"titillation" poems
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
On the black canvas
Carve the thunders
Streaks of neon glow,
The drums the heaven beats
On their way to the earth
Rend the air apart,
The ground in ******** anticipation
Vibrates in a rediscovered titillation,
The soil waits holding its breath
In the last climactic lull
Before it’s released from the pain,
Unmindful, I open my umbrella
In the season’s first rain!
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
Honeysuckle running deep in nostril's recollection
Wafting nectar dripping in air, please stop
Must stay present, no time for memory swap
Sneaking in, yellowed dreams, desirous confection
O purgatory, keep me still, deviate no such inflection
Causeway flash backing egg yolk, and lemon spectrum
Road lined in runners, speckling scintillation
This loose maddening of honeysuckle titillation
Reverse your tendril's twist, quivers an ungated septum
Covers, green to yellow transitions, honeysuckle bedlam
I cannot dance down this lane for fear of you
Your ringlets curl, clasp, coil me
On such road of alluvial soil I see
How can I? Must I, escape steer of dew?
You're honeysuckle memory of all I knew
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...
lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...
sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...
every story has a different
author, ending...
sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment
eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination
oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente
cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...
how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes better,
sometimes different...
why
is a question needs no asking...
when
when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...
when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming
when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking
where
is when
the how and
the why
intersect
the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Your determination puts me in anticipation as I'm patiently waiting for you to surpass my expectations.
Your aspiration gives me elations that keep me covered in perspiration from the constant titillation of good vibrations from you mental exhalations.
I swear my admiration can't fit in an equation to find the summation of my adoration plus your negation to be an imitation, hot **** your dedication is amazing.
I'm contemplating if you can be to me what the mighty sphinx was to the king Ramses.
If I'm out of line, please don't push back in, I'm going out of my mind like hair that needs relaxing.
Keep me on my toes and I hope that this feeling grows cause only God knows the ropes to keep us ever close.
Just don't say no when I go slow in my one woman show, to have your heart glow, go to and fro like my prose on the ocean flow.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
i am tired greatly
of this haughty country;
of its unfamiliar weird ways;
here -
children must be raised
towards bright riches,
and directed t'wards
predictable set phrases...
they make friends real fast,
but never stay too long;
their whole "friendship" notion
is askew
(is askew and eerily contagious):
they smile widely, saying,
"hey, i love you!" - every day;
they smile widely and persuade you,
"hey! you're awesome!" -
but those feelings end
just as they leave those bosoms.
but that haughty country
sure knows how to make life better
and
Predictable -
for everyone involved...
spare me, save me,
and release me and
relieve me
from its harrowing, morose, humongous strains,
from the fascination for its glories!..
from its incandescent,
flashy stardom;
from the titillation
of its "havens"!!..
(c)kRu, 05.08.11-04.11.11
* remake of an old poem written in 1995.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:00 AM UTC
**casual *** causal**
for the voyeurs and titillation-needy,
the only *** here
is the celestial gravitational
undivided divide begging to be
crossed over,
the pull of desire's
mutual assured destruction
between
Mars and Venus,
the war cause,
the Casus Belli,
of casual ***
and
that's it,
it's a wrap
a casual poem
about the non-causality,
the logic of the non-logicality
of
*** casual,
that breaks all the rules
of space, time and
the earnest gravitas
of anti-gravity,
succumbing to light bending dark matter
that resides where reason does not
and your wonder does this qualify
as only love poetry,
but you don't wonder for long...
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
My world imbued with luscious curves,
Of light swept thighs, and hips that climb,
I wonder on, in daily dream, as thoughts
Of her, and her,
Are seen.
A man, a being, of (supposed) mind,
Sentient, yet always blind,
Titillation occupies,
A thousand thoughts, which
few are mine.
In stark contrast the sun it swings
Through timeless place, its light
It sings. Awe-inspired my soul does yearn
To slip the grip of her and her.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
To act upon coincidence is benign.
Friday the Thirteenth has come and alone.
Who knew that it would be a din?
Not I, as I was thoroughly blind.
Ambushed on the day by a con
And a priest. One asked for money
And the other spoke as I was his son,
Amongst rejection. It was not fun.
Followed by rudeness and tension,
My house was ablaze.
Siblings and parents considered with great revulsion.
Here it shows again, minute titillation.
Sunday, a shame, a fight with a friend.
Imbroglio and irate, words of our time.
A slip of the dead tongue brought our joke to an end.
Confused, angered, sad, love, it is all that it could send.
Here lies the superstition, a mere dry bone.
I would have laughed, but it brought no amusement.
Conclusion: depressed. Sent me into a craze
And all that was left was this mental, social, indifferent slime
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of ****
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet ***** cash.
Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful sex-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).
Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
The drawn anticipation
tip-toeing on the tip of my tongue
I can taste scintillating titillation
of action
of resolve
Slipping slowly into this
vastly unorganized state
of solace and servitude
Bound by the beautifully ironic
Brush of fate that has brought me
to you
The luscious laments you utter
so lovingly
lap at my conscience
like a lap dog in the life of luxury
oblivious to anyone else's needs
but its own
as I languish the morsels lain on the
cold, wet floor
Freezing as my heart flutters
feverishly to fight the frivolous
attempts to win back the love
that frightens me now
Never doubting,
Nor noticing the imperfections
that nag at the niceties performed
eloquently in your presence
Putting my progress
on hold, while I become
less and less patient
still trying to understand
why you're still with her...
and I'm still here.
Loving you.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:12 PM UTC
the
******
takes
a
peek
at
the
half clad
ladies
in
news week
he
gets
a
little
excited
leafing
through
the
publications
for
all
that
he
sees
causes
some
titillation
the
viewing
experience
is
such
a
ball
for
him
especially
when
the
bedroom
light
is
dim
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
breath the air of spring time in
a robust chest swelling
hard knobs fingers glands
pressing into the sky
spreading and seeking
full of air a chest waits
to formalize titillation
the cushy mounds
arouse bringing heat of spring time live
the season of expanding
citation of love modern nation
we hold this moment
with palms of hands
earth life giving
these feelings to demand
we know such love of life
nurture and hold creation
for I am this creature of spring heat
of earth blooming I see the living light
the snake eyes of mona lisa
the jerking of hands
star in heart star of mind
whiling west ward seeking
crawling out of my skin
a peace debater a living shadow
of intellect arises this truth
the rapture of the living
movements of spring
the growth of our destiny
whiling west teaching
gjmars 5/10/15
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
accidental
collisions in the dark
titillation held softly
like warm tea
in a porcelain cup
the curve of my hip
ever arches towards you
cool skin and warm touch
are my delectation
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
flat white light
a beacon against the world
reduces every colour to a neutral wash
against a background of
titillation for our twitter,
Facebook make-up, eye shadow,
no foundation required
moving all the time
on a sea of data
even when we are located
it results in the same,
nonsensical beyond time and place;
the moment is all and perhaps
in that lies the only real truth
ephemeral, we live or die in the euripus
of flesh and its needs
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Day after day I stay here
Day after day I puzzle over life
Day after day I make no headway
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my soul
And the drum line in my chest has stopped it's beating
And the string quartet of my soul is exceptionally still
And I feel hopelessly alone
The trumpets that used to drive me forward have been muzzled
And even the titillation of my hope has died out, the keys have gone cold
So I float in the abyss
And hope that someone somewhere will see me as an island to dream of
But the soft recollections of symphonies past do nothing more than keep me a float
And the stillness of my orchestra stop me from rising any more
And so I wait
Tortured by uncertainty and confusion
For a note
However delicate and soft
To pull at the strings of my soul
To awaken the snares of my heart
To loose my trumpets
And move me forward once more
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Everything ends in weightless decay
A martyr so that the nebula continues
to tick away
Stones and sediment that give you
clues to immortality
The flesh will wither up but your
bones are here to stay
Drunk on stargazing and sweaty beaten trails
That demand your soles, itching for
unbeknownst horizons
Titillation deep in the canyons
on your forever soul
Etching out your ambitions on
the wind to carry them further
than you legs can go
Whittling down as burning sulfur, smog
induced lungs
Bright eyes on the stretching horizon somewhere
out there to call home
The days are getting younger, you
continue to gray and become what
once you never thought was possible;
old
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
I feel ***** disgusting and tainted.
I’m not supposed to, but I also feel ugly.
I thought I was stronger than you, more powerful.
Better. This time.
I thought you couldn’t rattle me anymore, I had tried so hard to forget you.
But I thought the affection was real this time.
I let myself believe that I was worthy of genuine love.
Me. Maybe that was my mistake.
If I had only known my place.
Quick fix. Hungry eyes.
When the closest moving thing will suffice.
By love, I thought you meant genuinely real emotion, And not some cheap titillation.
I know I’m worth more than this.
This. I know this.
I just can’t keep telling myself,
Because just as I was starting to believe my own words, you threw me on a sheet of perfectly broken shards.
And now I can’t cry.
The pain, its become a slow, numb sigh.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to, I want to cry, and scream and be angry, but all the rebellion has left tiresome.
Rebellion.
I now find my own fight to freedom some sort of a rebellion.
Like, I didn’t quite deserve it, I still don’t quite, but I think I can fight you, be free of you.
How foolish of me.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
In my insipid sojourn
I saw a blazed comrade in you.
How beautifully you lapse my absurdness,
yet know me to be incisive.
You usher me from the oblivious darkness.
And I from the irksome light,
Contrary yet complementary
That’s what makes us ‘WE’.
I can’t find a better opportune minute,
To express my titillation
For your presence in my life better than this.
Love you to the fullest onto death
Keep smiling, cause life is beautiful.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
EMOTIONAL CONFETTI
Fluctuating feelings,endless raindrops flowing freely in our minds beginning with weeping...
Simple expressions smirking, smiling never beguiling picking up perceived perceptions...
Gradually graduating, waiting to be defined curiosity as a helper.
Adding to a emotional list,simple samples to leave us smiling, storing fledgling perceptions.
Growth of anonymous senses without pretenses layering in levels loosely stacked.
Unknown actions can create new consciousness clear paths rapidly become another titillation,unfocused, acquiring new knowledge of our senses.
Fables or cut & dried on a table, reminders of danger, more learning is required, to be careful, actions have reactions.
Middle aged resilience leans towards laziness , simple lessons idly waiting, rising or raging hormones...
Maybe now reverting back to to an open minded teenage mess.
Stop,think, forward with learned caution ,processing procedures or fall into flagrant mating.
The lessons learned thrown aside, spontaneity instead of logic, not reasoning for future distress.
Friendly, finicky, joyful, jovial, anxious, regressing, positive, become life shaping a personality.
Lessons falling from skies ,bubbling from underneath, like it or not always along the pathway
Absorbing through language, actions, maybe lineal, inherited...then sharpened to become more an internal part of our individuality.
In stages - never really understanding the gauges - a deeper spirit ,developing whit clamoring, climbing up a bit.
Finding feelings, new intensities, finding with more fervour, progressing with new sentimentality...
Fluctuating with a daily play, goodness with glee, sadness with wrath, passion with affection...
Sensibility - gifted through experiences - leading to instinct, forming, acquiring apathy.
Flowing like chad, ribbons of color, grandiose glitter - as if from an exploding pinata. A distraction or attraction...
Do we learn to love or live to love?
Left with only what we've lived...
The feeling; our only collection. R.C.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
A packed house as she commence a teacher
in marking hearsay with her titillation of 1000 young minds
while little criminals that burden this structure with tax
and find her discriminating as a lawyer with vibes that well
as her gyroscope always suit with measure of twittering yet pair
of aces does her most thrifty a year again. Alas!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
The irrevocable emotion
I have about you has got this ocean
swaying back and forth on a motion
that can only be swayed by you.
The soft sound of your soothing voice
has got my head spinning
and other grinning
because it can only be saved by you.
But it scares me
how the words and phrases
that come out of your mouth
seem so flawless
like you always know what you’re talking about.
And it simply amazes me
that everything you do fazes me
and the days with you
always gazes me
into what I want our future to be.
Remembering the way you hold me
and the way the cold breeze
doesn’t seem cold when I’m with you.
The way you talk to me,
like I’m wearing your ring,
saying “baby I love you”.
But I’m always taken back
like I‘m suddenly off track
because those three simple words
carry so much meaning on their back.
And I don’t want to be one of those people
that say it without its meaning
because meaning it
means more than feinding it,
if you know what I mean.
I believe in love and romance,
not cheap titillation from cold hands.
I believe in flowers and cute notes,
not always coming over to rock the boat.
Sing to me,
play me a lullaby,
call me randomly
or just graze into my eyes.
I want you to look at me
and see who I am,
cuz baby I’m not perfect
but I’ll do the best I can.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
as i sit staring at the trees flit by, i leave
my head, no longer living in my sunken
sockets, descending deep down into the depths of my womb, stretching into my twitching ****
every rumbly tumble of the ten ton
vehicle vrooming down the turnpike
outlines the echos of his hands.
the echos of them in the negative space between
my thighs that exists only in my mind as they
intimately embrace each other against the bus seat.
the echos of them still filling me making me feel
fantastically full and yet frighteningly empty.
i feel firmly on the fence between ****** and
arousal, every pothole filling my holes and
lurching me
towards ****** every
soft vibrational hum of
asphalt
against my asscheeks, pulling me back to my pleasurable perch.
i have reduced myself to merely a
warm,
wiggly wash of titillation, teetering in between
temptation and utter satisfaction.
i close my lids slightly and breathe in the
absence of his presence,
as if ive been staring at a dazzling light too long left only
with its dark twin in its vacancy.
the separation stretches speeding down highways, so i must
wait,
wet and wistful, to be bathed and
blinded by the brightness once again.
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 3:18 PM UTC