"pudenda" poems
Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no ***** ***** or testicles.
What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?
Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!
Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.
So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a ********
Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.
Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!
I say herein lies food for thought.
Mike T Minehan
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
i like it ickity split
mad to exceed the world
in dark dreams ******
to evoke blood wet mouths
insertions paradise of fluorescents
in a dark aperture
her pudenda
a rolling hill
gaudy wound like a smash mouth crying
split torn tearing, pink estuary
for gluttonies' joyride
that can hardly be endured
twisted tongue spice melts and glitters raw
the sheets soaked through
matted hair in saliva
blood and eggs
the screams of monsters rapture
oh feral abandon
every thing else a toil
winged genitals
hell toys for mama
like heaven cant know
his *****
like hanging bats
Nagasaki goes off in her ***
bodies; quake in silence
the bedroom; a chaotic bathroom
tulips shrill flutter
gulp and swallow milks flame
rosy welts laughing
flushing orgasm's
shoved urns
all spilled libations
touching and *******
crimson **** runnels
in bathhouse foam
down the drain
to earthen bowels din
where the dead push up daisies
i am the worm in the fruit
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
princess blood cult
throne of tethers
rumor's of frazzle drip murders
and blood spatters
on a bed of grinning hooks
X
marks the *******
she bled they fed
in love in bed
torn dress and flutter ******
form her squandered torso
as bare feet dangled
while skies shrieked knotted eyes
watching her get it hard
wet **** drunk
she tumbled
in this little black house of madness
****** her in a sack of sins
while **** buckarooed
in a wood shed paradise
welcoming death by sexicide
she backstroked head over heels
exposed
flirting in the graveyard hacked and black
beckoning orchards that
caressed her by squirming *****
she adored the mole that snuggled her
while thighs shuddered with anticipation
hurricane tongued
she licked grinning *****
for pudenda's pillow
shimmed black light disco daggers
down her lips
to ****
to thighs
to drooling
raw lips
her ****
like a shucked oyster
whimpering disciple
of enticing wounds
bloom in gloom
she tasted like taffy panicked *******
erotomaniac
from head
to lips
to feet
chanting squeals
of infernal opera
in the throws of blood *******
and weeping barbarous
stammer
beezel blaba blaba
Beelzebub
her body stained labyrinth floors
in soiled cathedrals of desire
while growing phantasm babies
he whispered death music
in grottos of legs over head
that made her hotter than
boiled fish eyes
chopped her in two
she squirmed
shivering inkblots of madness
cu cu cu cu cu cu
*******
swing the scythe
and
get the knife
she shrilled
pump the ****
split the bone
smudge the lips
spit and blood
moon eyes turn blood gauze
and heads swivels hula
the **** yields
a spooled mouth contortion
her *** crack
a smile of accomplishment
and tormented ballet feet
stretched tickle toes
for heavens edge
she panted rolling away dark air
in an uneasy creeping
and widened thighs
she lost her head
like a chopped carrot
for the miracle of oblivion
you could hear the last thump
falling as silence falls
she spread like bat a wing umbrella
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "The Odor of Logbrain Crappó"
Lógbrain yóur **** is oh so ASSinine...
It is of course malign...
Yóu are the cón artist of the moronic chimERA...
Yóu are of course a resigned, all inferiór, cón artist that becraps the mind, body and soul, as well as the very nether realms...
óh óh óh.... Lógbrain yóu are lonely while taking care of yóur flock in the fields... óh óh óh...
Yóu ascend the flock...
ascending and mounting the sheep, one by one
Yóu are on top...
on top from behind... yes, óh Yes, Óh YEs, ÓH YES, YES, YESSS...
Óh soiinf osiujh8adabyghueyhiu rnolkm
Touching the heart...
Touching the soul...
Touching the woolly pudenda…
and thus issueth the "I"s, the "óh"s and the ewes from the egómaniacal shepherd ,
Crappó, the manna of the banana I-gód <> the delusion of illusions and confusions of a sick putrid sub-mind...
**** that only yóu and the sheep yóu have so deeply touched can feel it in the end... óh óh óh
Óh Lógbrain Crappó, óh please óh please óh please crap some more fine **** for yóur lessers, if any there be...
with yet another one of yóur masterPIECES in the fields of ewe.
Yes, Crappó, BÓTTÓM feeder, yóu and yóur fine **** are a pain in the *** to all...
This fine piece goes out to the greatest cón artist alive.
*Original ('An Ode To Loghain Carvó') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
THE DEVIL'S ****
He straps her
to the table
before him
(a sacrifice on an altar)
of the Arrogance
of his Ignorance.
Turns to the tools
of his trade
neatly & almost
piously arranged
on the table
behind him
still stained
with the chicken’s blood
from this morning’s
preparation
bubbling in the ***
... forgotten now.
He is a master
Pricker
as they call him
about here
half in awe & fear
of the Witchfinder General
and all his kind.
He is angry
at her resistance
tears off
the ragged burlap shift
that covers her
shaves her
from head to pudenda
examines
her
from top
to toe
with the aid of
a giant magnifying glass
for any blemish
or birth mark
(an oddly shaped wart)
that will betray her
in all its innocence
pricking her both
with the long needle
and the short
and ahhh...
the birthmark
refuses to bleed.
He smiles
at such
an obvious sign.
Her denials
screaming uselessly
against the locked
door of his mind.
but now his fingers
probe
sensitively searching
for the Devil’s ******
concealed
within her
to nourish
to suckle
her
toad familiar.
And yes how proud he feels
to discover
hidden within her
privy
shaft
obscured by her
female *****
but not to the
empirical mechanics
of his fingers
probing...probing
as plain as the sun
that goes around
this Godly Earth
...the Devil’s ****
And so, by this
fleshly
mark of
being
Woman
she is
condemned to be
witch.
And so it is
so
in these
“the burning years.”
I cry for her
as I reclaim her
from History
(so many thousands
of her)
hold them
all
(in their holy terror)
all such suffering
beings
in my arms
in the dawn
of this new
morning
keening
for them
stroking their hair
(closing their eyes)
as tenderly
as if
they were my child.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
be the emulsifier between my tong & your liquid - become the highlight of the unspoken diversity in colours
- take life as an underestimation of the darkest light - rewind against the self-proclaimed goodness of a super hero
- stay vicious towards the muted fury of a volcano - frenzy beyond the rage of a divorced mermaid
- dare to inhale Indian cricket sounds while shaving death himself (by the ***** - Loose the unlovable spice baptised in a pile of modern mud called space
- generate a weapon dissolving an imprisoned flying carpet facing the smell of freedom - jump fronting an orchestra of snake leather balloons in search for your nickname
- buzz the alarm & punch the clock drowned into a bottle of ****** Mary’s pudenda juice ... and then... and only then I will Marry you!
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
pudenda.
pudenda, pudenda
pudenda pudding.
pudendal masterpiece.
pudendal mistress.
putting on tha' pudenda.
praise pudenda!
preach pudenda
"pudendally disturbed"
pudenda potential.
pawing at my pudenda.
"pretty much just pudenda."
pick at my pudenda
i wasn't pudendally prepared...!
please stop with the pudenda.
promised you my pudenda.
a pudendal predilection.
the precious, precious, perfect pudenda
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 1:48 AM UTC