She frequents here most weekend nights,*******, long kegs, freaky appetite,Her eyes scan every inch of the club,Wet ***, all hard and *****, to hell with love.She licks her lips, and warmly, her other lips respond,She sees her prey and grins at knowing this night will be long,They stroll towards her knowingly, they are the lucky ones,She straddles one, while the other mouth makes her come.Moaning ***** words, and writhing, her **** are bouncing freely,Two on one's her favourite, it makes her come so gleely,Her wet tongue finds something hard and veiny, she takes it in her mouth,Her stroking slips and slides make both guys moan and pant out loud.His ******* dangles over her, she's begging for a ****,The other's fingers enter her, she loves a finger ****,Her mouth fills up with pleasure juice, she comes onto his fingers,She licks it off, but takes her time,intent to make it linger...

He lives in a time of plague.

The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.

The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.

He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.

He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.

Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.

Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.

Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.

They’ve only ever spent time together twice.

I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.

I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.

He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.

In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.

This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.

But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.

Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.

it is true
when we give our blood too much
we aid in disempowerment


1.
constant giving in love and providing can set unhealthy-precedent
and when it falters in its expected-rhythm
ugly-tantrums get thrown, bordering on disrespect


2.
demands kick in hard upon trod-floor of insidious-hooks
there's always a rider for the other party on tightrope-theatre
            some or other condition to feed the monster of excitement
            while health straddles some jarring regions
            in hostile-spitting strong enough to lance startling-injury
shoelaces dripped in hazard-oil over a generational-canyon
provides unwanted-fodder for establishing long-term *slippage



(no! you weren't raised this way.. where does this stem from?)
there has been no failure to show how humans act and speak
this is unacceptable)

oh............you want / you want / you want..... all.. the.. time
then kick up unholy-storms when there's a break in rhyme


get ye, lad.. go practise your ire on a field
                   go throw a stick on the prairie
                   go find your path, you're old enough
yer insolence plain *****!



(I could tell you .. you're rude.. go home,
but you already are!)


S T - 10 dec 13

pulling hair, mounting the scathed creature — feelingfulness straddles
the lovelorn fringe of shadows coming
to a feint.

under the canopy of the guava tree
i reminisce dissonance of claims

drunken recall or some ill fortitude
and borderless as it seems,
capturing the eye.

mirage dazzled, writhing on the
darling loam, fisticuff of birds
swarming ecliptic passages
finding a hidden codex somewhere
in archaea — women pulled from ribs
and men wrought out of tears.

The Equestrian

When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right

Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise

Xin

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
  
"Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave."
"Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays.
  
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
  
Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ...
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.
  
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
  
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
  
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

Sweet scent dripping as hot beads of sweat from her skin
She straddles and grinds as she begins to commit her sin
Succulent lips pressed against mine
Rubbing my fingers down the points of her spine
She giggles with glee, followed by her succubus stare
As she leans back over and nibbles the lobe of my ear
Such ******* traits, in my heart come to confide
As I flip her over and make my way from her neck to her thigh
Her hands clawing my shoulders as I kiss my way down
Her body begins quaking as she tries not make a sound
Gasping for air from such an ****** display
I kiss my way up then she pushes me away
She pounces suddenly, unable to resist
As she gives in to her desires, sensations of tryst

Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress

All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female  
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia

It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks

See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed

The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters

Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand

Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action

The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials

Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise

Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome

The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress

They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good *******
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****!

Tonight would not bridge
Two ordinary days.
Her idea would ignite
His imagination and mould
From the raw clay a vision
Through the churning heavens.
The ballet crafting their bodies
Scene through scene,
She whispers,
He listens,
They lay, as spoons often do.
A last glance over
The flowers and the candle,
Out the window through
The rain, wind, and thunder
Lighting their creation’s sight.

Chasing her through the forest,
She lets him, almost catch her.
Dancing themselves into vines
In a canopy hidden from the wind’s
Muffled thunder.
There, in their haven lush,
Ensnaring so deeply, too soon.
And away he turns himself to stone.
Twisting too tight around
The indifferent mountainous statue,
She snaps herself
And by the time he’s felt it,
Soft enough to turn and see-
See another statue’s backside,
Cold clay remolding into stone.
He stretches himself thin to reach,
Her sepulchral touch lays him out.
She sits, straddles, stares him down,
The lightning cracks behind her eyes,
Splitting her stone heart
Clean through flame,
Incinerating their quiet canopy,

Rising into the storm.
Chasing her through the fire,
She lets him, fan the flames.
Two dancers' violent rhythm
Raging with every touch, until
A tear, or two,
Undo the flames,
Dropping with the rain all in everything,
They fall, fall, fall
Flooding down the mountain
Rushing through the cracks
Left behind in the stone,
Flowing together a river
Through the trees, out to sea.
As two make one body their own,
The currents churning through.

A spiral sparks the children’s learning,
The whirlpool to the maelstrom
Surging their liquid body up
The column that would
This time reach the storm.
The lightning cracks behind their smiles-
Their love undoes gravity’s condensation.
Drifting,
Through the clouds,
Stars,
In each other’s arms,
The ballet crafting their bodies,

They lay, as spoons often do.

The weight of the wisdom we seek eludes
us as we stagger into dark dens of knowledge
suffused and selected, stored in gigantic libraries
of the mind by those
who know
yet wont divulge the details to those
who wait
arms outstretched
for the yearning.

In between lie wannabes
who seek the sun of comments
to glorify themselves as a birth right
unwilling to accept the acid pen
or pain of knowing how falsehoods
lie like wounds exposed to inspection.

Writing poetry in plain language is better
than compromised with complexity.
Just the words and visuals singing on the same note
should suffice to stir the minds magic
to ecstasy.

The crush of wisdom dispels us from climbing
over the boundaries of decency
to sizzle a comment with depressing ease.
You can hear the ego deflate and flatten
akin to a robust balloon descending
to earth like a flightless fancy
with no wingpower.

Not every poem straddles and sparks
in sheer finery
Lots and lots of them refuse to take off
and surrender to the minds star burst
of meaning.

In a days reading maybe
of a hundred, just one line would light up
a dark sky like a comet racing across the page
leaving behind its fairy dust
for us to ponder upon. One diamond
in the dust of lifeless energies
is worth mining for!

These road signs point to where you’d be
if you weren’t kneeled over in constant apology
you tell me sometimes you can hear
Aidan’s laughter at night,
as if someone’s strung them around
street lamps like fairy lights
your lungs collapse at the mention of his name
and your chest heaves with trembling shame
but you never told anyone else about the way
guilt straddles your shoulders every morning
as it leans towards his mother’s ears screaming
ears now turned deaf with grief

You tell me about the nights so dark
you can’t tell it apart from the hollow in your chest
most days you find it too hard to breathe
because the guilt hugs you so tight
it forces itself in your lungs
where these organs can’t contain
your feeling of sin
so you keel over and ***** by the road
where you last held Aidan

There are footprints in the mud
where he was last standing
but the imprints have hardened and Aidan has grown since
there was a much colder instance
when his sister flung a picture frame at you
so it shattered and you picked up a shard
to scratch out unforgivings in the mud by the road
where you watched your best friend die

The excitement builds before the show
Appearance anticipated, let's go
Out comes 2llen with applause galore
Crowd won't quiet, stoked for what's in store

Must say Ellen is such a **** dude
Whoops, oh...she's a she, I'm extremely rude
Ellen dresses with such casual care
Not a piece out of line, her fancy hair

Ellen completely involves her crowd
The silly shenanigans make them loud
She dances to the music everywhere
Famous for her moves, she then heads for the chair

She straddles the table with practiced skill for her advanced age and without a pill
She moves on to a famous brilliant guest
Uncommon talent to bring out their best

Music for the show picked eloquently
Ellen and staff almost always agree
The gifts she gives, the audience adore
Generosity leaves them wanting more

Cute that her mom's at every taping
Even stays awake and keeps from gaping
Ellen is actually my favorite host
Please forgive me, this little roast

If  you're in the mood for a real good time
Tune to Ellen at three, on channel nine
You won't be disappointed, far from IT!
It's world wide known that Ellen's the "****"

I've found a wonderful man,
everything I could have wanted--
one who listens, who tells me I'm still
pretty, even if I forego makeup and
revealing clothing.

One who straddles the fine line
of being chivalrous and never sexist,
protective but never possessive.
I cannot help but wonder,
what some recluse like me
could have ever done to deserve him.

Down to the details, even--
his shiny black hair, his innocent smile
(And I've always had a thing for foreign men...)
While I stumble as I walk, shrivel under the sunlight
and stutter on my words.

I've likely grown spoiled by him, and when I tell him
how much of a catch he truly is, he only says,
"There are plenty of other nice guys out there,
I'm nothing special."

Oh, Saleh, I could only smile, and
repress the memory
of what other 'nice guys' before you
have done to me.

he lies bloodied.
his idiot legs standing *****.
he's roadkill on cruel pavement.
and the rest of the world straddles
what's left,
between their perpetual tires.

streetlight spews in across my floor
makes its way to my closed door
over my head it comes and I stare
oh death below, oh wait... you don't care
this light is demonic, beautiful to me
hell has gifted me with a she-demon you see

taking her time, she straddles me here
am I dreaming? she whispers in my ear:
let me show you what a demon can do,
**** a man with pleasure, yes you.
I've never been more entranced
never before had our lips danced
give me more, I wrap arms around

don't beg for mercy, demons don't give it
evil little succubus, oh god I love it
my heart races, my blood starts to flow
oh dear death, my true form will show
no, no. torture is sweet, within a demon.

A hand around a cold, dead, arm
waning fragile and thin
Impressions of fingers on flesh,
twisted, crooked, bent
Across railroad tracks this sack is
dragged, heaved, yanked-

Like saddlebags;
you walk with dead bodies attached to your hips
You still have yet to question this
I wonder though, if you did,
would you see how much dead is attached to me?

Everyone has a Past
and like Death, it asks to stay
Asks you to hold it's hand along the way
To help it across mountain peaks and swamp trenches
This thing, it even asks to sit with you on park benches
There are a thousand empty wooden pews, but still,
you let it sit, and this,
this is where it will not quit

-Yanking still, across garbage piles and sidewalk cracks,
it even begins to ride piggyback
Again, you don't question
What do you see?
Nothing, darkness, it's numbed you,
blinded you physically
It builds it's palace atop your spine,
and evermore straddles between lines of harm and lie
Breathing in pure battle cry

DDD
*(11/26/2013)

Condensed vibrational frequencies
Seeing themselves as masters of their own destiny
But tell me this,does a piece of music choose its own tempo and direction?or is it down to the creator of the sounds?
As we live in a sound based reality ( & I use the term reality loosely) we can summerise that the elation we experience from a series of rhythmic sound can be found in all other things,if we just choose to feel the vibe.
The obvious penatration of our being stood in front of the base bins at a free party,the feeling of sunlight to warm the skin and a zepher to cool it,the feeling of nirvana as a wild young temptress straddles your face and squirts moments of bliss into the oral cavity.
Its all vibrations,all of it,like a giant orchestra of being and everyone and everything has a front row seat.

my daughter is almost 5
and my son is nearly 2
I could simply say they're one and four
but when the number's higher it sounds a little better
they're less babies and more childlike
you know, bigger and more wise
I'm more wise

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
they're in our yard with twig berrets
and mud stained smiles posing for a postcard to make the hose drinking generation proud.
he straddles the ground, chest bare like he's Tarzan and howls at the blue sky
challenging the sun

I look at him like he's made of stone
she's a daisy pedal I crush in my hand and compress into a diamond
the toxins dripping from the curling edges of my lips burn the dirt from her face
the shine of the light washes out the blood on my knuckles.
a ring on my finger and my hands look clean

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
their muddy fingers comb their feral hair
and their green feet clip the grass till they find jagged rocks
they weep over skinned kneecaps and with one arm I pull her close
with the other I slug his shoulder, "buck up kiddo, you'll be alright"
I hold a stone in each hand, and call one a precious gem while I build my house out of the other

my skin has washed against those stones since they were none and none
built into the houses of a thousand graveyards I've watched daisies pile over golden sarcophaguses
watched them wilt at the bottom of alters built on stone
I won't carve epitaphs into these hearts I hold

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
we drag fallen branches to our firepit and dance to music next to the flames
like weightless stone his strength surges to his tippytoes
she powders his nose with ash and pretends she's a cheetah
her game isn't to **** she just wants to chase
princes have their feet welded to pedestals and the sport's no fun for her

my children aren't rocks, they're stardust
I won't make kings or queens I've no providence  over their future
so I'll **** the venom from the sky and watch them walk back to the stars
I may not be a champion but I'll be their father

Beneath the barricades of lotus fronds
and flowers, lurks beauty, brains
all watching  the goddess of shadows
seeking respite from the burning sun
and banter of imagery that clings
delicately to the fabric of questions
seeking anonymity.

Once in a while the curtains draw
and a  face appears. smiling, seeking
showing a glimpse of magical moments
tempting, teasing, wonderful
carved in a flash of inner beauty
that straddles the page
and withdraws back into the
folds of wonder.

" I bet the suspense is killing you!"
Who am I?" She said sweetly.

I searched through all the pages of poetry
and people columns, ears to the ground
surging through swords and diamantes,
villanelles and wonders
swords and acrostics, aquatics
and wooded forests near tempered lakes
picnics and parks
and I watched the sunset settle
in a twilight sky of burgundy
and roses. All.

I did not find you heart beating
against my chest
or my words echoing its hypnotic
trance against your ears!

Anonymous  it will be.

I cannot state in good faith
That we were built for the human race
Who can spit and stand for that?
Bobcats and Confucians
Living through palpitations
And making love, wearing hardhats

Here’s the bran for the land
That took the bus in the freezing rain
Never planned to understand
The chastity of the impaled, all refrain
Someone must have prayed for such a fate

Curse the man who discovered that
Anyone who gives is a fading fad
Give me some empathy
Not some methamphetamine
It hurts enough to read the new design

Who wields the cannon?
And shall we give him a medallion?
Or risk a wilting, flying flag?
All grains are equal
All stain the feeble
All ride a boneless, brazen stag

Here’s the sermon in white
Clothed and baptized in grapes
Making light of the sight
That was stolen from a clothed and ragged ape
Someone must have narrowed their gate

Curse the woman who recalled
The pews as barren shower stalls
Give me an embassy
Or obsequity
Apathy straddles the razor line

Where’s the loss and who shall cross
The line of consummated minds?
Whose ink will sign the secular floss?
No one’s bred to live for death
Or bequeathed eternity
Who are we to elongate our breath?

We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past
We will pass and be past

Spring
There is synchrony in all things
Nature nurtures
Balances beauty to the beholder
Focus as you follow the footsteps of spring
Its dew, its rain, its meaning
And drops nestle against the joyous tears
Of leaves and lilies, sparkling bright
As the rains recede and flowers burst in bloom
Abundance everywhere
Spend a moment in this enchanting dream
You are a guest to eternity
Replenish yourself

As

Summer brings with it, oven heat
To bake and burn the beauty
Into bronzed ecstasy
As you saunter in the gardens
Shaded by giant trees that shield you
From wilting too
Yet how do these flowers never fade until time
Takes it toll and seeds nestled within petals
Are ripe and ready for the bees and birds,
And the grass stays green for the beast
To carry on in the living and giving

Soon

Autumn

Will take its share of painters colours
And dance and song drum the revelry
Of warm amber nights
And sunkissed fruit and flower
Still standing in the shadow of sun
Awaiting winter
With its icy fingers and crystal voices.
The hunter emerges from the wine clad wonder
Of rolling seasons
To stock and taste the fruit and berry
For winters wanting.  Life works differently.
Moods change to subtle melody
And the wanting of inner warmth
As the air descends into the flute
Of feathery notes
To tingle with winters chill

Then

Winter walks in gently
Unhurried and slow
First the farm yard bristles and burrows in
The fences reach for paddings of snow and icicle
And trees decorate themselves in costumes of white
Wearing narrow scarves of draping crystal
Bejewelled in the dance of snow and ice
And staying outside on the paddocks watching
Smoke spirals from long chimneys
Yellow windows of lights
Casting delicate traces on the courtyard
Of memories
And hot vapoury soups of broth and brine
As winter digs in deep
straddles the countryside
With its chill conversation
The silence stays for awhile

There stirs
A seed clutching its heart deep in its chest
Beneath the snow but sending its tentacles
Up through the warming ground
Soaked in nutritional brew
And reaching for the sun again
As Spring opens the blanket of snow
And steps aside for the bud to bloom again.

Natures music sounds again
Resplendent in its giving.
Author Notes

Vivaldi's music is deeply absorbing. The Four Seasons in particular move in a seamless way, drawing sustenance from the entire composition in a gentle way without changing tone and texture abruptly. The music keeps you engaged right throughout in a timeless way.
This poem tries to re-engineer how seamless the seasons are and how cyclical the entire composition is. Nature has a much qualified Maestro conducting this orchestra!
Life itself takes a similar journey and the seasons have enormous impact on how we perceive it.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

My breathing is heavy.
A force straddles my body, it pushes and thrusts over my chest
It starts to apply pressure to invisible heart wounds
I would not have known were their but for
The crushing weight intended to stop their bleeding.
Now feeling dry of blood I wait for the elephantine like force
To retreat, to allow my breathe back into my chest,
But as I look down at my chest I don't see wounds
Just you. I ask please get off.
And your weight still sits unapologetic-ally over my body
My breathing has slowed now.
Your pressure reacts and heightens as it moves higher up my form
Now it is perched atop of my neck
Now I can’t speak, can’t tell you to move, can’t vocalize
How your weight aches.
How I would ask you to please get off
My breathing is undetectable.
Bricks of your flesh rest atop of my head, now you've moved higher
The weight of you ebbs into my pores
Travels through my veins and pours into my thoughts
You and your crushing pressure have been absorbed
And now weigh on my mind
And to be frank you are quite heavy
So please get off.

Poets are strangers in roads of life
Turning hither and thither much
Striving to even the odds

The tale in their gift of hours
Unfolds verse by verse
Trickling their insightful airs

Off which heaven falls the light
That straddles their perceptions
And hooks a halter to their rides

Some reach the realm of stardom
Some swallow the pill of obscurity
Some meander in limbo of words

Would it be worth their while
To buck and unload the reasons
And abandon noble cause

Would it be worth it to discard
The strings of lingering lyre
In favor of earthly cards

Would it be worth it after all
To chase the wind and not catch it
To rig the wings and not match it.