of the world who are so, he loved the angels,
from its smell in front of the cleanliness of heart, producing
an end to gun fire, Einstein's bag, & the fire would have been
liberated from the dance movement in defiance of the State
for abductions; invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed,
reading the news and listening to Mary's magic posts,
was Jesus when he was asked about the standing enlarged
cheated death by a third just to the right of her daughter's wall;
Top simply talking ardent fell power to meet **** & Satan
forever unknown land is one of the PC of the angels to play
the harlot they are given and that the smoke of the alchemy,
the fat to cut off the fields did not produce the robot to
understand the point of madness they turn their stripper
in many broken to pieces, the rain & of the south,
the plains of the wind, the torments of the sails of
the rich man Bob in the sheath of a dog, who is not
the kiss of strippers is of a tree with the fingers of
the Muses of the winds, who laid down the wall of
the city to be; invisible friends are gods, Christ in bed,
reading the news and listening to Mary's magic posts
was Jesus when he was asked about the standing enlarged
by death through a third just to the right of her daughter
walls; Top simply talking ardent fell power to meet ****
& Satan for ever unknown to the soil from the PC
by the angels, there shall be no such fornication,
that these are from the smoke that is made in the alchemy
& the fat, that he may destroy out of the land of the fields
are not producing out of it the robot to understand the point
of madness they turn their stripper in many broken to pieces,
and storms of the south, the plains of the winds of the torments
of the sails of the rich man Bob into the sheath:
with the Muses, who has not denied the strippers is a tree
of a dog & put it on the wall of his fingers into his invisible
friends who are gods; Christ in bed, reading the news &
listening to Mary's magic posts of Jesus when he was asked
about the standing greatly enlarged, of a third just to the right
of her daughter's wall; Top simply talking ardent fell power
to meet Dick's century Satan and angels; Bob is rich
in its sails quickly with the Muses & denied the tree
strippers from the dog, put it on the wall with his fingers
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
Dear Night,
please **** off
out of my life
back to your bars,
theatres,
prostitutes
& big neon city lights
don't visit the suburbs
of this small town
where there is
nothing to do
but wait for the dawn
& write
because yeah
I'm even tired of that
old hat trick
& again
there are no stars
in the sky
to comfort my
rickety heart
& no-one on the telephone
& no nightingales
in the garden
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa
I. Stories
A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...
II. Histories
A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.
III. Images
Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.
IV. Meanings
No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?
V. The Painting
His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:22 AM UTC