"tumescent" poems
Brought forth from a darkness so secure, baby boy relentless in the pursuit of education gazed upon the egg shell walls and sterile environment.
Breathing as if it were natural.
A construction of steel and concrete was the new cocoon , the window was an eye to a neoteric world. Bright white lights shone from within and a dull foreboding cloud loomed beyond the glass for the child to appreciate.
Mother exhausted collapsed sighing. She is the antidote to all that is evil, she is the mother to the world. A usually stick-thin figure now distended but leisurely relaxing.
Nursing her son as if it were natural.
Swooning nurses swaddle infants, the original factory workers. Substantial days grafting, workhorses prancing throughout aseptic halls.
The heroines of our world.
A tribe appears from dust clouds, over the dunes, panting, half-alive. Heavenly Ethiope arriving in time for the world to begin. Tumescent in her ecclesiastic luminescence bearing a King destined to travel great distances primed for expulsion from the cimmerian safety of the womb.
The seas of the earth accumulate before the small band of tall-standing creatures of exquisite anthropomorphism. Creatures from across the great unexplored continent at the centre of our world gathered in frenzied crowds. The Elephants marched in earth shattering herds, the lions of the Savannah put aside their differences and sat amongst the wild dogs of Ethiopia and the grévy's zebra, the dibatag stood and eagerly waited. Shrews, mice, gazelle, otters, cheetahs and giraffes all surrounded the tribe. Taking a silent vow and allowing stewardship to be passed along to a new generation.
Every mother is the mother of the earth. Her earth, the personal concept of earth that only she may understand.
Both children are connected by the planet they learn to walk upon. Connected by a thousand generations but connected nonetheless. They are one and the same. Each bought into a world in which they have no knowledge, each merely a slate eager to be scrawled upon by the elders of this fine rock.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
It was about six in the evening
Six in the evening when juvenile lust is tumescent
And Anne McKilroy made her lips available
To mine
In the back of the choir outing charabanc
She did not mind the smell of corn beef
Lingering from my lunch time sandwich
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
You will be argonaut
one more of the supernumerary
trodding upon the cindered ones
come before you
limbs wooden and somite
encircling a moon
tumescent and blue
in permafrost garrote
on constellations edge
tottering over synapse
mocking
like a mime on highwire
your guilt
lupine in its longing
sawtooth timberline in vivisect night
down promontory
to frozen wave
the broken spoke of your step
on sleetslick carapace
past the preterit
embalmed hide of the world
into the silent millstone
berserk
to return emptyhanded
and changed
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
Perish the thought that coats
Our tongues with hard harsh words
Inchoate reaching beyond grasp
Scantly strum our plush stairs
Scaling arpeggios
To soft crescendo as hands clasp
Gently brush angel hairs
Like magnet and shavings
Draw forged iron from gorgeous shrouds
Cherish the touch that floats
Like snowflakes whispering
In hushed descent from secret clouds
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Saintly calm amid storms
Whose roil-released crystals
On sprinkled tongues and cheeks alight
Enlace the fringe that frilled
Our sheer contours' luster
Emerging from dark thunder bright
Embrace the mists that build
Like cotton enfolding
Cumulative nimble and fond
Faintly kiss dermal forms
Like ghost lovers made flesh
Coaxed tumescent from far beyond
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Lambent planet burning bright
In star-pocked shadows of the night
Gigantic storms doth wheel around
Tumescent whorls forever bound
Oh mighty planet Jupiter
(For 'tis how I look on thee)
Thy reddish eye is looking out
On all eternity
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
my darling
i will visit you in your boudoir
tumescent Satan, I
you, a goddess, your body-- the temple it was built for
our hermetic union,
two bodies entwined on the hearth,
the argent moon looking on, clutching her vestal livery
heathens, heathens!
how can something so exquisite be a turpitude?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
*Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,
Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,
Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,
Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,
Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,
Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,
Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,
Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.
Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.
Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.
- 03:50 AM -*
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Long ago love looked like romance
it held a subtle sheen of madness
Chaos and passion left in pair
Our beds lie oceans apart
My heart can't swim the carpet
In the night we camped the platform
I hadn't yet bought matches
as the smoke was yet to lick me
inside my virginal lungs
My heart grows tumescent, we
never sat close to view forever
in the dusk of violet July
To fulfill happiness fully
suppose we just kiss goodbye forever
and bare the carpet to cement
May some poor soul once more find
their face between too hairy legs
and with my chin I'd trace constellations
Sail our beds both furthest apart
Sail our beds into the dark
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun.
Their lack of success in love has made them torpid.
They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather,
the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.
Let us commend them on their conversations.
One says “oh” and the other says “indeed.”
The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night
will be impossible for them.
They know that the bright and very delicate needles
inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins
will work after dark--at present are drugged, are dormant.
Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance.
One says “no," the other one murmurs “why?”
The cousins pause: tumescent.
What do they dream of? ******
They dream of lust and they long for violent action
but none occurs.
Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum
The light is empty: the sun forestalls reflection.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I recall myself growing
inside her,
moving and reaching and
sliding, slithering,
straining against
any explosion of feeling.
I remember the sharing
of tumescent desire;
the transition from
connection
of mouth and breast
to thigh and ****
I remember, I recall . . .
and that is all that’s left;
the memory,
the recollection,
the evocation
of joys long gone.
Alas
the sands run out.
Nothing now remains
but odium,
loathsome,
vile.
I’d had my way
back in the day,
but this, oh this
it must be said:
I’d left her
in a loveless bed.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
Her dress lay in a heap
on the cat furred floor.
A smile of satisfaction
spread across her face.
Having done this
time out of mind,
I knew it was my turn
to say something tender,
but my tumescent lips
just can't winkle out
pretty lies anymore.
~mce
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
sleepless nights
tumescent, crystal blue eyes
with a tang of radiance
as the sun soars into the clouds
scintillantly
the luminescence
of the sun
provides a finite vigor
to the heart
of the broken
scintillantly
as the sun soars into the clouds
with a tang of radiance
tumescent, crystal blue eyes
reach sleep
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Until you pulled
the trigger you
knew nothing
of wild boars
except tales
your father told
you as a child,
but suddenly
there it was
fierce and feral,
yellowed tusks
flying at you—
the tall novitiate.
So when you
raised the rifle
to your eye
and fired,
your mastery
of boars burst
over African
grassland,
splattered
in a grisly shower
of comprehension:
red words
splashed
on knee-high grass,
paragraphs hashed
out in final breaths,
until the depleted
subject of your study—
tumescent body
and stiff squat legs—
lay dead in African
savanna, the obsolete
entry you never read
in your Encyclopedia Britannica.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
graves upon graves
lie within these pools
of black blood rising to overcome
to swallow the chains
and binds
while blind eyes stare blankly
into the ravenous face of death
bewarethese mortal coils that tie
but soon are released to emptiness
and the further emaciation of
tumescent lips
drops of sweet wine
spatter
on the pallid visage of
life eternal
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
~~~
for Sjr1000
and his proffered invitation
~~~
delve and dive,
smack lip tasting each line we drop over the side,
as if it each worm is a new word
first time heard
or ever écrit
explicate and parse
the shape, the portent,
looking for the double mystery,
the wisdom and the plaisir of two minds cojoining
our poems, indeed,
every one a product of a stainless steal shiny can of worms,
so strikes me when,
that fishing trip day est arrivée
the worms will be of the glo variety,
whom when pole dipped,
will be like chocolate treats for catching poetry fish,
to rapture capture new reciprocity recipes
share and delight,
comparing size,
whose is most luminescent, tumescent,
whose poems will taste most délicieuse
men fishin n' writing male bonding, stainless steel strong, a men friendly completion competition,
you bring the worms in a cancan,
I'll bring the cannes à pêche^
they'll accuse of being heinous poets turned into
collaborateurs,
to which we'll laugh responding in unison,
for sure, bien sûr!
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
I can see the moon, and I can see you.
To me, you could outshine Her with your smile...
if you really wanted to.
Your expressions are brought to life
by the glow of the fireflies in the night so quiet.
The ghosts of the graveyard would draw us in
and to the Tangled Tree in Chains we'd run.
The wind would catch in your ebony locks,
and I was so jealous, of anyone and everyone,
that had anything to do with you.
I await the gaze of those Irish moss irises
at my snowstorm baby blues,
but I am walking-stick-thin and prone to rainfall.
Do you feel my heart bloom
when your weather-worn fingers trace the bones in my face,
and my cheeks smear with the color of ripe raspberries
in the midst of a fair summer?
When we peek through the tall grass with feline eyes,
spying upon the fire deities in the tumescent black,
I hope they will never call you away from me
with the heart-break sunrise with which you will flee.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
Petrified for the last time,
I cut my brittle heart out
with a pair of nail scissors,
clipping through the keratin
down to the quick —
the sharp, thick, constant sting
of raw flesh, ribs spread
to see the moist, shady maw,
the red, white, and blue
empty ring box of my lungs,
a “yes”
like soft velour, all
tumescent and convex, pressed
out with the fragments
of vitreous gifts
you poured down my windpipe
(unintentionally vitriolic),
gem shards, cold and hard,
and I am scarified inside out.
My heart, airlifted
from its zone of alienation,
wails and trails lank Titian locks,
a red forest, scorched and floored.
Still, the dead marble lump glows red
and ***** like blood under nails.
You are subdermal —
eternally, infernally so.
Put apples in my cheeks, speak
but do not
listen, I glisten —
first with sweat, then tears,
then soap suds. I shed
my skin, touch fresh markings,
milk patterns. Half blossomed
rose bud,
dismantled, curling
up on myself,
you’re out of the woods.
I pull up my hood, drag my feet
out of the mud, bind
my open chest with the rest
of my ruddy cloak and,
sanguine, let drop my spleen
into the puddle I leave
behind, all dark
with blood and bark. Your bite
is not so bad
but, oh darling,
what big teeth you have.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
This vast outside—these
opalescent stars, collections of
glittering clusters rotating
around a dense eye—
seems pearly still
and still somehow is
fluctuating (your dense eye,
quivering, your
tumescent mouth,
opening, your note,
pitched through air, air
rippling, a bird,
taking flight here, alighting
there, a few leaves
shivering)
all is in accordance with
the imperceptible draw
of
imperceptible strings
strung within
your vast universe inside.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
I have tried to take you, but you dance away to attend your daily prayers; I am left holding sunbeams in bear paws on empty stairs. Clasping you to me, you turn to liquid, gush between my claws: you make me feel ungainly, untoward, a beaten Beast crushing Belle under his mistimed feet. So now I force myself upon you. Eat of my ***** see the traces of snakes that you misplaced there. Beneath the tumescent ******* feel my knees, sore from following you in solemn abdication. They wear the carpet to a shiny bareness, like the moist button of my soul. Can you not see my eyes swell with dedication, do you not understand the corresponding depths of me that call to yours? It is our future sweating from my pores; mop it up, sense the salty possibilities that we can ferment together. Say yes now, as recompense for all the hurt you do to me. Silent, despairing, I have deserved it: if nothing else, give me more of your apathy. It lines my heart with such loving gravity.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
June is dead-still
trees converse with other
language mocking the trilling
of birds. North of here
there is a visitation. Virgins
are being transferred
all Monday housed in foreign
homes. Oregano
perennial, ingrained on
roof beam the rise and fall of,
a languid mirage outside
much less than an inveterate superstition.
Past the bridge where I once laughed
as a child when my father
surged past ploughed fields.
this almost overtakeless summer
minting its blazing core
and now rivers cut this town.
The derelict nectar of youth,
how lovely it was the first time
to pierce through age, an arcade
rising from the carrion that was
our birthright under the throbbing heat.
Who touched what
to turn room into bedlam – slowly, these
evincing hours paint me the
grandiloquent picture of all
when the moon a foolish assumption
under a rain-soaked grassland
moist enough for crickets, venue for
frog hidden somewhere, outlined by a cadenza,
us, humming along in our
cast-off night clothes, meagerly this
climate tumescent in this town.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
You are no longer the
tortured tumescent terror
you were at twenty.
After sixty, the ****** urge
waxes and wanes,
but still arrives
promptly when called upon.
A kind of peace lives in this.
Arousal now requires love,
whereas when young
it arrived at the glimpse
of a leg or a skirt's flounce.
This is more personal
and more satisfying.
The young deserve lust and
the tempestuous heartbreak
it inevitably brings
when mistaken for more
than it can ever be.
Those older need the touch
of a beating heart
as much as the touch
of simple, hot flesh.
No time remains
for the merely casual.
Your desire reminds you
of ruins, fallen towers,
the pressure of mortality.
You want the body beneath you
to touch your soul as well.
You want to touch it back,
to make it gasp and moan
but to hear it in your heart
as well as in your ears.
You want to hold it close
and keep it near forever,
remembering that forever
is not nearly as long
as it used to be.
No time to fool around;
find someone real
and clutch them as if
they were your last chance,
which they may well be
at any age.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC