"steamed" poems
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
19.4k
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Oh Coffee Machine! My Coffee Machine! You've finally finished my drink!
For every morning you brew me one -I place my mug in the kitchen sink,
Every drop of your goodness; topped with whip cream; finished just in time,
The things you make, lattes, coffee, are absolutely divine,
Just as I was about to fill and pour the once empty mug,
almost as empty as i'm feeling; there's still that leftover bit of hope,
But wait, Can it be? My old trustee machine?
It mustn't be the end of my coffee machine peering near,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
My Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
The hiss of steamed milk, cream and roasted coffee beans,
The wisps of steam lingering in the air as you make my coffee,
Dripping ever so slowly in my cup -Coffee that's dark, bitter and black as night,
Early in the morning before breakfast; before I take a bite,
This half-full cup of coffee won't do me good for the day,
Without you I think that the morning skies themselves will be grey,
But wait, My dear coffee machine!
I keep pressing the button clear
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
Waking up with no cup of coffee, ask not what the future may bring,
Without the energy, I don't know whether sorrow shall reign or happiness ring,
Everyday I now wake to breathe deeply the aroma of life's bel-fry,
For if I ever smell the subtle hint of coffee in the air, I let out a sigh.
Oh Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
You've been here for so many years,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
My stomach and head
Are boiling with sadness
And my internal organs
Are steamed from
The inside out
Love doesn't exist
For me
Curled up in the fetal
Position I ask for
Help from anyone
And all I get
Are ghosts of friends
Whisps of smoke
Gone in a flash
I'm like a tornado
Of emotion and I
Destroy everything in sight
When people see me
Coming at them
They evacuate and I'm
Left to
Rampage all alone
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts
Who likes BANANA cream pie?
They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight
Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms
ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine
Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth
Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE
HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste
ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery
The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine
My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind
It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf
MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's
NEEPS can be mashed or left whole
On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well
Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe?
Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast
The lady next door grows RHUBARB
SPINACH gave Popeye much strength
Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational
UGLI is a member of the citrus family
In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS
WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare
XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON
YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet
ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Something about you makes me smile
Something about you makes me dance awhile
Something about you brightens my day
Something about you makes me feel special in every way
Something about you gives me comfort in the dark
Something about you makes me hit my mark
Something about you inspires a part of me
Something about you just makes me free
Something about you when I'm lost gives hope
Something about you feels like a safety rope
Something about you is making me write this song
Something about you I knew all along
Something about you when I'm steamed is cool
Something about you keeps me working like fuel
Something about you just makes me believe
Something about you helps me to receive
Something about you strikes me exponential
Something about you says great potential
Something about you seems like a miracle
Something about you is almost lyrical
Something about you is one and only
Something about you feels almost homely
Something about you fills me with great awe
Something about you is strong like a claw
Something about you is special and sweet
Something about you is undoubtedly neat
Together we are strong alone w are weak
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
A quiet book of words, from a lonely man in his room
Her tiny voice, like pebbles rolling down a stream,
surrounded by pines
Sand between her toes, humming a song her mother used to sing,
forgot the words
Holding my head in your arms, blue little room, listening to
the wind chimes
Your bamboo forest, outside this ***** window, full of
ladybugs & grasshoppers
Green grass drying to hollow shells, snapped off by careless hands
Brushed away by gentle winds, spread among limestone & juniper
Standing barefoot on the paving stones, her toenails painted
yellow with black dandelions
A sip of iced tea, lemon, a bite of steamed rice
Trying to put a few thoughts together, letting the day simmer down
We'll sit together a while longer, listen to the crickets in the bamboo
Waiting, quietly waiting on your voice, the only thing
that keeps me dreaming anymore
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 1:00 AM UTC
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Dedicated to John and Bob
From first flesh we move down widening halls
That lead to lives of wondrous walls.
Our spidered fingers gripped walls of brick,
Cruets, cups and candle sticks.
Incense clouded open graves
When we too believed we too were saved.
Between Annex walls we learned our phonics,
On tin-roofed walls we lived our comics.
Garage walls scaled showed different views,
Kitchen walls steamed with soups and stews.
Our school yard walls tallied pitches
That marked our summers of youth and wishes.
Now lift memory's pane and go back
To the white-framed walls of a secret shack.
There, in confusion we would cling
To the unknown wonders girls would bring.
These young boys' walls we both outgrew;
Now new walls sprang, as we did too.
Coffee House walls offered something new.
Wet kisses lingered near shadowy walls,
We heard poetry read in a backroom stall.
Recreationals made our new skin crawl.
Cliff walls were breached by stairs of clay,
Carved by Incas on a turquoise day.
Tent walls echoed with impish fray,
Green walls beckoned at the end of day.
These walls gave rise to hot desires,
Like Vikings planning funeral pyres.
New music, cheers and weekend guests
Stood us ***** to pound our chests.
Those walls no longer ring our shores;
Time swept us forward with worldly lures.
We doffed our coats of suede and frills,
And donned new clothes and workday skills.
The walls of work are a rocky climb,
Stones laid by us, for yours and mine.
Such towers & turrets of heart & hearth
Guard all we know of any worth.
I see distant walls on cliffs, in fields;
Where do they lead? What will they yield?
Yet, there three friends climb one more hill,
Climb one more wall. Then all is still.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
As midnight hit, I lay in the warmth of a near spilling tub.
Silence pollutes four steamed walls, echoes of pitter-patter
From the infant upstairs, distant voices from the movie
My mother watched in another room, an occasional drip
Of the hot tap, the scrape of ink across damp paper,
A slurp of tea between my lips, are the only sounds.
I should have been washing, instead I thought of your hand
Caressing a blade across my legs, your shampoo soaked fingertips
Tickling at my scalp, your mouth pinching kisses from my *******
Your eyes following soap suds descending down silky skin.
My chin rests upon my knee, tea leaks from wet lips
Staining a pale leg, dispersing beneath the surface,
The water browns, so I bathe in tea and sugar
The sweet stench unable to distract me from you.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 10:03 AM UTC
I wonder about the boy on the park bench
He sit's on the left- I on the right,
We sit in silence waiting for our rides to arrive.
I worry that he won't be there one morning
I've developed an attachment to him.
I've noticed his scrapes and scars
and I think he's noticed mine.
It was Sunday morning,
we sat together,
no buses to take or
time to keep
But closer than usual
Our breath clouds the freezing air around us
We sip alcohol from our coffee mugs
Our lips locked, bodies steamed.
I think I am in love with
The boy on the park bench.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
My daughter fell in love with a potato,
"A potato.......
My mind was confused and my face was a picture...
of why would someone ever love a potato?
I asked this myself in my head then out loud.
My darling how have you a fondness for a potato?
*He is the only one for me he is so soft and never
has a chip on his shoulder..*
A chip? really, how did you meet my little lady.
He was just mulling around in a mash pit,
The music was the spud rock and he was my root.
I will have to meet you new boyfriend,
Dad, I love Barry, he even let me wear his jacket
it was so fluffy inside...
Fathers out there would have the same look on
their face as I do now!!!!!
"OK, as I was waiting impatiently to see this lad.
She walked in hand in hand, I just gave the daddy
look, hi Barry he stared in a starch looking gaze.
my daughter spoke "I'll just get my bag,
I spoke in my sternest voice,
"Barry if you don't treat my daughter right,
"Lets just say ill mash you up, understand....
And then they left not the gentlemen of before
no jacket to lend her, just walking out the door
like he had just been roasted by my words...
Hours had past worry in my thoughts then my
daughter came back, tears in her eyes.
"What ever was the matter my darling?
*"He had steamed off because I wanted to know
why he never leant me his jacket,*
"He said I was being a dumpling with him,
*"So I told him you were right and that he had
a chip on his shoulder, he replied I was fried,*
I told her that potato's can be a little mashed, and
a chip they will always have, because you cant change
a potato they will always have a little starch inside...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Who was the last to wear your body?
Parting petals upon modest fingertips
Supple mouth which you tumbled willing
And gulped until tamed .
Laid steamed and wet awaiting the sun
to bellow through curtains
as the
scene laid out
like an easy
****** mystery
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
In the room of dusk
Waiting for the sun to dive
Into the space behind the sand hills,
Your fingers embracing the white cup of tea
In the orange blush of warm light,
You stare at me,
my eyelashes flutter
I look away " the window steamed from inside
Orchids in a glass looking at us
The twilight is coming, and fading
Your arms stretched to me -
But who stole our memories,
My brother?
Going to hang out your shirt
Your arms tremble again with longing,
Why you need me always more,
Even you know I'm forbidden?
The cat is meows outside,
Branches of the willow shivering
In the caressing wind,
You stay behind me, hugging me silently
Your voice is frozen long ago "
But who stole our memories,
My brother?
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
TABLE D'HôTE
Appetizer
Wrong Tons With Me Soup
cooked worry
seared in a teary onion broth
Hors D'oeuvres
Slow Roasted Fear
fresh over-analyzing
crushed with loneliness
Main Course
Stress Salad
tossed with insomnia
marinated in a vertigo dressing
General Trouble Chicken
battered uncertainty
gloomed to perfection
sitting on steamed danger
stir fried in an overwhelm sour sauce
Dessert
Choked Volcanic Eruption
mountain of OCD
topped with whipped depression
glazed with self-loathing
Expresso
prepared with frothy guilt
(C) Jl 2016
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
We approached the counter, side by side.
I said, “Ladies first.”
And, with a trickle of a smile and just a bit of teeth, she said, “I’ll have a café breve.”
The words left her lips in a solid, confident tone, yet they brushed my ears like a whisper.
I must have ordered the same, because that is what I got.
And we sat down in the plush brown chairs and she let her amber hair free from its tight bun.
And we sat. And we spoke.
I spoke of nothingness, I’m sure.
For that is what I remember – nothing.
But she spoke of her dreams, her future plans, her summer plans, her favorite colors and why they were the prettiest.
She spoke of smaller things, like the weather, her chair and why it was so wobbly.
And though it was casual and carefree, I couldn't help but be bewildered by the beauty she bore.
The simple beauty that hides behind closed door and open-mouthed laughs.
And we did this all as we sipped our drinks, gulping down the vague design in the coffee and steamed milk.
And, setting down her mug, I noticed she’d left a smear of crimson on the edge.
And as I stared at the lipstick settled on the rim, I quietly took in the rest of our surroundings –
The frosted windows,
The scent of fresh coffee and pastries,
The lonely barista, who was currently changing the background music CD from electro to smooth jazz.
And as the music began again, so did she.
And the whisper of her voice was like the whisper of the cymbals,
Ringing in time to the beat of the song.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)
She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)
She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)
She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)
She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)
She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 2:30 PM UTC
Earthy mottled brown,
Pomme de terre
The humble spud,
When not covered in mud;
Chipped, boiled or mashed,
Steamed roasted or hashed.
First the Incas of Peru,
Used them in a stew.
Now the tubers grown in space,
To further the human race.
Chopin, Mozart, and Vivaldi,
Can all be bought at Aldi.
(Other supermarkets are available.)
(More varieties are saleable.)
A versatile Maris Piper,
Couldn't be any riper,
When served perfectly baked.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Today is my sister's wedding
A full day for me to shine
In my peacock green dress
The new full skirt and blouse
With golden laces and pearls
Full of laughter and music
House being crowded with
Close relatives and guests
With three of my cousins
Was standing near a table with
A plate of rock candies and raisins
Bowl of sandalwood paste
Me, spraying the fragrant rose
Water on guests with a smile
Welcoming them to the function
Stage was ready with a para,
A traditional measuring instrument
Filled with paddy, unmilled rice
Decorated with a bouquet of
Beautiful coconut flowers
Lighted bell metal traditional
Lamp,the large nilavilakku
With its glowing light was a
Pleasant vision to the eyes
Can see you all in the front row
Can hear the laughter of girls
With the groom's arrival
Girls,with thaalam,antique
plates with a lamp, lemons
And garland of flowers
Welcoming the groom to the stage
Bride, in her maroon saree with
Golden laces,tied hair decorated
With a ball of jasmine flowers
And shining gold ornaments
Covered from head to toe
Being accompanied by two aunties
Making her sit near the groom
Gorgeous romantic pair were they
With a heart full smile of their day
Exchanged their garlands and
Were given a flower bouquet
Groom tying a knot,a chain with
Thali, which was a pendant
Showering flowers on the
Bride and groom as a blessing
One by one to the stage giving
Wishes and gifts to the couple
Wonderful snaps with my
Sister and new brother-law
Time for lunch on a plantain leaf
Steamed rice, varieties of curries,
Fried items and the special
Sweet payasam with pappadam
Bride and groom sharing their
Lunch with love and laughter
Leaving to her in-laws house
With her eyes filled and red
One by one leaving the hall
Except the dear and near ones
With an after war expression
Tired were they,my parents
But happy to get their daughter
Married to the right guy
It's time to rest and wait for
The albums and videos with anxiety
In seeing my new dress and smile !
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
“Quite a piece this doesn’t come along every day”He was tapped into her forever mores or heretofore reservoirs of passion.The creme de la creme her pursed mouth prim. She couldn’t wait to lick him higher watering his rim. But after he breaststroked with her he has taken a bite fresh ****** fruit she broke. He spends all his time extolling her virtues, what’s left the first virtue ****** painting feast. For his eyes *** all day. Planting her nest.Lay Lady lay. He made this avocado melting pot-her fondue smelling hot what’s next to pursue such charm. His ears pierced like a fire alarm. blazing the fireplace. Her blush deepened like she was diced. To the ******** Asking for so much more.You were wearing your erotically to die for **** me shoes.He was the Hollywood ******* I was going to *** crave you knock you down.
Like the colonel of **** mustard spicy so **** hot.His hair deep brown. He lengthened got bigger what a shot. How the carpet just spread me to bounce my buttocks.She tried so hard to lay everything out from his bowl his manly sword like a dual. He steamed out like Maddocks Taurus bedroom eyes of the bull. So much to roll her feet heated so penetrated him to the floor.The rain was heavy and thick dripping with your creamy avocado puddle
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
I stand before the sea
and it rolls and rolls in its green blood
saying, "Do not give up one god
for I have a handful."
The trade winds blew
in their twelve-fingered reversal
and I simply stood on the beach
while the ocean made a cross of salt
and hung up its drowned
and they cried Deo Deo.
The ocean offered them up in the vein of its might.
I wanted to share this
but I stood alone like a pink scarecrow.
The ocean steamed in and out,
the ocean gasped upon the shore
but I could not define her,
I could not name her mood, her locked-up faces.
Far off she rolled and rolled
like a woman in labor
and I thought of those who had crossed her,
in antiquity, in nautical trade, in slavery, in war.
I wondered how she had borne those bulwarks.
She should be entered skin to skin,
and put on like one's first or last cloth,
envered like kneeling your way into church,
descending into that ascension,
though she be slick as olive oil,
as she climbs each wave like an embezzler of white.
The big deep knows the law as it wears its gray hat,
though the ocean comes in its destiny,
with its one hundred lips,
and in moonlight she comes in her ******
flashing ******* made of milk-water,
flashing buttocks made of unkillable lust,
and at night when you enter her
you shine like a neon soprano.
I am that clumsy human
on the shore
loving you, coming, coming,
going,
and wish to put my thumb on you
like The Song of Solomon.
2k