"satyriasis" poems
The calm wind,
strokes the ****
The world drives,
the primes and hives,
of mad and trance.
The numb toes,
mounted moles.
The world drives,
the time and halves,
of mad and trance.
The chaos one,
does not know.
The world drives,
the wars and tyranny,
of mad and trance.
The feel of alive,
a touch of humanity.
The world drives,
justice of the immortals,
of mad and trance.
Peasants and pennies,
the drop of dime.
The world drives,
waters and commotions,
of mad and trance.
The fire in the alleyway,
burns the broomstick.
The world drives,
the dead and sad witches,
of mad and trance.
The bohemian ode,
nympomanics and satyriasis,
The world drives,
the desires and passions,
of mad and trance.
The sainted troops,
stalks, mocks, traps.
The world drives,
the obedience of lies,
in the mad and trance.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Love.
Of course, the great spirit said that word
when he set down the majesty of mountains
thus, spread curling softness through the seas,
sending little creatures wriggling, crawling, mewling, howling,
oh ye little fish and fowl, doodled up the dinosaurs,
a lumbering jurassic joke, then unleashed leviathan
from just a speck, and made some others walk *****
Love.
That word we need to hear
and the word that hurts so much.
It comes crowned with garlands, glistening
with the dew of pleasure. And underneath, the horn thrusts up
Dionysius and Venus, processions of Priapus, frenzied satyriasis
blind Baccus, luscious Pan and Zeus.
Ah yes. The juice.
Love.
And who has not recklessly ignored this word
or squandered it on abandoned, neon nights
that paled before the coming of cold mornings,
and who has not held back this word
from loved ones,
cowards of commitment,
circumcelliate, averruncate and absquatulate?
Love.
That little, mighty word that dominates our lives.
But what can we require of life and how can we survive
indifference in the barren waste and stay alive outside
without its whisper, without its cry and shout? And how can we aspire
to ecstasy without the tumult and whirlwind of its desire,
without its warmth, without its fire? So, we must turn again
to love's softness and love's pain. Again. And yet again.
Love.
It's easy, really. So go on, say it.
It's time. Why not? It's for the mothers and the lovers,
the fathers, it's for all the children who blindly seek.
It's for the teenagers and trembling old and the outcast and the isolate.
Even the soldier with the gun. Especially. It's for everyone.
The grave is lonely, deep and cold. By giving love before it's too late
those soft wings of the dove of peace unfold.
Love is the playmate. Enjoy, reciprocate.
This is the message I communicate.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
You touched me,
fuckkkkkk,
and I could feel my insides uncurl,
long forgotten what this felt like.
****** blush on my cheeks,
while your lips covered,
the parts of me that would be my u n d o i n g.
Gasps and grasping at something immobile,
while you sent me soaring
with your oral dexterity.
Only whimpers, breathing rushed,
what is my name again?
So close to the heavens, you're my super nova,
r
e
v
taking me o the moon.
Gimme, gimme, headspace so intense.
Harder, faster, take me there.
Coming in with sparks and the day's
worries just shatter, forgotten.
Sated, saccadic, sanative.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC