"sexed" poems
We first sexed in a tumbling, fumbling manner;
The time had come, it seemed to us,
To consummate our ****** lust.
The Valley was shakin' to The Rocks,
A popular Irish band;
We'd had our fill,
I sparked the engine,
And parked my bike on Techumseh Hill.
The summit was dew damp;
We spread wide our pants,
Not knowing who should go for whom,
So we relented to the crescent moon;
I acquiesced to the shooting stars
When my eyes
Diverse moons have filled my nights,
Long since the grassy knoll,
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
She leads with licentious behavior
Like my ****** savior
I savor
Her thighs
I delight in her sighs
Her sexed up scent gets me high
Mounds of flesh
Soft *******
Tender tongue
Lashing
Like whips
Till I am throbbing from the hip
Till my gun comes
And I become
Unequipped
Resting with an empty barrel
Dripping slimy smoke
The last vestiges
Of trembling ecstasy
Wiped from her lustful smile
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
I’ve seen colors melt, colors mold over, colors who stick to the sides of
Other colors
I’ve seen colors which soak to the quick of wood and skin, ones that spill over
Or dry like deserts
I’ve seen colors that congeal like the living, I’ve seen the same ones mixed to death
I’ve seen colors pool, colors rust and colors boil
I’ve seen colors that don’t read maps
Colors that overrun, overturn, overlove their neighbors
And ones that play well in sand
I’ve seen colors that drink cocktails, drink water, drink blood
Together
Colors that get bored, colors that get sexed
I’ve seen colors ripped from the earth
Seen them ghost to other places
I’ve seen colors give up, every time, waiting for air, for shelter,
For Godot
I’ve seen colors grow cold like science
Grow loud like a flag unfurling
Grow up, move out, move on
I’ve seen colors stuck in between things
These same colors fill empty spaces
Fill vision, fill cups of coffee
I’ve seen colors tell white lies
They aren’t white
They are happy
And they aren’t here for us
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 6:34 PM UTC
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson
(The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch. It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay. For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.)
The Nonromantic Man
Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a ***** call. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
i was'nt very clever
at maths at park st school
thick as **** when adding up
a mathematics mule
but i was quite good looking
girls where always there
counting not a problem
with gelled black streaky hair
puberty and progress
next stage after kissing
discovered that my *****
was'nt just for *******
then came my dilemma
a valley ****** vexed
blod the bike from blaina
begging to be sexed
how'd you want it bloddwyn?
oooh!....ten inches would be nice
i counted for a minute....
then i shagged her twice
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
He often asked me if I believed in love
I often answered if love believed me
see he was willing to fix the flame
that no longer burnt when the sun left on rainy days
he saw the flaws that I let escape
I saw the love that he yarned to give
so I soaked my heart in his treasures
never fully understanding the meaning to
Love
So who the **** was he kidding?
Thinking I could be open to love
Let’s reminisce
my heart was done when josh burnt his bridges
maybe when jose told me he never viewed me as
His Women
or maybe when I laid beside a man who never called me
He
told me he loved me
just to undress me
only to finesse me
just to say he sexed me
In mind he next me just to move on to the next me
you know the shy girl with the heart of gold
often eager to please that she misleads
in ends up
on a broken rode
So I often asked could he see his self loving
after his heart was left in a
disaster?
He just said
Disaster aren’t final destinations
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
the whole uni-world-verse is a work of art
painted, sculpted, written, strummed, yelled, whispered, spoken, hummed,
watched, read, walked, met, clutched, felt, thought, fraught, shot, healed,
sealed, revealed, eaten, clapped, drummed, hugged, kissed, loved, hated, caressed,
sexed, hit, held, slit, melded, tripped, tasted, clothed, wasted, hurt, emaciated,
bounded, re-created, infinite, hallucinated, framed, contained, insane, profane,
profound, no-sound, throned, starved, crowned,
and could the hues and colors of experience be expressed
I would have worked this art to show and speak to no one
but as the same, no none
and yes some
to a sandwich multitude and the star-gaze vigil
from the back, to the front, in the middle.
all big, all mid, all little
and silent as a God watching young girls play fiddle.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
Young Americans, all volunteers
Sampling English women and English beer
Over sexed, over paid and over here
In the scrubby bit next to Sally's house there used to stand another cottage. If you scrape away some soil you can find floor bricks. A german fighter tailed some bombers back, shot one down as it made its final landing approach.It crashed short, demolishing the cottage. When Sally first moved in there were bits of metal laying around and dials hanging in the trees. An old boy turned up one day, a surviving crew member. They gave him some bits of his old plane to take home.
On planes with names like
Frivolous Sal, Dauntless Dotty
Million $ Baby, Memphis Belle
Sylvia was a child during the war.They saw a german fighter shot down, the pilot managed to open his chute. He walked up to their house, knocked on the door and gave himself up. Sylvia's dad marched him down to the Police Station.
Braving the freezing hostile skies
Thousands and thousands of you guys
How can we thank you
After you've died?
Next to Diane's house, hidden in the trees are the remains of nissen huts built as accommodation for the airmen. Not much left after 70 years, a few concrete block walls. Now and again she used to see some misty-eyed old guy gazing into the trees.
Long after you're gone
The land remembers
Bears the scars
Of those few years of turmoil
David is a gardener in our village, nice guy, should have retired by now. Don't think his father ever kept in touch.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
*So where does she go when
she's been fingered and drugged,
abused and sexed up?
That's right, the end of the bar
where they'll never find her,
let alone kiss her.*
Tucked behind her right ear,
blonde hair fell as if a tear
from cheek to chin,
bowling ball to bowling pin;
stacked at the other end.
This poem is for you long-blonde-hair-behind-the-bar-girl, written down by paper and pen.
Your quilted jacket,
leather in material,
won't keep the cold out;
only a white-stick-arm
will warm, guide and
ignite you home.
Fill the wardrobes back up again
with hangers plucked and picked from the
carpeted floor.
Lay the lover down amongst the sheets
only the whisper sweet thoughts and memos and
kind words in low tones
into her ear.
Kiss her neck and grace the thigh,
build
up
the
courage
to
last
all
night.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Kid trying to keep up
I want knew shoes
ones that will just float me there
always been a clever kid
nose in a book
or to the grindstone
decent grades
but could do better
*** I never can quite keep up
I break down
I mess up
I have a twitchy personality
makes me neurotic
nu-erotic
overly loving
maternal
and likely to get broken and swept off the table where it was that I was learning
the secrets
of the universe
Sexed up
hating ***
hating pleasure
but seeking it
a contradiction
and not happy with it
nobody's gotta tear me in half,
I'm doing that myself
but that hasn't stopped folks from trying
One was a snake
sliding around me
whispering things
manipulating
pushing
pushing
pushing
the other was like the spring rain
cold and sweet
and always beating on my head
they tried
**** near worked
but then after them,
one found the glue
and one to hold me better
and I'm still not there
watching a super nova in slow motion
gotta give you a headache after a while
pass an Aspirin
I talk like a bull whip
and I could give you whiplash how quick my moods shift
threatens to yank my own head off
You know what I mean?
I guess you gotta
Firecracker
over excited
panicked out
strung out on my own issues
then wheeled out to dry on the line
flapping there with the fish and your knickers
but hey, I could just go on all day
about why it is
and what it is
and what thing is bugging me now
and yeah, this is a long poem,
*** I feel like I've never talked to any of you
and you seem to like me
you know what I mean?
Like I said before
I'm a kid trying to keep up
and ****
my head hurts
but I just gotta keep running
you have an issue?
Fight me
**** that
I'd win
get guilty
and I don't need that
so just stop reading, whatever,
if you don't want to be my friend
like I said, you may want an aspirin
'specially after this one
Means a lot to me that you read this far, though
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
Do you know who I am? Do you understand why I do what I do and think what I do is exactly what should be done? Do you have even the slightest respect for my decisions? For who I am? Do you know who I am?
That’s alright. Neither do I.
If I have said it once, then I best say it over and over and over again until you start listening: I feel like I'm underwater. I am in deep oceans, not blue or pale waters, but a horrible, dark abyss. I am drowning in a strange love for the spin-offs of truth, dignity, and cultural revolution. Now that is situational comedy.
My world is composed of nothing but reruns. Clips of him drowning on repeat. And when I drown, he drowns too.
I pray to find the sun so that I may trade all that I have for its warmth to melt the ocean into sky, and this glass from my skin. I don’t need to keep my heart shatterproof, I am no porcelain. I am an independent. Fill my flooded lungs with fresh smoke. Make the water go. Make the bad go. Go. Going. Gone. The sun is gone. All that I have is my fragile body, my *** I am under sexed, overlooked, and infinitely exhausted of these nonsensical rants. If I could sketch a message into the night sky it would plainly read: I feel like I'm underwater.
So here, in these reefs, will I search for my meaning. But I think it’s best we all come to terms with the plain truth: Submergence is submission. And I refuse to submit to your societal pressures. I will decide what is wrong. I will say what is right. If I wish to empty my lungs of this saltwater, find the sun above the surface, and turn off the abhorrent sitcoms I cannot submit. I can only drown.
“Not another one! Look at him, look at him!” she yells.
His veins are coursing, pulsing, shattering at the edges with blue. He is blue in both his complexion and complex feelings and thoughts and pains. His veins are blue, and he is cold. Can you smell his insatiable mind? Taste the metallic crush of his sanguine? “This world is intolerable, and I must not tolerate,” she reads from his tear stained note. The ripe stench of escape burdens our minds as we watch his soulless body hang. My mind is escaping. Toss the rug over the barbed wire and run. Run. Sanguine with ketamine. Run, ****** run.
Do you know how to drown? That’s alright. Neither do I.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
we used to gallivant around cities
with light feet and empty wallets
and you were infinitely cool
skipping from streetlight to streetlight
in colorful skirts and tank tops
and quoting Bob Marley lyrics
to tell me you love me.
these times were mindless
of all the tomorrows
that would eventually find us.
you would give me a certain look
with eyes colored a certain blue
and i was chivalrous
taking you by the hand
and scurrying through the crowd
our hands clenched with balmy anticipation
and we would find a restroom
or a rooftop or an alley
where I’d lift your skirt
scoot your ******* to the side
and howl at the moon.
we would return to the bar
just-sexed and wonderfully disheveled
with spirits galvanized
by the hubris of youth
and the shellac of *****
your blushed cheeks told the story
as friends pretended not to notice
and overworked squares
drowned their envy
with shots of cheap whiskey.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
Don't pretend you don't miss me
and the way i'd get tipsy
just to make every thought, besides you, flee
i'd run my fingers through your sexed-up hair
and rip your jeans off tear by tear
baby, you didn't know it
but I thought Iloved you there.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
you,
desolate shadow of existence
Sexed up and used by their persistence,
You'r admirations and aspirations
Are the apple cores
Planting seeds in my belly
Despite my resistance.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
Where's my daughter?
She's by the lake
Smoking cigarettes and
Reading poetry.
She's watching a little
black and blue bird
with a tongue-depressor tail
hop and squeak
through the dry
southern grass.
She's listening to
the salt-shaker wind
and sexed-up cicadas
looking for an insectual mate,
or a quick bug ****
Where's my daughter?
She's looking at the night sky
breaking it into
sectors of
astrological wonders
and making amazement for
herself,
with zodiacal confirmation.
and kissing like a serpent,
talking about
theories of relativity
and mass
and the speed of the light
and making love on
the boot of a car.
Where's my daughter?
She's lying naked
dreaming about whiskey
she can't have
and writing poetry
on the internet.
she's listening to
foreign music
and wishing other
people would do
that too,
with her.
she's wishing boys
wanted to hear her
crude poetry
or talk about
writers with crippling alcoholism
or ****** addictions,
and appreciate art
in a way that isn't
just to get in her pants
after.
Where's my daughter?
The clouds.
The ******* sky.
That's where she is.
But she's not on a plane.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Old-Self :D
By: Travis R. K. Sanders
Part 1
Ok so most of you think you know who I am and what I am about because you may hang out or communicate with me on a day to day basis but you don’t know anything. Fiend and slave to my body. How the urges are so powerful and how everything else quickly becomes irrelevant. Almost like living a double life but this is who I am and there is no escape. Sleeping with the enemy of the enemies. Uncontrollable and over-powering this ****** desire can be. Finish with one maybe two then moving on to two or three more. What kind of life is this for the beautiful and brilliant mind of such a insecure and vulnerable Virgo? Maybe it has to do with not having a father and I need comfort? Maybe I am over sexed and need it all the time or maybe I am looking for that someone to call my own? I don’t know what it is but it is filthy, ***** and disgusting that I give myself to so many others and have a hard time turning down those who wish to give themselves to me. Is it the lifestyle I live? Being a homosexual man. Surely not all homosexuals are overtly ****** and are in need of some type of ****** gratifications 24/7. Is it nature and has nothing to do with being homosexual but male? Maybe so but I can only imagine and pray that the day that I wake up diseased and infectious never comes. In need of a reality check and soul saving. This nail biting life is not for the faint hearted which I thought once beat with inside of me. Too many men to count but I know the exact number I think but I am no longer sure because that part of me will not open up completely. Yet I want to give it my all and let you in on why I am ashamed to approach those I find attractive not just physically but in mind and soul as well. Instead I lie myself to bed with someone I do not know. Strangers are easy to sleep with, oh my god did I just say that? But I know it is true because I have done it on numerous and multiple occasions. I need help I need it bad, this life I live is so sad. But yet through the weeks the months the years I develop a true heart beat and not the beat of pleasure and I realize finally that this was my old-self.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
im a sexed up
cumwhore
after a drag on
your **** pistol.
im as quiet as a
mouse in my
shiny, black school shoes.
im a baddie
and im thinking
of your head
grazing against my teeth instead
of this (decadent)
cherry –
now you know why im drooling.
im a gracious
guest and the
hostess with the
most-est, covering
my mouth when
I laugh too hard,
mixing a cocktail
that’ll put hair
on any man’s chest
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 4:04 AM UTC
I searched for you across wild oceans,
Never daring to dream that I would find
Such a ***** dangerous, delicious passion
Which, after more than four hundred summers, still burns hot.
But you are colder now.
When I discovered your riches,
I knew I had to possess you entirely.
The blood lost and the blood lust
Was worth it to make you mine.
But you are bolder now.
I never wanted to set you free.
Your Declaration of Independence nearly destroyed me.
I had to accept your right to Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness,
To lose you completely would be unbearable.
You are the scolder now.
Like a white knight, your white light saved me,
As it seared through flesh, turning skin inside out and the whole world upside down.
You were Oversexed and Overpaid,
But I needed you Over Here beside me.
You are the shoulder now.
Through time and space, our destructive power has bound us together,
I have fallen; my heart is given; my soul is sold.
I'd lie for you, I'd die for you;
Take tooth for tooth and eye for eye for you.
It's all in a sexed up folder now.
Of late, others say you have grown so ugly;
Distorted and deranged with and beyond belief;
Frenzied and overcome with hate, but I still love you,
Still long for our special relationship.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder now.
anna jones ©2017
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
the heart de-sexed
by cloistered syllogisms
artifice sign-posts
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
Our love was our king
It crowned and spurred
It drowned and spared
Our love was our circus
It tricked and peaked
It ticked and picked
Our love was a corner
It secluded and dreamed
It submerged and sexed
Our love was a taboo
It was a sensitive secret
It hide as others chased it
Our love is our kiss of life
To honour and bathe in
My angel, my cloud of love
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
he whispered secrets in my ear
as i'd weave tall tales in his chin hair
and still to this day
we each swear
there was nothing there
other than the static charge in the sexed up air
and the moon beams
tangled in our thunderstorm breathing
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC