"stoked" poems
The sun is coming up so big and bright and bold that it feels like I could just reach out and grab it and put it in my pocket for later. I'm pretty sure I'm going to need it later.
I think he took his sun away for good. I tried to keep his sun shining. I tried so hard to keep it lit. But no matter how hard I stoked the fire, he kept me in the dark.
Somehow, I got so busy sustaining his solar energy that I didn't notice my own sun going out. His appeared so bright that I forgot I needed the warmth of my own. I don't know how long it will take my sun to heat up again.
Now it's as if I'm stumbling around a dark house during a power outage, searching for the emergency flashlight and hoping the batteries aren't as dead as we are. I think he used it last, and he never puts things back the way he found them. Good thing I grabbed the sun this morning and put it in my pocket for later.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
I always suspected electricity
Ran rampant through my veins
To make me dazed and dizzy
But unable to sit still
It made me prone to flights of fancy
So I left giddy trails of sparks
Blazing proof of my restlessness
That once brightly caught your eye
Once your gaze had found my own
My moods came in swooning flares
And you crackled alongside me
Filling my aching, empty silence
With shiny, blessed noise
We burned so beautifully
With my electric fire
And your trilling declamations
Light and sound intertwining
Like thunder that had finally caught up with its lightning
It seemed like Nature's order
A completion of the whole
Two halves that followed each other
Unthinkingly and automatically
So one day when I found silence
It felt like Earth itself was splitting
Panicked, I burned more brightly
Stoked the fire just in case
I feared that I had dimmed
And been the cause of this new quietness
So when I still heard nothing
I thought my efforts insufficient
And I ran my highest currents
Until my wires nearly melted
Thinking the sun and I were comparable
And anticipating a response
And still I heard no trilling
No crackling at my side
So I wondered if perhaps
I had shined beyond your limits
Swiftly, I contracted
Reined in my flares and doused the fire
Thinking sudden darkness
Might just shock you into sound
I finally heard the faintest popping
Not quite the rending that I wanted
But a break from quiet all the same
Afraid of spoiling the moment
I leashed my electricity
Kept myself dim so I could hear you
Though I felt the writhing beneath my skin
It finally became unbearable
So I flashed like wild lightning
Lashed out and struck the ground
Hoping for your thunder
A dark and roiling storm
Swirling raindrops and clouds colliding
And deep, ugly noise
All I wanted was your thunder
But in the end
It was only me yelling
Screaming out for downpours
Alone
Listening to my own echoes
Waiting for you to harmonize
In the end
I was always waiting
Wondering when you'd chosen silence
Wondering why I'd let you dim me
Wondering how it was we'd ever burned
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
Muted, muffled, dull thud on concrete,
Staggered, drunken, half conscious nobody,
Starved, seeking, worried about payments,
**** in hand, knocking on the wrong doors,
Fire and brimstone stoked in the belly,
Mad, strange, appetizing burlesque eyes,
Obnoxious smacking and licking of parched lips,
Rolling on half rationed legs,
Quiet, sullen, mournful footsteps,
Presently placed awkwardly one in front of the other,
Memory serves correctly, destitute, reprise,
Thunderclaps and crashing roars,
Almost forgotten, with great relief,
Soon, very soon, to be lost forever,
Candlelight, sobbing vigils, no power,
Nail, Nail, Nail,
Praise in the box, graffiti walled,
Like a bathroom stall, just as ******
Docile dissolving vessels,
Brought to the commonplace dropoff,
Settled down and greatly relieved.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Music
Look up: "Superman" by Five For Fighting.
Kermit sings music by a Muppet Band called Frog's For Fighting...! "It's Not Easy To Be Green, I Can't Stand When High"
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive...
I'm just out to find the better part of green,
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a bear,
I'm more than some-frog in piggy's underwear,
And it's not easy-to be-e-green...
Wish that I was high, ****** and half asleep,
Find a way to lie-about my *** on Sesame Street,
It may sound absurd, but don't be naive,
Even Muppets have the right to ****
I may be disturbed, but won't you concede,
Even Muppets croak upon Skunk-green,
And it's not easy-to be-e-green...
Once again-I'm small-I'm small and GREEN, well it's
Alright! We can all get "stoked" tonight, and I'm not
Blazing...or anything.
I can't stand when high...I'm not that naive,
****** I trip at night, on brownies buzzed on ****
I'm only a frog on Jim Hensen's knee,
Wearing pink lingerie on this one way street,
I'm only a frog on Jim Hensen's knee-looking for
Older guys who flirt with me
WHO FLIRT WITH ME...
who flirt with me...yea, who
Flirt with me...who FLIRT WITH ME...
I'm only a frog that's diggin' the green,
I'm only a frog on kronic seven leaves,
I'm only a frog that's puffin' on green, and it's not easy...
WOOOHOOOHOOOO...it's not easy to be-e
Greeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnn...
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Feathers strapped on the outs of seem, of pink and purple, of color yet.
Seen around this violent weather, drinks that hurdle, are hard to get.
Together when soaked with prime no better, stoked to find and kiss the daughter.
In law, out law, outlaws fed her, he rather play a love bird tune.
Out the noise, when in the slaughter, eyes of boys are caught in June.
Tenth in line to raise the baby; dropped the world and dropped the toys.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 12:39 PM UTC
Insult not a memory.
So blessed with kindness.
Touched with honey.
Stoked with decency.
Painted from soft brush.
Gentle sable.
Lower the sabre.
The powerful sword.
With hilt of guilt.
Let it be.
Not aggressive being.
Distressed.
Depressed.
Acrid tears.
Acid tongue.
Lemon lips.
Evil sharp,
So bitter.
Discarded amid leaf litter.
The autumn leaves they fell.
Deep within the mist.
Memories withheld.
Can’t you tell?
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Dishes clang loud against the sink
Metal spoons bang white ceramic
Anger defies lifelong contract
Sacred and sealed with tears and tact
Adhesive is this stone of hurt
Lumped solidly within her throat
No easy atonement comes forth
Nor minor distraction does soothe
Her rant gathers no audience
No recall of what stoked this fire
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Spoof song: sung to the tune of Five For Fighting's "Superman"
Kermit
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive,
I'm just out to find the better part of green,
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a bear,
I'm more than some frog in piggies underwear
And it's not easy to be green...
Wish that I was high,
****** and half asleep,
Find a way to lie about my jones on Sesame Street
It may sound absurd-but don't be naive,
Even Muppets can smoke too much green,
I may be disturbed but wont you concede,
Even Muppets croak upon skunk ****
And it's not easy to be green...
**Once again I'm small-I'm small and green, well it's
All right, we can all get stoked tonight, and I'm not
Blazing...or anything...**
I can't stand when high,
I'm not that naive,
Drugs just get you fried,
*On hash and buzzed on ****
I'm only a frog on Jim Henson's knee
Wearing pink lingerie on this one way street,
Only a frog on Jim Henson's knee
Looking for older guys who flirt with me,
Yea flirt with me...who flirt with me, yea who flirt with me...
WHO FLIRT WITH ME...
I'm only a frog that's diggin' the green,
I'm only a frog on Kronik 7 Leaves
I'm only a frog who's puffin' on green
AND IT'S NOT EASY... wooohooohoooo...
It's not easy...to be-he...greeeeeen...
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^
<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York
the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and
occasional poet...
in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally
so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!
quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional
you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt
and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.
no, that is not a request,
naturally
<>
10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
God is spoken
From a potent Thing
we smoking Trees
Gaia birthed the bloom
breathed the boom
in the canopies,
In the wind flew the bees
and grew the pleasantries
Prana pushing
thunder through
sQuishing lemon trees
like a hundred new
Whisps of mists
and heavy deeds
Sit with honeydew
The gist of this
the lemon breeze
(We) Going tunnel view
Fits and Shakes,
seeking remedies
digging under you
Might be
dicking under you
Might be
Torn asunder true
Pirate borne to plunder you....
Sweat means gold,
what's been found
with lemon -ease?
I've been told
What in our eyes
is what we ever see's
7 seas,
more like 7 deeds,
filled with deadly feeds
Demons like to pleade
with ready rease,
Virus, the life that
spread disease
(it alters our sense
and what we please)
~Ahem,
***no te comas
la verdad
del diablo,***
today to trust
Might feel bad, but
none brought low
There's an easy in
WE Strong Standin',
N0ne brought low
and now we win
amen, a man
none start south
Its begun...
Light as
Potent as my prayers
**** the make-believe
***I can't wear it, ah
Dark is
Ever reaching
What do you receive?
***What you carrying hah?
Balance
(Is) an even preaching :
What we choose to be
***I can bear it ; hah
Come and help me unweave
those who have been so deceived
Those stuck in in the mud of ...
sputtering " how can it be ?"
**** the you or me, mentality
When Neurons Fire free
and Serotonins drained in me
You Might find Saraswati
sweetly swathing me
In glowing rivers,
poured off the moon
With Omens looming soon
With Omens looming soon
I been choking on my doom.
Dreaming
with Both eyes open
and a heart awoken ,
poorly stoking gloom
Too blind to see hope
but stoked, still
mocking roving
Vroom : im off to tokin soon.
Sh!t this blunt be totaled soon
I Might be total loon
an inverted magic man
who most often enwomb
those caught on the moon
Those stuck in the tune
For those who hear
this earworm, this tea room sloom.
This is for Those muted in zoom:
I've found traction in heaps
Breaking as hard and often
As the risen yeast
When you pass on the least
My Passion is to find
the passion of peace
its Stuck In the grasp
Fashioned with the sap
of my last energies...
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 12:27 AM UTC
Stalwart embers forever light my heart; stoked by whispers of fate and grandeur, a flame reignites: so minute and fragile, it still holds great warmth; and forever shall I hold it close
Beseeched, I move toward distant hope that one day, my flame; my dear, we could together burn brighter than the sun
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
I have longed to be like Jesus since the day I was reborn
With a heart formed by the Father, by His hands so strong and warm
For although my soul was perfect, this old heart had far to go
It was lofty and self serving; never broken, hard as stone
But the only way to change my heart was not to mold like clay
He must carve it with a chisel that would break the stone away
So pain became my teacher and its lessons I learned well
As every trial would test me with each wounding swing that fell
One day I asked my Father as He formed His shapeless art
"Where did You find that chisel, Lord, that breaks so hard my heart?"
He took me to a village, somewhere, long before my time
And showed me where a blacksmith, there, was working near his mine
The local king had ordered that some special spikes be made
To perform a certain service later on that ancient day
The smith stoked up his furnace till it singed his heavy beard
And the strikes that made his hammer ring were heard by every ear
Then he spun the massive whetstone, pressed each spike against its edge
And the sparks shot out like lightening as he sharpened up the ends
The spikes, still warm from grinding, then were gathered in a cloth
And delivered to the mountain with the prisoner and the cross
Instantly I understood just what he made them for
The chisels used to shape my heart first crucified my Lord
Now every stroke that life will bring I'll welcome like a prize
For every chip that falls away will make me more like Christ
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Monk tinks tonight
fine glasses clink
convivial banter
bubble pop blink
in breathing rooms
bit woofed and stirred
the smoke mint sound
we dare exhale
Monk swings about
a bell do ding
the huey blues
bird bops on wings
hips juicy moves
rubby mounds wet ****
slow drum rolls blow
dance steady bump
Monk rocks the house
the clock do tick
me feets be tappin
gonna busta trick
key ******* bounce
mouths all agape
we gettin down
like crazy apes
Monk’s muzik rides
a sonorous beam
levitatin hipsters
to places unseen
gosh groovy tunes
a **** good gig
we all stoked up
Monk we do dig
Monk played alright
some swingin tunes
Happy B Day Monk
you over the moon
Thelonious Monk
(October 10, 1917 - February 17, 1982)
Thelonious Monk
with John Coltrane
Trinkle ******
10/9/13
Suffern
jbm
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the heating
To send a shuddering shiver down my spine
Under the full November moon
People spill out of noisy pubs
Leaving heat, light, music
A false, inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.
Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves clouds in the air
Hanging heavy and mingling with smoke
From spliffs secretly held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins
Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning as they dream of their youth
When they were slim and ****
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped so quickly away
Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt
Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car for the price of a hit
The dealers swagger, stoked full of *******
With the power and arrogance of mediaeval lords
Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under grey, itchy blankets
On blue rubber mattresses
In a white - tiled nightmare
Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sir writing ideas
In a cheap, lined pad
Then turn off the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
I don't like being called "good girl" anymore.
Not because I don't like the way you say it, or why you're saying it. No.
I don't like being called "good girl" because of a man.
I met him at a party, my friend ditched me.
I was watching everyone around me relax and have fun, but I was so tense.
He must have picked up on my weakness, like a predator to prey.
He handed me a drink and kept me company, he said I looked nervous.
He told me to relax and to take a hit off his joint.
I didn't want to be there anymore, but I tried to take his advice.
We sat on the floor near the double doors and he told me I still looked nervous.
He said I had no reason to be that he'd never let anything happen to me.
I just laughed because he only just met me.
Next thing I remember I wasn't feeling too good, my head was dizzy...no cloudy, and the floor was the ceiling.
I remember his eyes on me, so hungry.
I remember his hands on me, whereas mine were incapable of moving.
He couldn't meet my eyes and I couldnt remember where we were or how we got there, but it wasn't by the double doors anymore.
I remember noises, the dim lighting around us, I tried to focus on anything and everything else.
I was screaming, but I don't actually know if the noise came out.
I remember the hot tears that slid down my face as he slid over my body.
I was a toy, I couldn't do anything, I was a puppet to his whim.
He stoked my face occasionally and said I was a good girl, that I didn't need to be nervous, that I was a good girl, to just take it.
I remember wailing, his hand covering my mouth, my lips bruising, my body throbbing.
I haven't seen myself the same since, there wasn't anyone I felt safe with, not a hand that didn't feel like his.
I get sick at the thought of him, at the thought of that act he forced me to commit.
I didn't know his name but I knew his face because it haunts my dreams.
I scare easy now, I want to hide but sleep can't even save me.
I didn't want to be a good girl, I never wanted to be a good girl.
So please...please.
Don't call me one.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
I don’t know the moment we became friends
I don’t know the moment you transformed from a looming, strong-willed Sasquatch
To a cute ’n’ kind Koala
I’m not sure how you managed that change but I’m glad you did
Not that I’m saying you were the only one to change
Perhaps I was the Sasquatch before and have since softened into a loving Llama or a caring Camel
In any case, it really doesn't matter who did the changing
Just that it happened
That out of all the random connections that could be made
We were challenged to care for each other.
I don’t know what brought us together or why
Maybe it was nature challenging its bounds to see what it could get to fall in love with what
Perhaps it was just us realizing there was a kindred spirit behind all of that bristled Sasquatchian fur
Whatever it was I’m betting God was ultimately behind it
*** He’s legit like that
Honestly though, I’m glad it happened
I’m glad that my view of you changed.
I’m glad that I got to know you.
I’m stoked that we talk and let each other know what’s happening in life.
I rejoice that you were a persistent little Sasquatch when I had written you off.
I’m glad I can call you friend.
I can honestly say that I would take a bullet for you,
That’s right; I’ll be your guard Llama
I would traverse space and time, fight all laws of physics and all the sciences just to make sure you were ok
For you I would find Atlantis,
I’d find the “missing link”
I’d find all the things that are mysterious and leave you puzzling
I’d travel to places that aren't possible to reach simply because people have ceased to believe in them
And make strangers begin to believe again just to make you smile or distract you from the hurt for even a moment
My dear sweet little Sasquatch
I adore you
I treasure you
Couldn't live without you
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
i loved you, right
a love unreturned,
unrequited
but alas, still
stoked by little miners with
hearts of brass their
iron faces grimacing at the task,
little beads of lots of sweat
dripping down their
taut frowns.
so what i meant to say is that
i love you, right,
and it’s a love that still
burns, bright, enough
to bring the boys home but
let’s be honest
it wouldn’t best the sun, but
**** it’s a terrible light,
it throws everything into a soft relief
where pretty, soft voiced sheep say
pretty, soft voiced things like
‘it’s okay to feel this way’
‘i want you to be happy’
‘she sounds amazing’
and other things that normal people
tell me mean that either
i don’t love you
or i’m moving on.
they don’t understand though,
i mean,
i love you, right,
though all that sheep **** makes it
sound as if
i’m waving you off,
smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,
waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,
joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,
i’m greedy
maybe even,
needy,
a disgusting word and
even if i make pacts with myself
to the order of
‘he can do so much better’
‘i am damaged goods’
and other associated half truths
i’d be a liar if i said that
i would kick you out of bed
or even rebuke the slightest of
advances, no i’d take my chances
and i cannot bear it, really
i’d touch you and whatever wholeness
whatever someone else would
parse as clean or pure or holy
wouldn’t disintegrate, no
wouldn’t tarnish, no
would most probably just implode
under the combined pressure
of emotionally-mentally-fucked-in-the-head-doe
(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)
so, yes… wait. no?
i love you, right
but just ignore it
enjoy the lights
please remember them
tell your friends and
cherish them until
they are taken by
death, drink, dementia
but i’m sure your mum,
teacher,
or television
long ago informed you that
bright lights are detrimental to vision
so think of your future and
forget now
if you’re tempted by how i look at you
remember how
sunburn seems innocuous
until you see your skin
and sunscreen pretty useless
‘til you learn the sun will win
and the best way to avoid
dainty melanoma
is
to
go
inside
and
lock
your
door
and act like you don’t know her.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I was a poet, a healer and a woman
once
a dreamable woman
who got behind his eyes
I learned about flying
too
I still dream about flying
so ****** pragmatic these days
Afraid to write
Afraid to fly
He said my wings
really stoked the fire
once
And now I remember
why I am afraid to fly
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
I recall her stripping me naked
Then she danced around the bed
Slowly, enticingly disrobing her voluptuous form
Her firm breast bouncing free from her bra
My ******** began to ache
As she slipped her tounge around it's head
Her ******* hard & rubbery adorned
the fleshy mountains I saw
Hands wrapped around each
I stroked & squeezed & suckeled
Her wet crotch sliding down my leg
Left a sticky trail
Her mouth found a throbing shift
And stoked it to it's base
Where there she ****** in my *****
And gently rolled them in her mouth
And around her face
Up the shaft she came again
though this time it slide down
Her throught, warm & wet & exhaled
Again & again she went
I almost surcumed
I pushed her back
And dove between her thighs
My tounge found that sweet spot
between the sticky lips
Lapping up her sweet honey drips
Sliding my tounge from one end to the other
******* on that harden ****
Until she gushed more sticky stuff
Then slowly I plunged as deep as I could
Filling up that sweet pink hole
And there I plunged again & again
Until my cheeks were sore
Slowly I raised myself
Hands upon her thighs
Spreading her lovelyness
As wide as she could split
She reached down & grabed my form
Holding hard she guided it in
Not even a chance to heav forwards
SHE CAME UP KER BAM
As she fell back I drove it home
My ***** smacked her in the ***
Stroking deep & slow at first
There was no holding her back
Bucking & bounching she managed
to turn around so I got her from hehind
She reached under & grabed my *****
Like a lease it was as she pulled me in
Faster & faster we went
Then she pushed me back
Grabed my shaft & began to ****
She said to me very sweetly
I want to drink U all
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I once penned -
To find someone that would
Want you, exactly as you are
Was to find depth
In an ocean of shores.
I look no more.
I could not care less, that
My fear used to get the best
Of me.
It still lingers and creeps
Even in my sleep,
But I know I'm afraid only
Because shes perfect,
Perfect as can be -
Realistically speaking,
Shes just right for me.
I cannot write of beauty,
And that's not for the lack of it.
It is only because I'm so distracted
By her charm and wit -
The funny accents, slightly ***** jokes
But with capacity of depth
Only oceans invoke
I see passionate flames
That just need to be stoked.
At this point I cannot tell
If this will work out well.
I can only say that I will love her fully.
I will let her destroy me
Completely.
I will not back down, I will try
To give myself to her
As if I was never broken
Because shes deserves more
Than the shell of the man
I believe I am.
If she cries in the
Dead of night, I want to hear every last
Word soaked in pain leave her be.
If where she lies
Lacks enough light, I want to be right by
Her side, just so she can sleep peacefully.
And if my eyes
Start to lose sight, I know I need not see.
I know shes got me.
I need not more -
I've got her
To calm my seas.
Let me sing,
Let me soar -
The Left Handed Leo roars
I've found depth
In an ocean of shores.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
.
**•i only ••• weep for
the path of my brethren•when we turn
to bloodshed to settle petty squabbles•
the rage ••• in our
hearts could
not be more brazen•
for we have ground all we-
've built to dust and rubble•the tears from the fau-
cets of many only trickle•the drips could never douse
the flames we've stoked • we play with lives as we pit
them to a gamble•the hei- nousness
within us that we've carelessly
... invoked•**
•
••
•••••
•••••••
••••••
•••
.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC