"soaped" poems
viewing naked body in mirror
as if, its not my own; at my
age I sometimes wonder, am
I still desirable in his eyes?
breast are firm, buttocks
tight, shapely legs; thigh
to ankle toned to wrap
around his sinewy waist.
belly flat, waist trim, he
sneaks up behind; warm lips
to nape, his subtle bait to
taste me, it's never to late.
tongue between breast, I
know now as I gaze into
those baby browns, I've
found my answer.
*** appeal is still renown,
it shows in his eyes; as I
sigh from his touch, ummm!!
his lovings never too much.
******* taut from his touch,
tongue upon belly and navel;
laying on the table, flickers
my jewel; making me mewl.
purring like a kitten, lapping
up my milk; tongue feels like
silk, in and out licking; love
how he keeps me ticking...yes!!!
parting lips; warmly I dip, lightly
I sip upon blooming mushroom;
pulsating in reddened abloom,
spillage slowly from his plume...sweet
finger tracing veins poppin',
allowing throb to easily drop in;
nice and slow watching manhood
grow like a framed Van Gogh...he flows
****** self-confidence I'm convinced
watching him grow long and dense;
taking in every inch, winching in
delicious pleasure; his desired
measure...sexually self-confident
soaped and lathered in wetness
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
the brother was my age, not a looker. my parents were nervous and slicked his hair back lovingly. their hands touched. I had other presents but I was thinking about the blood in my body and about Stephen. Stephen was an across the street foster I for a summer could not separate from. his nose was constantly chapped because his parents found out he had no manners at the table and would have his older sister sneak up behind him and hood him with an empty feed bag. I went in with Stephen once saying his sister had called him a ******* and his parents liked me enough that they soaped her mouth in front of me then tied a string to her seemingly always loose front tooth and then tied the escaping end of the string to the **** of an open door and slammed it. because of this honesty Stephen and I were allowed to watch a movie where a white man and a savage pressed their wrists together after cutting them. the movie looked away from the cutting so we improvised. it didn’t make us any closer. the night Stephen ran away I didn’t wake up without having to piss. it was my dad found him days within the week making boxes a mile gone at a pizza shop because he said his name was Billy and would work for free.
I looked at the brother and couldn’t see it being so without my blood. but the brother pulled me to him anyway and I could feel in the heat of his elbows all the time he’d spent mourning the loss of Stephen.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Another day another dollar
Don the thrown on clothes
That worn over washed feel
A face soaped look to begin the start of another start
Another trawl into the big wide world
Yet so held in as my uniform
Becomes my sin
Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life
My dollar buys the tax mans lunch
His change may feed my family brunch
Pay the bills on borrowed time
What a life my common crimes
Twist the fate that follows me
The uniform of life and
I'm the tree
Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life
Holiday beaches from a magazine
Feel the heat and dream the dream
Forget the island sun my son
Paradise park be only for the few
Paradise just aint my glue
Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life
Uniform of life work your magic wand
Take me to another place
Work me to the bone
Feed my luck to the workers book
It's written till the end
Gone my map all washed from the tears of my soul
The chapters complete yet
Empty inside
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles
dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious
my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity
the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle
the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners
every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking
sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired
for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
the brother was my age and not a looker. my parents were nervous about displaying him and slicked his hair back lovingly. their hands were careful and if they touched they did so without independence.
I had other presents but I was thinking about the blood in my body and about Stephen. Stephen was an across the street foster I for a summer could not separate from. his nose was constantly chapped because his parents found he had no manners at the table and would have his older sister sneak up behind him and hood him with an empty feed bag. I went in with Stephen once saying his sister had called him a ******* and his parents liked me enough that they soaped her mouth in front of me then tied a string to her seemingly always loose front tooth and then tied the escaping end of the string to the **** of an open door and slammed it. because of our honesty Stephen and I were allowed to watch a movie where a white man and a savage pressed their wrists together after cutting them. the movie looked away from the cutting so we improvised. it didn’t make us any closer. I knew this for sure when on the night Stephen ran away I didn’t wake up without having to **** it was my dad found him days within the week making boxes a mile gone at a pizza shop because he said his name was Billy and would work for free.
I looked at the brother and couldn’t see it being so without my blood. I explored shyly but with faith and was heartened when I could feel in the heat of his elbows all the time he’d been born with.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Cast back the curtains
let me gaze upon your beauty
soaped up and slippery...
your smooth skin
gleaming as water droplets
roll beneath my rough hewed touch
as I rub gently
in circles
along your bottom
breathing heavy
with the slap of wet leather
and torn shirt
I make you wet once more
my *****
*****
windows.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
1.
Full sta(r)ring
I sit as the window
was a pleading enormous nobody
he declared my head
practically lost.
2.
flustered you’ll doubt that
he glanced
sleep can’t.
3.
Crooked conversation listeners
clenched authority grimy
beside the sight attempt
4.
that chanced amusement
obliged its stiff attempt
by askance explanation
he and the slipped tongue
therefore sitting
on the heels of friday
5.
overhead the engine slipped suddenly when
she whispers explanation
grand
6.
growling hurried difficulty
shouldn’t reason but
the creature bitterly
declared in smaller steps
"you’ll doubt when i"
7.
I blinked and riddle
the shifting moral of executed
fright the cunning
underpromised
dependent muddle
congressional huddle
8.
not the sadistic wet world
glaring or the the the
defended
answers soaped the the the
dyed course
hello doesn’t the the the
let my coming
9.
adding highest denial
we tear the despair
rolling secret sea so far
winter guard softly introduced
my remembered underneath
10.
his daughter
a canary warily dared
to pretend to drink in
bound education of judging
11.
the height dating
and pushy she interrupting
like the party
for wonderful
couple of sharks
12.
elbow listening did dishes
she declared panicky
we will go by asking
uh um
curled hair blank slate
forming saucepan all sobbing
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
This morning I watched you
stumble into the bus
like a drunken moth:
straw-headed, foggy,
jacket clinging to you
by one shoulder
like an ironic flag.
America has claimed you!
Just like Our Moon,
those ironic flags of liberty.
Chortling, choking
on nothing but your
immovable child-like
sadness. Leathery
wings sprawled, gaping,
stinking of whiskey and ****
You were screaming
at a woman across the aisle
whose eyes also gaped,
who didn't see the revolution,
who feared her reflection in the
eyes of "Made In The USA".
Who is she? What form
have you given her?
The mother who soaped
your tongue with her bitter morals?
The sister who boiled her
life away on a spoon?
The lover who embraced your wounds
despite EVERYTHING
and then became one?
You were eating an apple
from your pocket,
"Red Delicious,
the MOST American fruit!"
It was mostly rotten, sweaty
brown core staring into me
like a terrible moth's eye.
I watched you until
my stop,
I'm sorry I don't know why.
When the bus-man shoo'ed you off
I heard you scream after me,
really howling.
I'm sorry I can't save you,
I'm a moth too.
I ran home this morning
and left all the lights on.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
I don't want you to bother
building up a thick lather,
your shower-soaped hand
moving between your legs,
then reaching the long-way round to
spread yourself wide open, bending forward
just so that you can drag the steel edge of a razor across
your soft skin
I’ve never stood
in a field of wild flowers and
thought it to look overgrown
You don’t need a single drop of perfume
on your ******* near your *** or on
your sheer white tank as I don’t mind
the taste or scent
of your sweat,
dripping
from your summer skin,
glistening in the
afternoon heat.
No need to burn
your soft long locks between
two tongs,
to pull them taut, or blow them dry
to make them straight.
Your curls,
untamed and
and unpredictable
need no refinement;
I'll follow them as they
twist and turn
I want you my love,
unvarnished,
unapologetic,
unfinished,
unrealistic,
and most
assuredly
unshaven.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
Mary undressed
for her Friday bath.
The water was steaming
steam rose
to the off-white ceiling.
She dipped in a foot
withdrew it again.
Feckin' 'ot.
She turned on
the cold water tap.
It cooled down
the water.
She turned off the tap
and put in
a foot again.
That's better.
She climbed
in the bath
and sat down.
Water reached
her small taut *******
Luk at de sight
av dem.
Two love bites
stained one breast.
Magdalene's work.
She picked up
a pink sponge
and soaped it up.
Washed her
neck, arms,
******* and down
between thighs.
Nuns an' their
blather.
Buff an' blister
Thomas an' 'er
ideas for lent.
She wished the nun
would go to holy Rome.
She soaped
her *** standing up.
Magdalene
wud love dis.
She sponge down
with water washing
the soap off.
A love bite on her
right thigh high up.
Magdalene
lipped her
and kissed her.
That time
at Magdalene's
parents' house
while they
were out shopping.
Both naked
on the bed.
Nip as babes.
Mary stepped out
of the warm bath.
She grabbed
a white towel
began to dry herself.
Wish Magdalene
wus here nigh.
Ruba-dub-dub.
Once dried
she stood and gazed
at herself
in the mirror.
Jist loike Eve.
That time
at Magdalene's house
lying abed
with a thousand thoughts
going round
in her head.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
Miss Pinkie
wore the most
hideous
kimono
I had seen
and I'd seen
quite a few
and she stood
by the door
and said
how about
you and I
stripping off
have a bath
together
then dry each
other off
have some *****
put some cool
jazz music
then get down
to some ***
So we did
although the
bath was small
and tight for
us both there
(she being
a bit plump)
but we soaped
and rinsed off
and dried down
put on jazz
and drank *****
got ready
for some ***
but the dame
went to bed
for a snooze.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
Gallipoli 1915
I was there
George said
blood bath
that was.
Bodies
in the water
on land.
Many
of my chums
went down.
He sat
in the bath chair
as I ran the water
for his bath.
Churchill's idea
it was
right disaster.
I helped him undress
as after his stroke
he was paralysed
down his left side.
That photograph
by my bed
that chap
in uniform
is me
and my late wife
we married before
I went off to war
I came back
others didn't.
Once he was undressed
I helped him
into the bath
and set him down
and gave him
his flannel
soaped up.
Thanks Benny
he said.
He washed
his neck
and face
and other parts
of his body
he could reach.
I washed his hair
and rinsed it.
Never forget that
blood bath
he said
staring into space
bodies everywhere.
He closed his eyes
as I combed his hair.
Not a scratch on me
not through
the whole war
lucky ******
he said
unlike those
other poor buggers
the dead.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
They showered together,
lathered each the other,
soaped up
and then
turned on the tap,
washed off and up;
he moving along
her spine his finger,
moving on around
to her *******
O boy, what a laugh,
better than a bath;
she washing along
his chest hairy,
soaked, then down
to his orchestra stalls
and Moby ****
washed and soothed,
and he kissing
in his blindness
with water,
her cheek, lips,
forehead;
she licking under
his chin, his jaw,
tongued, kissing
his upper lip
(blinded by
water, too),
then he began to sing,
baritone,
some Italian
love song,
not a note wrong,
his hand moving
along her ****
in circular motion,
she filling up with water
and deep emotion.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
The orange bricks
in the cloister wall
seemed less orange
in the late afternoon sun,
without us God will not
Augustine said,
I walked from my cell
along the passage way,
the frail French monk
in the infirmary needed
washing and preparing for bed,
quiet and with dignity
I washed him
and prepared him,
without God we cannot
said Augustine
so Dom Henry said,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
kiss me here and here
she said, lips on flesh,
warm and tasting of sea salt,
the French peasant monk
carried manure across
from the farm
to the cloister beds
in a wooden wheelbarrow,
bent low, balding head,
wet soaped flannel
I washed the frail monk down
thin arms and arthritic hands,
this is our foreplay
she said, let games begin,
I washed his frail head
washed off the soap
with another flannel,
warm clean water,
Hugh walked to the latrines
carrying a bucket,
face unsmiling,
sacraments are an outward sign
of inward grace Dom Bruno said,
I dried the old monk
and dressed him in pyjamas,
weak sun in afternoon cloister,
bricks more orange,
take me here she said,
I kissed her thighs,
staring fires,
from whence shall come my help?
the frail monk lay in bed,
clean and refreshed,
I gazed at the bell tower
as I walked the cloisters,
brick on a brick
in the late afternoon,
in the sky
a fading sun
and the start
of a pale moon.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC