"unkissed" poems
I wonder how it feels.
To be snuggled ever so precisely.
Skin to skin, like neurons to synapses, sparking, firing pure pleasures of love, for the mate of my soul.
A wonder it is to feel.
I imagine us to be synchorinzed in such way, that thoughts are completed. Actions are known. He will see the truth even when unshown.
Blissful wonder, I long to feel.
The absence of something unfamiliar, but nostalgic.
I feel him present now, forever near, yet ever eluding.
My intertwines long for, aches for, to feel, his touch, yet it remains unknown.
His lips, sun, unkissed.
I wait in wonder.
Not for completion, but for a reunion.
Not of family, but of the one,
kin of my Soul.
Sep 6, 2024
Sep 6, 2024 at 6:30 PM UTC
You are nothing but a pretty face---
and for all the words birthed from your soft,
pouty,
supple,
unkissed sunkissed lips---
or the ones written down with your tiny,
\\\\ slanted / / / /
handwriting;
they are nothing but empty,
meaningless blatherskites.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 6:43 PM UTC
I should have thought
in a dream you would have brought
some lovely, perilous thing,
orchids piled in a great sheath,
as who would say (in a dream),
"I send you this,
who left the blue veins
of your throat unkissed."
Why was it that your hands
(that never took mine),
your hands that I could see
drift over the orchid-heads
so carefully,
your hands, so fragile, sure to lift
so gently, the fragile flower-stuff--
ah, ah, how was it
You never sent (in a dream)
the very form, the very scent,
not heavy, not sensuous,
but perilous--perilous--
of orchids, piled in a great sheath,
and folded underneath on a bright scroll,
some word:
"Flower sent to flower;
for white hands, the lesser white,
less lovely of flower-leaf,"
or
"Lover to lover, no kiss,
no touch, but forever and ever this."
2.7k
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words support like bone..." Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street"
Orion abandons the sky
dropping his club
casting his belt toward the horizon
Just once, for a moment, he glanced away
from exalted ****
his vanquished prey
He’d seen the picture—
A girl of sixteen
lying awake—muses in her head
eyes shut, arms thrown back
behind pillow
Tee shirt stretch across lean chest
Hips mingle with blankets
She is scattered there
among the minions of her hair
behind her mouth of unkissed words
_______________
McCaffery's Coffee is open late
He’s seen the picture
Muses in his head
His arm almost around her
Hers on his shoulder
Small—feather-light fingers
lift the hair of his neck
Reaching around her
his hand searches and slides
along her silk-draped hind
...and the view he has is amazing!
_____________
Music— and waves pounding and lapping
at the life he fears....
Little boat stranded in gray mists
till a thousand tiny birds alight
in a peppering and fluttering
stir of time
in greens of brine
as the sun pries through….
______________
McCaffery’s is ready to close
but the owner, knowing
douses the overheads and turns away
leaving candlelight to crouch and duck
and blink in circles
How long and free we
are allowed to gaze....
so full of wind and riffling water
Stars above and stars below
blooming on the floral silk of night
Vespered lilacs exhale
Votives of warmth
beneath his hand
Silk sweating—
familial in their rocking
Distant lightning loosens eternity
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
I dreamed you kissed me and when I woke, I was unkissed, and alone.
So darling, kiss me now, kiss me like you did in that dream.
Kiss me with the lips you used to spit daggers and whisper secrets, and soothe souls.
Kiss me like the sky kisses the earth when the sun sets.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 1:13 AM UTC
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together
but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure
of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent
do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions
i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory
(i could show you
where they curve
and bend
and they look like
the perfect destinatIon
for my life to end
killing myself,
to die upon a kiss
to die upon
your kiss
i'm killing myself
by even thinking this)
i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face
(i could explain
the smelL of your hair
after a long day at work
it feels thicker
as it resists against
my hands
you dO that too
do you know)
i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind
(i'd rather not tell you
how i feel
when you catch me
staring
but i just
can't
help myself
i neVer want to miss
a single blink
a wink
no time to think)
i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in
love in you i am with
one two three four five six
and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned
he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then
and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go
he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five
milky way kid
do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car
that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore
and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed
i am in...
i cant
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.
Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.
These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.
Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
Fingernails dug out of steering wheel
in the out door, not enough gin to ****
50 pushups. 50 more. Change my body
Maybe you won't ignore
Ambien, the lull of the ceiling fan,
the crowds of protestors disband --
the blanket warm, cosmos tease and can,
malaise, malaise, I'm trying to be active
and sane, sane for the next promise ring holder
and wine cooler queen, here comes the switch:
ether.
The night brings me back to you
by way of illusion --
you've got lingerie
I've got needs
You've got teeth
I've got shoulder blades
so it begins,
white knuckle, culling songs, strain on scalp --
I sing along, ancient melody, satin dirge --
precursor to your soliloquy and black venom urge
to scatter this bandaged man--
pieces in your hand,
collected and left on 100 dressers
for ill-informed future connivers
conspire
but I'm only tired of trying not
to look like a liar
so I blend into your blood
satisfied smirk from
transparent you
but what is the future
--a present hope
but what is the past
--a present memory
so we abolish each other now
betting on tangible mirages
in this delicious, miraculous night
the stars align
the planets collide
not an inch of you goes unkissed
not an inch of me goes without an itch
blackness and breath swirl and spit
me into a confetti end time without prophet or priest
only a skinny seed, and then the switch:
wake with a present hope of getting over
my present memory.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
The girl’s corneas expand over the small black abyss of pupil
Tides of blue and hazel rising over onyx isles
An unhinged eyelash balances precariously on its neighbor
It evaporates with her quick blink
Directly beneath her right eye
Below the mottled eggplant shadows
The corpse of a capillary drains among the freckles
Subterranean rivers of vein
Pulse under thin skin
Her nose is spherical
Etched by soft papery scars
Pores round and gazing
Culminating in a uniform valley
Lips are soft and pink and unkissed
A source for a small steady trickle of pride
Her mother’s lips
But behind the outer façade
The seamed surface is rough with nervous nibbles
Ribboned with scars of worries and troubles
She lacks fourteen teeth
Absent since the womb
Those she has are either sickly infants or filled with grainy mystery metallics
Some entirely fabricated with spatulas of amalgam
Yellowed and cracking
Rough and worn
Spongy inner marrow screaming with pain
She hides the stony incisors from view
The hair
Curling and waving
Kissing with reptilian tongues at her cheeks
Neck
Forehead
Framing her face in brambles and cowlicks
Indecisive of its true form
Fuzzy with moisture
Unwilling to obey
The strands of a gorgon
A monstrous tangle of personality
Instantly recognizable
Her hands attempt to soothe the undulating tendrils
But they anger
As stubborn as her
Refuse treatment
She gives up
Rinses her hands
And turns away from the mirror
Sighing
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
When I met you I was new, raw. Unkissed, unloved, unfucked. I was equal parts young as I was stupid. The day you left I ran around my house and counted every hole in the wall; did you know that not a single one looked like you? My mom is convinced you are a psychopath and your father thinks I was just a crazy ***** but I think you just weren’t strong enough to handle the hurricane that I am. Remember when I swam too close to the boats and you saw your life flash before your eyes? You taught me how to clean a gun, and I wonder if you knew I thought about what it would be like to shoot you. You weren’t the first person to over-sexualize this body but you were the first person this plump, over-sexualized body loved. My therapist tells me that trying to remember the good times will help remove this lump from my throat but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to remember the time we danced on the roof as the sun was setting and I laughed so hard about what a cliché that was that I almost fell, I don’t want to remember the time we laid side by side in your room with the lights off and listened to music, I don’t want to remember the night I broke, when you pressed your forehead against mine and swore we would be okay. I don’t want to remember how it felt to love you. I loved you so fully I don’t think I will ever be able to love like that again. I killed myself for you. I guess I’m bitter, I guess I’m broken. I guess I’ll never be the same, but I’m still really glad we broke up. Because for every ounce of love I had for you there was a gallon of fear, and love isn’t supposed to hurt. Love isn’t supposed to be black and blue, and that is the only “love” you know. So yeah, I’m glad you left. I’m glad you ****** her. I’m glad I kissed him. I’m glad we got away from each other before we went too far, I’m glad we got out before it killed us both.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
She sits
- untouched -
Amidst the pyres
Of unconsummated male desires.
Her perfect lips
- cold and unkissed -
Disappoint anticipated bliss.
No lethal weapon will suffice.
All ******* symbols turned to ice.
Yet, all around;
Sad men abound.
Each condemned to spend his days,
Unfulfilled ....beneath her gaze !
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
your symptoms are mine. we attach dead cells to living gods, you and i.
Golgotha spawn, writhe in leather trousers
to harlequin the marrow of our dire pipes !
to leap and jeer in tandem
that's how love does the impossible
with your mundane.
we are the abattoir of our stoic cow
your symptoms are mine. i see how you might think me mad; you not i.
but this is the dream fleck of your unkissed
a sweltering bloat of frozen hope
flogging the wolf in a gleam
of campfire exodus
and dust.
your nexus is the heart of the most free, a slim gorge of Krakens
yawning fresh hell and fjords of unconquerable silence.
yours is the tomb I am used too.
where we resurrect
we die laughing.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
1.7k
Patchwork, these lightning strike scars
thundering and unkissed
as though in some sort of burlesque swing –
attractive enough to be fondled, still throbbing.
I do not have bandages,
I do have a gun, I do have a tongue
to slick each wound like an envelope I close
shipped cross-country and not to my postal code:
gave foreigners the tornado –
now, we have the flood. Their lungs must
be strong enough or I’ll need to patch them too.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
We are nothing that matters,
created in mystery
while slowly dissolving to dust.
Pretentions and delusions our comfort as reality bites with it's point filed teeth.
We are not made of stars, nor moondust, we are products of all that has gone before and the destruction of all that is yet to be.
I yearn to see this life through a rearview mirror, it's withered form a speck on the far horizon, for the hurt to stop as this knife in my back plunges further into my sickened depths, severing my spine from all it holds dear.
I yearn for silence, for these thoughts to stop spewing from my acid tongue, burning my unkissed lips with a million wasted words while attempting to say only one.
Minutes turn into months, decades of meaningless days and miniscule triumphs.
The stage is set, my role is uncast but the curtain never falls, I stumble wildly through blind utterances, dreaming darkly, while anxiously awaiting the applause that will herald my passing.
This is not living.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like
The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You
Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for
You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room
As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing
Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he
Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs
And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.
Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips
Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.
Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and
When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow
And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she
Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to
Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark
And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each
Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind
You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there
Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes
Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now
Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you
Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,
His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
there is an undauntable light in my eyes
and a hickey sliced warmly across the middle of my throat,
and the half-lingered and utter warmth of your hands in mine.
there are murmured "i love you"s
and unsuppressed smiles
and the promise of
soon, soon,
seeing each other again.
there is rewarded patience
and the warming of my long unkissed mouth
to yours
and there is the reassurance that
yes, it was worth it.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
A broken mirror,
A bleeding fist,
A sliver blade against a wrist,
Tears falling down to lips unkissed,
Ignore her and she won't exist,
She's not the kind you'll come to miss..
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Silhouettes
Come; cried the woods
Come; cried the wind
Into the dark night.
The dark silent statues
with fingers grasped tightly
squeezing out the evil air, out
of it’s roof like mouth
Words frozen as they emerge
drifting silently amongst
those who listen. The chosen few
screeching from blood
Red throats. Baying for more
Winters grasp is closing down
Life and leaves are stripped bare
the summer that once was ours
is held in a sealed envelope
and fruitless amongst the unkissed bark
to settle among the Blue and Black.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
Pen and paper,
touching
sensual for some,
words sure,
where were you,
when is what was too
young,
oh words, oh words,
how do you form
the shape of my
unkissed lips,
we have missed
our time
our chance to
embrace,
nakedness of
meeting
face to face,
you are more than;
a muse to me,
a fantasy,
a touch screen away,
but it is a lie,
past due
what are you doing
in 2016?
lips are numb,
must be drunk
writing free,
rhyme or prose,
do it all,
Even with ugly toes,
verse is free, heart
rock solid,
torrid,
turbulent,
life is *****
when write is wrong.
If flight of fancy brings me near,
to perfect prose, may we meet,,
it is way past due...
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
A thought indecent
claims to know
the you that I miss most
the you I've not yet met
and long for
prematurely
I miss your skin a day too soon
a kiss before its taste
and so I catch myself falling inertly
in thought consumed
veins first
waiting, waiting
waiting for time to bloom the day when untouched skin
and unkissed lips take form and shape of all indecent thought exposed
lived amidst the tender sounds of rustling sheets
in the warmth and taste
of strangers
known
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
In a silent waking
I wish once to be swayed
Left with empty aching
My revery does fade
Biding ‘til the doors close
’Til I am left alone
All diction turns to prose
Voice but a pallid drone
I am a memory
One lost and not still missed
Curdled at your mercy
Hollow and unkissed
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
My pink cheeks ache from smiling. My scarlet lips are untouched, unkissed. My big brown eyes are overflowing with tears yet I feel nothing roll down my pink cheeks. My ****** heart is just a toy in your hand. As soon as my heart left my body and made it's home in your hand, you played with it. Your tall and sturdy structure that I so desperately want to wrap myself around came tumbling down. You became a child. A little boy that found his new favorite toy. And I became, do you know what I became? I became your puppet, obeying at your slightest touch. My strings are pulled by you. My voice is silenced. I want to shout. I want to scream at you for stealing my heart. All this sound builds up in my throat but only I can hear it. You rotten thief! You stole my heart. I became your puppet. And yet, even though I put on such a spectacular show. You threw me in your closet and locked me away.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC