"slickness" poems
I am hungry
and it is reflected
in the contours
of every inch
of skin
every cell a-flutter
tiny wings and heartbeats
activated within
right down to
the ribosomes and
kidney-shaped
mitochondria
right up through epidermis
woven as threads
of softness penetrating
your inner hard, dark parts
causing them
to melt into
my light
I am craving
to feel your
absolute heart's
raging core
my aching flesh burning,
my heart, wrapped in
a love
so pure
My need to be
devoured surfaces
in smoothness,
at a glance
You feel it acutely,
no room for doubt
or subtle chance
I am ravenous
for muscle-worked arms
(arms that could easily
try to break)
to be supremely
gentle as you part
my thighs like the ocean
and sacredly partake
the slickness of your tongue
in my feminine grace
the stains of my love
drenching
your noble face
your eyes on mine
as I sharply breathe
need to hold your
head stroke your
hair know that for me
the king takes off that
garland of gold
breaking free of
all symbols of status
the only real treasure
the queen who
gives to him,
and who he now pleasures
and I let myself be consumed
with the reverence
of a psalm
my love pouring into you
healing your hurts,
like a balm
in this private landscape
we are the most
ferocious of tender
estuaries
in an eternal vista
in this hour of somewhere,
the sea hauls us in
like ancient creatures,
bringing the fossils
back to life
in lustrous foam
as they
inch their way
into the spirals
that we
feel we could
call
home
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Show in contented rest
bringing ghosts
company wished greenly
how did you know?
Bleeding on too long
they had to be cut down
from hooks and ropes
in order of feeding.
Liars causing problems
complicated sacrament
with slickness
under blackberry briars.
Safe from hawks
stay in Juicyland
where it's prickly
free from ****
This song triples guessed
foxy playing hard
around leafy bush
only snake does not miss.
Dance my badger spirit
agile amongst complexity
ward off and wander.
Kangaroo mouse prance.
Survival in stickers
only seasonal escape.
Where to hide from
next your sly rival?
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Bacon
Grease
Unpleasant slickness
Oil
Flith
A ***** feeling that you're overwhelmed by so you just want to get into a shower and scrub your skin raw
The one time my sisters and I played in mud and were covered in gritty goop
Losing the handle to the outside faucet
Cold icy water
Jumping into a creek and getting soaked
Cold water and cramping up, drowning
The ocean's waves pulling me under
Fear of drowning and ocean water forced down my throat
Salty water and the taste of the sea
Salt
Bacon
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
UNTIL NEXT TIME
THE PRESENCE OF YOUR BEING
PLACED UP AGAINST MY BACKSIDE
CAUSES A BIT OF EXCITEMENT
THAT MY BODY CAN’T JUSTIFY
FROM JUST A SINGLE TOUCH
FROM YOU AND YOUR UNSEEING
MY BODY TREMBLES DEEP INSIDE
AND MY GENDER BECOMES SO REVEALING
I TURN AND WRAP MY LEGS AROUND
AND USE YOU LIKE A CLUTCH
THE FEELING IN MY BODY STARTS TO TRAVEL
I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN HANDLE IT
OR IF IT’S JUST TO MUCH
THE SLICKNESS MY BODY’S REVEALING
BECOMES LIKE A FLUID GUIDE.
YOUR ARMS GLIDING MY EVER GENTLE MOVEMENT.
AS WE INTERTWINE
YOU SLOWLY TAKE YOUR GENDER
AND PUT IT INSIDE OF MINE
TO REACH YOUR IMMENSE INDUCEMENT
WITH YOUR HARDNESS BURIED INTO MINE
AS I SHAPE INTO THE PERFECT FORM OF YOU
SO ACCEPTING AND AGREEING
BANGING THE WALLS INSIDE
I GRADUALLY ACCEPT YOUR FREEING
WE RISE TOGETHER IN THIS MOMENT
MY BEING BEGINS TO SHATTER
THIS IS A PLACE OF EVERLASTING BLISS
AND NOTHING BESIDES THIS SEEMS TO EVEN MATTER
MY BEING SHATTERS AS I START TO INCLINE
THE COMBINED MOVEMENT OF US TWO
THE SWEETNESS OF YOUR SWELL
TELLS ME WE’RE NOT THROUGH
AND IN THE SHADOWS I CAN SEE
YOUR EYES LOCKING INTO MINE
MY SOUL WANTING TO BE BURIED
AND MY HIGH IS CLIMBING AGAIN INSIDE
YOUR EXISTENCE IN MY LIFE SHORT LIVED
YOUR BODY SO CLOSE TO MINE
FOREVER YOU ARE APART OF ME
YOUR BODY IS SOMETHING I STRIVE
AS YOU LAY YOUR LIPS UPON MINE
AND WE SAY OUR LAST GOODBYES
YOU ARE FOREVER SPECIAL TO ME
REMEMBER, UNTIL NEXT TIME
BY JENNIFER WOLFE
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
we drank so deep from a bottle so thick
and you
looking through the slickness of this mirror
into
my eye
you tried so hard
to get me off
and I told you sweetest things
and what's best I told the truth I
told you what
is true
edge of the bed I had my pants down
around my thighs
and here you are
you are
a seventies rebellion
filling the room so thick so hot
like the stereo speakers yelling
"damaged by you
damaged by me
I'm confused
confused"
we're both speaking to doctors
speaking always better
to one another
but you wouldn't admit that
sooner to be farther
farther to be nearer
and nearer to hear better
my breath into your ear
my shirt was green darling
and your shirt was red
I gave it to you
and then you gave me head
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
an earth spilled you soft
onto meadows of grass
and arms lifted you up
with bottle neck glass
boiling deep foriegn squall
of aluminum shards,
hardened sweat celebrations
strewn over the yard
remember these nets
and this slickness of sands
is strange to you too
a strange set of hands
that pulls the sky from you
and forgets how to breathe
and stills a soft meadow
your mother's bereaved.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
air-goggles clasped
eyeing up slickness
like a gull hangs over
bright airy gasps
brings arms up
feeling the tilt
toward water-sky
kicks up then down
to earth-pull push
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 6:39 AM UTC
I knelt at an altar of tumors and severed feet,
begged contorted constellations
and unfeeling particles
for a minuscule breath of your luminous brutality,
for the terrible knowing you impart through fever dreams of the flesh.
sweetheart
you came to me
laughing venomous tides of fury and revulsion
forcing your unyielding fingers
into my open mouth,
gone slack with involuntary music;
a baby bird, warbling frenzied, desperate songs,
imploring eternity
for a taste of forbidden worms.
you split the winking aperture
between my thighs with effortless disdain
ate my animal sounds with your
massive hands and the slickness of your sulfured tongue,
murmured of filth and carrion,
poured monstrous poetry into the holes in my head,
until alpha and omega erupted
through my corrupted cells;
miraculous fetters
engineered to hold
sparks of God's fire in captive isolation.
shattered and coiled
round the smallest of your fingers,
slave to the fluids
humming through this
heap of tallow and sinews,
a spent marionette
imperfectly rendered by relentless obedience to the stars.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
It is the weakness of the flesh,
the sweetness of the sweat
on your skin
what will be the end of me.
.
Because no matter how strong
I am,
you make a quitter of me,
I quit my values and my mind.
.
And it is all worth it, for you,
for the taste of your body, of
your skin,
for the slickness of your lips.
.
Its the sensuality of your eyes
that ignites me entirely from
the inside,
its even hotter than lava.
.
You set my hands on fire
and I can't wait to see the red hot
scorch marks
that I will leave all over your body.
.
It's your tongue making its way
from my lips, to my shoulders and
to my ear,
that makes me fall on my knees.
.
And it is with your every breath
that my entire world goes away,
its shattered,
the pieces lie under your fingernails.
.
I'm left overexposed and alone
lying in bed naked dressed only
with regret,
because of this I have to remain silent.
.
You are fire and I am gunpowder,
you make me explode every time
you touch me,
and I know this is all wrong.
.
You will take me everywhere
from pleasure to agony,
from glory to ruin,
but I know we will meet again.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
The room around me is filled air that feels too tight like ***** hose when I’m on the very edge of going up a size. You’re sprawled on the bed with the duvet scrunched under your face and between your knees. Glasses rest by your alarm clock and I’ve woken up before it. The hands are unreadable and I make another note to go to the optometrist sometime soon.
I sit up and stare at you, the worry lines relaxed. Twenties are when wrinkles start and sometimes I can see yours growing on me. I see the sunlight drift over the planes of your face, touching your stubble and the patchwork skin you’ve worried on your lower lip; for a moment, I’m reminded of the last time my teeth caught on the slickness of your bottom lip and I smile. The plywood box spring creeks under me and your eyelids flutter and I about face. Somehow, sleeping with someone, being in love with someone, namely you, doesn’t give me the permission to drink in the naivety present in your morning rest. Your arms around me in all the nights before didn’t excuse me from invading your space in the first moments of this day.
I stare out the window at a train passing by. It’s better to stare at graffiti-clad cars I’ve seen a thousand times before in this railroad town than for you to see me watching. You watch my frame fake interest in the engine outside and I feel the corners of your smile grasp the edges of my matching pajama set I picked out specifically for nights spent next to you. I hear you call me cute and tell me good morning and I feel the blood rise to my cheeks as I realise you’ve been awake this entire time.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
I believe in broken love and love lost,
Which may seem like two separate things;
However, they are in unison.
Love has grown to become so cliche and overplayed;
But in it's most pure form is spectacular and divine Until taken advantage of.
Love can come young,
but it is rarely understood, ever.
When love is misinterpreted,
There is chance for it to become broken.
Then, after the love breaks,
It leaks out until lost
In a deep ocean of emotions and thoughts.
Three years ago,
My first serious relationship had started.
I was completely clueless to what had started happening.
I knew I had felt different.
I began developing a sense of "we" instead of "me".
I had never been so happy, intrigued, or fascinated.
All this by another mortal human being.
After a few months,
I realized I had finally started experiencing what seemed to be true love;
And as time progressed,
I lost myself
For what I thought was the relationship itself.
I attempted to regain independence,
But one thing lead to another
And hate began overpowering the love and affection.
Though I never left,
I found another lover.
Well, I guess one could say another found me. Misconstruing love and lust,
I drifted into a world of sin and slickness.
My needs were finally being catered to
As I indulged in the best of both worlds.
I felt as if I finally deserved this.
I had been faithful for two years,
So shouldn't I get some free time?
After all, I stayed after they cheated.
They can do the same,
Especially since I won't keep this up for long.
I thought this was acceptable in my own eyes,
Yet I ignored the agonizing conviction that laid within my heart of being wrong.
One night, things had come to a ******
Between the new lover and I.
In the moment,
Boundaries of existence were broken.
However, afterwards I realized I had soiled the upmost precious thing I had ever possessed,
And that would be true love.
How could I have done this for pleasure?
Within a week, guilt had overtaken me.
I had to either come clean or leave.
I knew I would hurt her if I had told the truth
More than if I left.
I said that we were no longer meant to be
Because our love had been broken with fighting and deceit.
She cried for a week,
Begging me to come back.
I realized I had done something so horrid.
I could never take it back.
I left someone good for someone great.
So, why did I feel so bad?
Now, I am without either
Because of the guilt trip I went through.
I had broken a love.
And now, love was lost in the sea of emotions,
Sinking to the infinite depths of darkness
To never be found again.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
An orange glow and bright red teeth,
Oh, darling, won’t you sing me to sleep?
She drank her morning breakfast, Percocet and tea.
She played piano with bitten fingers, feet shaking underneath.
Her daddy taught her years ago, his bitten fingers touched those keys.
I should have beat him at his game, should’ve made them know this name.
She twinkled like a little star, lonely diamond in the sky,
Beautiful and woozy, not perfect like that Lucy.
She’s nothing special, **** sure not pure,
Thought she’d finally found her cure.
She wears those star-shaped sunglasses, knows she’s nothing good,
Smokes cigarettes and Mary-Jane, what are your demons, baby?
I’ll be your demon, baby.
Roof over her head is burning, eyes inside are ice,
She’s glacial and she’s tree bark, she’s a set of loaded dice.
I’ll finally beat him at his game; make that ****** know my name.
He’s gambling with danger, daddy dearest why’d you go?
Hung flowers across her bedroom walls, wilting brown and old.
She likes the smell of rotting, the sly slickness of mold.
Before she was glowing amber, now she’s those fading flowers.
Her lips are blue like the empty bottle on the table.
The TV’s on but only for static, she doesn’t believe in cable.
She didn’t believe in cable.
Just play the piano and please don’t call my mother,
The only friend I ever had besides you was my brother.
He ended up in prison, Father left years ago.
I should have beat him years go.
I should have done this years ago.
I loved you.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
she’s only got one arm, but that doesn’t stop her
from playing the piano Tuesdays;
clever girl, she’s got a rig,
three extra pedals to hammer out lower chords,
right hand for the melody.
she thinks often, how convenient for her,
it was her right arm she’d kept,
else she’d have to reach across to play the treble
and that’d make it hardly worth it.
of course, there are some things
what she can’t play perfect, that 's always
frustrating, frustrating,
but it’s the sort of think you put up with
when you are one-armed
and play piano on Tuesdays.
today, as it happens, is Thursday,
a day when she usually (but does not always) dust the piano.
this Thursday she dusts,
though there is not a lot of dust
because she woke up yesterday thinking it was Thursday
and you know how it goes. still,
she runs her dusting wand across the top of the instrument,
over the keys and raises little clouds, to her satisfaction:
if the dust is in the air, then it’s not on the hammers, the cables,
no, only her fingers, five on the ivory.
depositing the duster in its appropriate space—
she is all about space
and all about appropriateness,
there is (she thinks) some of each
for everyone, even if they’re not symmetrical—
she sweeps her hand against its weight
then gasps.
against the familiar grain, cut across
the slickness of its heart-dark lacquer, she feels what was not there yesterday,
a fissure,
in the wood,
a crack.
disbelieving, she puts her eye to it, runs her second finger over, over,
a split down the middle
of the damper cover, wide as a split vein
and a millimeter deeper.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Sometimes in fleeting moments,
Usually after you’d been drinking,
And often during those quiet, dark nights
When we’d lye in bed together,
Hands tracing only absence
On one another’s skin,
You’d look at me in this sort of
Fantastical way.
For me, it was always sort of like
Looking out at the ocean
And thinking for a second that you’re seeing
Infinite blue,
Though it’s really just the color of the sky
Reflected.
Even then, in those transient instants
Of eyes meeting for a second too long,
I’d sometimes think just that I’d miss you
As the subject of my poems.
Then the ice storm came.
The slickness of the roads kept me from you
Days before the storm and days after it,
Such that the sharpie and permanence,
With which I once marked the potential for our love,
Is faded now too.
My heart is a million different places, pieces;
A million different people,
Subdivided like America
To its breaking point.
But I brought my pen in from the car today
And the ink is thawing now
Despite the fact that the next love poem it writes
Will be for someone else
(Which is okay-
I think I’m okay.)
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
I will find you when you come to me
Like in tales of men on white horses
Hidden in chain mail, wrapped in my ghosts
I lounge by secret still pools, brushing green grass with my hands
Feeling sensuous in my own skin
Feeling drafts lift my hair as I wrap myself over my knees
I will find you when you find me
Like in movies with lonely people
Hidden behind microwaved dinners, drowned in glasses of wine
I stir coffee cups languidly, tracing the round rims with my fingers
Feeling ground bean slickness on my skin
Feeling the apartment empty around me.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
*The slickness of a blade
pressing against a throat....
the cold steel meeting tender flesh
blood drips and a body tumbles
the taste.... the sight... the sound....
all quite euphoric.....
Ripped clothes, smashed items,
echo screams, and the raging fires that glow throughout the night
The beauty.... the savagery.... the destruction
all quite euphoric....*
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
It's quiet at six
Before the slickness of the easy day comes out to lay..
..its traps.
And I wrapped up in a dufflecoat
Sail out on the street as if in a boat..
..gliding..sliding..riding the waves of snow.
I shall not slip
I have a grip on things
Winter brings me so much joy
Once..
..I didn't like the cold..preferred the warmer climes
How times change..how lines rearrange the face of man
And now..as happy as I am and can possibly be
Free to build..freed fulfilled.
I listen to the sound within the sound of six o-clock
The quiet knock..
Which..will one day arrive to tap upon this door
When silence is the more or less
And I confess..I listen very carefully..a bit of apprehension..see
Today is not that day and that lays easy on my mind.
So many things to search..to find
The glowing of my nose tells me the snow's still falling
Calling me to play..make hay...Another day..
And again it's six o-clock.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Every noise slithers 'cross
My ear drums with
The cool slickness of a
Sandpaper serpent
My skin pulled tight
'Cross my raw nerves
Nerves
Stretched stiff as a drum skin
Upon which beats this
Percussive tattoo of wild instinct
I clamp my eyes, vice-like
"Please let me wake"
But no
In this misty dream realm
I remain tethered, chained
Stuck in a sarcophagus
of
Strangled Silence
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
Clear, gushing currents make their way through moss-
y boulders; frosts chilly fingers past broken shores.
My toes kiss dancing pebbles, where the water lusts
for land. Accosted by the water’s eager
pull, my feet explore the slickness. The cold
attacking pure white limbs as I extend
and press into the ebb. The river moves
to grab my shivering leg, threatening with
seductive ease to rip me past
the surface, into dark, aggressive depths.
Anchored only by tingling toes, I’ll fall
if tiring muscles fail. Breathing, standing,
I feel the aching rush of currents. Then a simple
slap from a passing trout condemns
me to the murk that’s crying past. Stop.
Endure the numbness. My body
deserves to drown, for letting curious limbs
betray. I dream one day, I’ll delve
past new and pulsing streams to
a shore with both legs firmly
planted, closed, and clean.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Bad news here-
and I have to let it settle and
diffuse
sprinkle it over the surface of my shield
like salt.
lest the slickness not melt
on the bumpy road to their
Path and force a crash.
What I hear...
I can feel it-
want to let sink into my heart- but
To be their defender... must hide my eyes,
avoid their wounds.
Lest I faint, fall, falter.
So instead I send it
to heaven
Courage, Strength, Hope
Hope someone up there can...
is listening...
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
/ˈvis(ə)rəl/
vis
—as if you could twist out your arm,
hand clawed,
wailing pagan poetry with the clinically insane
who have feigned recovery to get out &
proclaim it an escape, as if you could leap
away from already being gone.
•
(ə)
mattress on the living room floor.
rhinestone. ashtray. loose eyelash.
—as if you might lick the slickness of your
image in the bathroom mirror & instead,
taste the texture of flesh.
•
rəl
—as if you could feel the weight of gravity
spin, mouth open now: tin. blister. wool.
wrist-bone; book page. charcoal briquette.
clavicle; over burner coil. burnout velvet.
jawbone; wooden oar. dollar bill.
earlobe; baby’s breath. jingle bell.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 11:27 AM UTC