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Trenton Hartford Feb 2015
My Favorite Pokemon as a kid was always Squirtle,
I always named him Squirter,
Not knowing anything about how ****** it sounded with my 7 year old mind,
I was always in the backseat of the car saying things like, oh no Squirter died,
or yes my squirter learned hydro pump!
and my favorite, I’m gunna give my Squirter one rare candy.

I always caught girl Pokemon,
Mainly because the symbol for the Gender looked unique to me..
So I would never catch Mewtwo because it was never a girl.

Once I learned you can cheat in Pokemon,
I was getting ready for every gym leader like a high schooler preparing for Spanish Test.
Pokemon levels the same number as the grades of the Spanish Test.

As time goes by you can realize pokemon can be like friends, you can’t catch them all, especially when their falling.
An unfinished draft of my Pokemon poem
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
Where are our clowns
With baggy waist-coats
Filled with promises;
Clowns wearing
Borrowed crowns.

One plucks a rose
In his white garden,
To pin on his lapel;
He's a squirter
And it shows.

One's in the square
With large red shoes
Putting on a show.
But feet don't fit,
Soon he'll trip
With tongue-in-cheek ego.

One has rhine-red ruffs
Around her neck,
Her GNP
Surpasses debt;
Her audience finds
They too get wet.
A three-ringed circus
We're wise to regret.

One in the Yuan
Has a red nose on,
A harlequin clown
Asleep in red dawn.
But tweak his nose
And the tent comes down
On the Big Top Shows.
Kitty Parson May 2013
Cuddling after ecstasy
the sheets are soaked

Baby, you're a squirter?

Nope, just incontinent
good thing for bed pads.
Natasha Feb 2014
Hold me up on your shoulders
back against the wall
look up between my thighs
teasing inside, tongue & all.

Lay me down
on the soft blanket of your bed,
& kiss me all the way up
to my lips.

Open my legs
pin my hands
above my head
& tease me with your hips.

Now baby,

I want you to push your perfectly proportioned shaft, inside my tight woven *****. Rub my ****** & ******* while your rhythm makes me go crazy.  
Increase the tempo of your symphony, arching my back- you make me gasp.
You make me scream.
Oh make it last!
Feel the swell
Feel the pulse
Nails in your back
Body convulse
10, 9, 8,
My whole body starts to shake
7, 6, 5, 4
Baby spread my ***** like I'm a *****
3,2,1
a squirter is always 10 times the fun.
lucky him, but I'm even luckier.
Poeta de Cabra Jul 2014
Her hairy old **** was full of scabs and cheese
Didn't stop me from going down on my knees
I spread her lips and brushed away a fly
Then slipped my tongue so deep inside
My God, she was a real filthy old *****
Her ****** did smell, oh what a stench
Never had I been down on something so foul
But I'm a sick *****, I went for the growl
The ***** hair was full of *** and ****
Had the ***** ***** wiped her **** on it?
There were even traces of menstrual blood
Does she *** normally or does she flood?
I was ******* her ****, didn't want to hurt her
How was I to know that she was a squirter
She shot *** and **** all over the ceiling
Oh what a sight, oh what a feeling
Then I filled her hole with my scabby old ****
Yes my pecker was covered with warts and pox
Maybe you think we are two filthy, ***** freaks
But she loves my *****, banging on her **** cheeks
When we had finished, a sight I'd never seen  
She called the dog over and he licked her clean
That was more than i could take, it's true
I had to go outside and have a great spew
But I'll go back again, there is no doubt
Coz that shiela loves, for me to eat her out
And I can never forget how well I rode her
While getting off on her smelly body odour
Next time, if she's got the rags and is a bit red
I'll just stick it up her ******* instead  
I'm not fussy, my tongue will still be stuck in
Nothing wrong, my friend with the Dolmio grin
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
and those who socialise
go among such few
as to be dubbed philosophers
for nonchalantly smoking
cigarettes in corners,
and there are those who shun
socialising as a pastime
equivalent of backgammon,
and smoke cigarettes entranced
by speaking back the nervous-twitch
embodiment of a sparrow's chirping,
smoking cigarettes as if they
were dragons.

the late 19th century was famous for its ménage à trois,
a profanity of a trinity, nietzsche rée and salomé
akin to edvard munch, stanislav przybyszewski
and dagny juell (ducha), and the evening by account of
jens thiis with stark naked satan unable to die
from pneumonia... we have much to congregate over,
less familiar stances to keep observance to,
and when the munch (moon khh, not
a marijuana smoker's pastime for a psychoactive
ingredient missing fuel or calorie),
exhibition came to london, i was expecting
the SCREAM... didn't get it...
fell in love with the madonna (1893),
such refined curvature, it was almost a
chair never sat on... pristine remembrance
of sloth never enjoyed for a book of letters
to be written by a politician...
shame, really... a homosexual's additive
enzyme of jealousy, who knows what chance
by-product  is worth keeping... l.s.d. or champagne?
well one produces psychotic people thinking
they're wheelbarrows, the latter produces anorexic models...
take a pick... take a sweetie darlin'.
that przybyszewski was an odd sort,
wrote solely in german, hallucinated,
was the stark naked satan at one seance of artists...
i'm guessing the next ****** will come
from a mono-****** marriage disdaining
the woman, the surrogate as merely *tool
,
if not from there, then where from?
dysfunctional heterosexual marriages?
you can engrave an orphanage populace with the latter,
with the former you can't...
yo-yo was the craze when i re-entered english education
caterpillar of tiers...
you can't do with the former as you do with the latter...
they're too rich... godly power bestowed upon
mortals is only bestowed with a debased exchange of matter:
you guest it! money!
money is cheap as ****... it's basically an **** by-product
of a shovelled ***** squirter digging into it
with piston thrusts... money, an enzyme a catalyst
in reverse... poems are cheap as conscience...
while artistic doodles gain a multi-millionaire status
once the dabbler in oil is dead...
i sold van gogh's sunflowers for a country's g.d.p.
the over day... how's that?
the point of art is to be dead... that's when the hagglers
and merchants come... art of worth means the artist is dead,
dead;
so there we have it: men overtly invoke optics
into ******, they paint, watch a woman utilise
all vowels and one particular consonant into
an ******* contorting moan, hence they paint...
male poets are an oddity... they say:
painters go ahead, enjoy the sights...
i'll use words as wet thumbs and indexes
putting all the vibrant candles out from contorting
to a swallow's chirping twitch...
keep your paintings, sell them for a grand...
there are many more colours here...
than the primitive spectrum to a suited geometry
of contortion that only revels in still-life, the captured
moment: but indeed akin to the primary,
red and noun, indigo and pronoun, green and
adjective, yellow and verb, orange and adverb,
blue and proverb... while the other colours
missing are left to occupy the two canvases of
black & white, as writing, grammatical syllable
shrapnel of prepositions and what not.
Mitchell Aug 2014
Days are all mashed together
I look out my window,
Can't even tell the weather.

What I own
Is out
On the sidewalk.

I try to say something
But I realize,
I've lost the ability
To talk.

There's splinters in my feet
And bags with not tags
Underneath my eyes.

Every life needs
A little surprise.

Betrayal and damnation.
Dirt mixes with the rain.
Who knew life was supposed to be
Brimming with this immovable pain?

Got a flask a whiskey and
A quarter slice.

Got a risky twenty
And a kitchen knife.

She said to me she wanted to die.
I said to her,
Well, we all gotta' try.

As the moonlight spills out on me
Like month old half and half with
The stars glittering like a fifth grade prom
And the wind and the earth
Rattling hard underneath our bent feet,
I can't help but think of the long way home
I used to take.
That dusty, beaten path,
Two years spent walking up and down
With nothing but my thoughts and music.
Those were the days of philosophy
Running along a river of shining misery.

There's a fluidity in all thing.
Passing through, up and gone.
Like the blue jay's wings
Beating at such an intensity.
Or the nightingale whose song
Has been pure
All along.

Got my passport.
Got my merchants card.
The sea will be my home
And I will not
Think
Of love
On this day.

A wish of escape.
Mastering the arts.
Forgetting oneself
To take over
Another.
Two faces in the mirror.
(Maybe three?)
A past life.
A former routine.
Friends made and lost.
Souls erased
And
Tossed.

Are we nothing
But the wants
Of our imagined
Future selves?

Present me
The
Present.

See into the lake.

Zoology major.

Freshmen squirter.

Drunk for the first time
In a friends closet.
Jealous of all of his
Jackets.
Not all of us
Can be alcoholics
Naturally.

Cat on a wire.
Minestrone madness.
I've got a love letter for you baby,
So come this way.
Oh' yes I've got a
Love letter for yah' baby,
Won't you come on over
My way.

I promise I won't bite babe,
I promise I won't tickle.
But let me just get
A little peek babe,
Just a nibble.

Reverse your rhyme.
Divorce your former self.
The wet forests are calling
Yet I've
Forgot
My name.

I see myself on a beach on fire.
A car in the street
Without any tires.
Lady in the way
Unable to pay.

Stay with the times, they say,
Know
What's going on
In the world.
See the wreckage of man's interests.
See the terror of man's beliefs.
Have the *****
To never
Turn away.

See yourself, ourselves
At the bottom
Of the
Barrel; see
The utter dismay.

Do not
Turn

Away.

It's all for a purpose.
Nothing's for free.
Character is born
From pain, the pain of
Experiencing life.

To live is
To
Shed the skin
Of one's
Former selves.

How many selves
Have you
Shed?

How many
Have

I?
Matt Jan 2015
I talked to a woman
She was blonde and very fit
How I imagine my body to be
If I was a woman

I showed her a picture
Of a woman I always dreamed about looking like

I told her I was very wet
And loved her body

I told her I was ******* myself
And I was
Moaning like a woman would
I was ******* my ***
Slowly in circles

As I ****** my inadequate *****
I just don't like it
It is too small at 5 and 1/2 inches

Yes I am a *****
It feels good to slowly massage my *** with ****

She described how she would lick my ******
I thought about having a ****, and having it licked

I asked her to finger me
She described how she would finger my ***

It's all so hard
Those big powerful men
With their great bodies
And big thick *****
Women love them
Beautiful women love them
And they love to be ****** by them
Hours on end
In every imaginable position
Their ******* get pounded
And they scream and ***
Again and again
Those big heavy *****
Slapping against them

I know you know what I am talking about
No wonder you are so happy

Why couldn't I have been like them
If I was going to have a *****
Why did it have to be inferior to theirs?

God is mean to me
I know it is bad to say that
But he is
I feel like my small *****
Is closer to having a ******

I want to rub my *****
Like this woman was

She sent me a pic of her ******* that were soaked
I was so loving and caring toward her
I really turned her on

She showed me a picture
Of how she squirted so much
At least two feet by one foot
Of the towel was soaked

I always dreamed of being a squirter
Able to *** so hard like her
I think of a well-hung man
******* my ***** nice and deep

My loving strong husband
Thrusting his huge **** into me
Making me *** again and again
Screaming, yesss, harder,
**** me harder!

It must feel so great to experience such satisfying *** as a woman
To have multiple *******
I envy you

Women experience more pleasure than I can
Another example of how God has been mean to me
Matt Dec 2015
Yes she is a squirter
And she does it
Just for fun

Her rabbit vibe
And *******

Make her scream
And c**

And when she gushes
All over the place

I hope
I can be there
To let her

Do it on my face

I promise
To be good
And be grateful

She has covered my face

I savor ever drop
Yes I crave the taste
A poem dedicated to the beauty of female *******.
Bill murray Jul 2015
Chick-peas oh chick-pea come back and grab your squirter because I know the juice in the apple is being squeezed like a mellamuffin
Matt Mar 2015
I hope to use my tongue
To help a beautiful woman ***

Oh heavens!
I didn't realize she was a squirter

— The End —