"prudish" poems
Trace the curves on my body
like I am the moon
submitting to the dark,
tantalizing night.
I will offer up to you
my most precious craters,
dips of sultry grey
impatient
to be explored,
begging
for you to undress
all the parts of me
you've never had
the pleasure of touching
under the prudish scrutiny
of daylight.
But the sun has long since
straddled the horizon;
the sun has long since
surrendered to the dusk.
And I am ready for you,
my sweet Astronaut,
awaiting the lustful force
of your gravity.
Take me.
Your skin against
my skin--
the mere sight of us
will make the constellations
redden with passion
and the rings of Saturn
quiver with desire
as they watch as we
erupt into stardust.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 3:25 PM UTC
spring has most
definitely sprung
this morning
a pair of pigeons
were imbibing
in some birdie ***
the ****
mounted the hen
on the neighbor's verandah
they gave not a though
to those who may
have been prudish
they were in the mood
to be openly lewd
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women
The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments
and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city
'Ecce homo', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 4:04 AM UTC
spring has most definitely sprung
this morning a pair of pigeons
were imbibing in some birdie ***
the **** mounted the hen
on the neighbor's verandah
they gave not a thought
to those who may have been prudish
they were in the mood
to be openly lewd
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
So many conflicting images
society tells us exactly how we should look
but I’m still supposed to love myself exactly as I am.
Supermodel tall and athletic
but still petite enough that no man feels intimidated.
No extra rolls or bulges anywhere in sight
but not skinny enough to appear sickly.
Never cover yourself up too much as to appear prudish
but showing too much skin equates with promiscuity.
Don’t be too in touch with your sexuality else you should be labeled a *****
but don’t deny too many men else you should be labeled a tease.
Never not be aware of your surroundings as danger lurks in every shadow at night
but don’t seem too hyper vigilant unless you should appear paranoid.
Don’t dare wear too much makeup
but never let them see your flaws.
Beauty comes before all else, including pain
but never let them see how you achieve your beauty in danger of being labeled vain or sick.
Girls should be driven to excel
but only in activities deemed suitably feminine.
Society’s views dictate from birth how we should act, feel, and look as women,
but the molds they attempt to force us into are not designed to contained all the magnificence we are born with.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
*I still fantasize over you, every night, i fall asleep thinking about you.
Your eyes, your hands, your lips and the color of your skin.
I fantasize over you, in a chastest and most prudish way.
I imagine your eyes on me and your heavy breath.
I visualize your movements in my head,
The way you're walking and your presence which no one can deny.
In my dreams i remember your body, your arms.
In my dreams i can smell your perfume.
And this smile, oh lord this smile...
I still hear your voice which play in my head like a melody but your words cut as a knife.
You cut my heart in hundreds pieces, and you throw them in the deeps of the ocean with your darkest secrets.
All i wanted was to fix you but you choose to break me instead.*
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
It is rather easy
To let negativity
Bog you down
But you realize
That it really
Isn’t an issue
When it’s solved
By something simple
And Neanderthal style
Like your rather
Prudish girlfriend finally
Giving into your
Never fulfilled but
Longtime secret fantasy
Locker room ***
Aug 27, 2011
Aug 27, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
*in a sea of adolescent geeks and nerds grown to be adolescent college corruption
holding pistol shaped hands high above their nodding heads to form an endless ocean of "W"s
lip-synching every word to the sweater song in perfect drunken harmony
i'm stranded here where i don't belong
trapped in a human cage of drunken fraternities and prudish sororities
pass the expiration date of such antiquated requiems
i stand shoulder to shoulder feeling nothing but the crushing desire to sleep
the crushing desire to escape out into the wild*
Where are we going?
We're going nowhere.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
I don’t like wearing clothing
Unless there is a need to do so.
The minute nobody objects
The garment wearing has to go.
It’s not about being naughty
It’s about comfort and being free.
I really don’t care much if I am
Making other squirm uncomfortably.
You see, since this is America
And I am pursuing my happiness
I really shouldn’t have to put up
With people’s prudish snappiness.
Yes, I know that we were raised
To believe genitals are disgusting.
But that is wrong and the first rule
That I am here to aid in busting.
Okay, I grant that some of us
Are not all that pretty when ****
But that doesn’t give anybody
A license to be so **** rude.
Can’t you just pretend she is
Wearing a less than pretty dress?
Wouldn’t you be polite to her then?
Come on. Own up to it. Confess!
It all has to do with parenting
And living by society’s dictates.
This is where bigotry comes from;
Name calling, bullying and hate.
Different people have different beliefs;
A different set of ears, eyes and nose.
And different people have other ideas
About what and when to wear clothes.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
When my hand passes along your breast
—Your swooning tremors translated—
Done and quiet and motionless
Our appetites full and sated.
Nothing, no passion beats
Nor does heart sing of a bond
Mere means to untied ends
Cursed, that, to never go beyond.
Laying there, as you quake with delight
No feelings that burst
Try as I might
But, jewelry feigned and worn so prettily
Though you are not the first.
Wander oh, Wanderer
Through fields of cut-and-dry
And ponder oh, Ponderer
What it means, her and I.
Feelings professed in autumnal halls’ rain
True Heart’s contents gifted
Turned bed-pleasures again.
Is this then Love?
My mattress stained?
Is this then Love?
To entreat desires again?
My tongues are sincere, motivating that art
Painted with blood
Strained right from my heart.
But, perhaps, mine is a bad art
So prudish, so straight
Where her brushstrokes are cherished
Not the brilliance of her paint
Perhaps, then, I’m chasing
Pure metaphor
To find Love and love
Is what Lust is for,
So, then I lay empty
With misty dreams and starry eyes
My loving hands not deferred
But outright denied.
How can we, in what sense,
In Love’s definition confide?
To prove it’s only a metaphor:
Not literally applied.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Freed from
Superfluous material
Silklike
Streamlined
Ethereal
When no human
Could gaze
The statues danced
With grace and might,
In the twilight
Perfect bodies
Would bring desire
To the most
Prudish of minds
Each movement
A mathematical
Wonder
If only
We
Could witnesses
This phenomenon,
Enchantment
Would
Be
Instantaneous
But
This
Love
Could
Never be
Reciprocated,
As
They had
Hearts of stone
Aug 22, 2024
Aug 22, 2024 at 2:31 PM UTC
Raised and bound into an indomitable religion,
it is sad to be you; narrow-minded, selfless pigeon.
So sanctimonious, looking down your nose at me;
so prudish, thinking you are better than me.
You suspect me of soliciting with Satan, Bel and Legion
just because I do not share your vision
-yet, still, you yearn to ask me: ''how does it feel to be free?''
well, sever your wings, burn your halo and you tell me.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
I am so sick
Of these people saying I'm too much
Of those people saying I'm not enough
Just let me be
Prudish *****
Slutty bore
Perky punk
Failed monk
Does it really matter to you
Being myself
Doesn't require your permission
Before you call me a fake
Consider the lies that you make
Hoping to save face
Keep your face
Keep your slow rotting corpse
I'd rather preserve my soul
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 1:41 AM UTC
That was a jay
Jane said
that bird
we've just seen
it belongs
to the crow family
it's an Eurasian Jay
I was listening to her
but taking in
the line of her jaw
as she spoke
the lips
opening and closing
as the words flowed
it's a lovely bird
I said
what colour eggs?
she told me
and we were
walking up the drive
up the Downs
trees on either side
birds calling
rooks and crows
and the sound
of pheasants
from the fields
and cows mooing
and her hand
was near mine
as she spoke
I wanted to hold it
and put it to my cheek
and feel
the softness of her
but I let my hand
stay just an inch away
and I could smell
the scent of her
apple and hay
and something
she'd borrowed
from her mother
(I'd smelt it
when I was
at her parents house
the other day
for the tea)
what do your parents
think of me
after the third degree
the other day?
I said
we stopped and she said
they like you
and trust you
she said
they trust me anyway
but it is you
they were unsure about
but yes they have
taken you as trustworthy
she added smiling
I smiled too
glad I'd been thought
trustworthy
especially after
her mother's
scrutiny of me
the questions
she had asked
just on the border of things
that Lizbeth's a different sort
Jane said
she and ***
go together
like cheese and onion
but I am not like that
I don't mean to
sound prudish but
I couldn't not
before marriage
I nodded my head
and was nonplussed
about it all
we walked on
she talked of the man
her father knew
whose daughter
had got herself pregnant
and she was only 14
and there was hell to pay
and they left the area
and the girl
was taken some place
and it has worried Father
ever since
I see
I said
and she took my hand
and it was soft
and I sensed her
skin and warmth
and her body near mine
and there was sounds
of rooks above our heads
in the tall trees
and knew Lizbeth
wouldn't talk
of birds or such
she liked her ideas
of *** too much.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
I don't write erotica
not because
I am Chinese
or
on account of
my being prudish
oldish
pedantic
sanctimonious
fearful of public condemnation
nothing as such
it's just that the subject-matter
doesn't fit my poetical scheme of things
and I must give way
to others who have such forte
the poetic stage is theirs
and I wish but to be among the audience
to witness their play
and listen to what they have to say
I look at the universal
(this covers more themes than I could ever imagine)
not the microscopic individual
(should *** be brandished as a product
for public consumption?
why do bed-rooms have doors?
entry VORBOTEN -
private property--no intruders
no voyeurs, no spectators-
as simple as that)
what is art
and what is vulgarity and obscenity?
who is the definitive authority?
after all
writing is democracy
every writer is free
to choose their subject-matter
no author should have the audacity
to condemn another
it's effrontery
otherwise--
as all right-thinking people would readily
agree
yet
****** poetry
is quite easy
to write
the images , the metaphors
the nuances, the allusions
the rhythm, the plot,
the vocabulary
are within the reach
of most poets
(only if their interest lies
in this field)
****** poetry
revolves around physicality
the anatomy
of the human body
two bodies-
or one body plus another-
in secluded conversation
of skin-touches-skin motion
positional modality
the heavy sighs
the heart racing
the fluidity of the lovers
as they seek to drown
in the sea of ecstasy
where the dying is
stronger than death itself
the unity
that sets the lovers free
(haven't I over-spoken?)
I don't write ****** poetry
because that's not my poetic territory
and it could spell the death
of my creativity!
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Holding on to the let it go spirit like a Buddhist
Holding up and taking down the Jesus like a Judas
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
The frail engines of the past
still linger
on the fossil fuel of indoctrinated
perceptions of love,
that were a wonder of the old world.
But found to be filled though
ignorant filters of the present.
Prudish, falseness of male masculinity.
Were all engines of unfamiliar injections.
That fuel, the love bound within
the pistons of our revving heart.
Fossilised yet each of us
still seem to be able
to ignite the fuel of others yearning.
The old engines are redundant,
new ages of passion
fuelled by the spark that a generation
accepting that the fuel of love isn't singular.
But that we ignite off any source
that'll help our heart run in unison.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
In my family.
We never lock the bathroom door.
we are not prudish,
we acknowledge that if we're taking a shower
someone might need to ****
"If I keel over and die in there I want you to be able to find me
Not have to hire a godamned locksmith.
By the time he shows up
I'll have stunk up the place
Even worse than this ****
And you'll have a hell of a time washing that out of the carpet"
For some reason, This confuses guests.
I'll never forget the day I was cooking scrambled eggs.
My date opened up the bathroom door.
in all her glory my 62 year old bapbap smiled at her from the toilet
"hey sweety, whatcha need?"
One of them was red and screaming
And it wasn't my Bapbap.
Last week I was taking a shower when I heard the phone go off behind my loud music.
My grandpa busts through the door with phone in Hand.
"Nicholas!"
Yes papa? I respond orderlly.
jumping naked quick out the shower
Assuming he was in pain.
Or needed medical attention.
Tell me what she's sayin'
he holds a phone out to me.
he's mildly frustrated, but healthy.
my wet hand takes on the phone.
She mumbles on the other end underneath my music.
"Huh?" I say.
Fumble for my spotify to turn my music off.
"sorry I couldn't hear you over my music. I'm in the shower."
"oh I'm sorry sir, We're moving dons appointment to this Tuesday. Is that okay?"
"They wanna move your appointment to tuesday. You okay with that?"
"oh jesus, christ. yeah that's okay."
Papa was not in need of any medical attention.
But now that my heart was beating a hundred miles a minute
I thought perhaps
I would soon
So when papa hobbled out,
I left the door unlocked.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
a new piece to my mothers
puzzle....
rather frank and bewildering conversations.
this one regarding ***
one will admit....
very disconcerting over a breakfast of muesli and cheerio's
her " your father enjoyed *** me not as much, i often
just lay there and let him get on with it...it was over quickly enough"
me reeling internally,
you must understand my mother, the epitome of the straitlaced woman,
sent me to the doctor,
with a group of my peers for 'the talk'.
"oh, um...did you see the whales"
her " he never forced me tho, he was polite not just any good at it all fumbling and grunting...i don't think
i orgasmed once"
me ** dumbstruck**
her " after he left, i only had *** once more,
it was so much better...
it was as much about me,
as him.
i orgasmed then...
it was nice.....
but he was married."
me .... who?
her " i suppose it doesn't matter now.
mr clement, bob,
he used to bring the rabbits
and vegies from the farm.
me "oh.... him" remembering a short statured, swarthy man
with a kind nature...
and big hands
her "after that...
i did for myself,
much easier allround..
*** is important in a marriage....good for communicating.
you and ben,
seem to do alright .......
me " thanks for breakky
mum must get on."
i am so very sure,
i don't want to discuss
my sexlife, as good and rich as it may be.....
with my up till now, prudish
85 year old mother...
even if she,
finally,
wants to talk to me,
about ***
just way too....disconcerting.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Yeah, they're at it again, mid-flight madness. ****** Tunes doesn't come close to the deranged daffiness one might witness at the lakes this morning. Wacky waterfowl white washing each others' ***** Mother nature is looking for an indecency arrest. Worse than some men I've met crawling through the bushes at Buena Vista Park in San Francisco, or here at Judy Garland Park in Philly. Every city has that spot you know. Unseemly areas where frivolous feathers get ruffled alongside muskrat love tumbling. Knock over, lose footing, take a header, bowl down, go belly up, do a pratfall, fall headlong, slip, slump, skid, spill, plummet and plunge into nose dive. Descent as such, with its dip dropping and flopping, when ducks are doing it in air-raids in prime seedtime, seems only a natural order.
So, my advice to you more demure is, keep your priggish, prudish, pretentious, puritanical, uptight primness off those unbeaten paths, because birds just gotta beat one off every once in awhile. Duck, here comes another. Splat, see I told you so.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC