"verboten" poems
For Al, who left us
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)
_________________________________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, Long Island
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Espresso Yourself
Word hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes,
unload reload,
you’re the gun,
memories are the ammo,
noting is verboten even when forgotten,
this twisted linguistic addict attitude is not an act or a show,
but the derangement of this is entertainment regardless,
and this artist is in demand all around the world,
they want to take my time,
and everything else that I thought was mine,
but I don’t have the time to spare because I’m in a race to nowhere,
trying to find the finish line before I completely lose my mind,
gaining ground in quicksand sick and no one seems to care,
grinding grounds no chitchat i just grab my espresso and get outta there,
there as in here no beer just these coffee beans this is a caffeine affair,
I’ll take a double on the double,
actually if it’s more simple I’ll take a triple,
no milk no sugar no trouble,
just this espresso and these expressions that ripple,
with words hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
market report: spinning on an axis of complexity
phrase captures and enraptures, buried deep in one of the
countless market reports that arrive every minute out of date by the time they press the end/send button but this rises
up from the forged gorge throat and all the rest falls away
spinning on an axis of complexity
sticks like Elmer's glue, white viscous, good for paper & skin,
cause you knew precision revision incision instantaneous,
they are intended for your eyes only, pasted to your eyes,
tinged tongue screaming you man, you poem
there is no
difference, for both at 1:55am
where time is sleep verboten,
when words are blood platelets in a mystery entitled
spinning on an axis of complexity
human must eat
human must work
human must love
human must sort the juggling orbs,
too much new information constant and brain incapacitated
*while falling-spinning
when eyes now fully glued shut by the
complexity of clashing algorithms
writing this market report on the state of me,
the passionate impartial analyst who boldly reveals, he proclaims
he owns stock in himself and issues a
sell recommendation*
the complexity-situation trending signals crash a-coming,
and at 1:59am after composing this hissy fit writ,
he downgrades the official outlook to sell and
lies down on the kitchen floor and laughs
with the angel dudes eating bagels and holding their sides,
cause they have been running a short position up in heaven
6/22/17 2:05am
nyc
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Herbs, garlic,
cheese, please let me in!
Souffles, salad,
Parker House rolls,
please let me in!
Cook Helen,
why are you so cross,
why is your kitchen verboten?
Couldn't you just teach me
to bake a potato,
to bake a potato,
that charm,
that young prince?
No! No!
This is my county!
You shout silently.
Couldn't you just show me
the gravy. How you drill it out
of the stomach of that bird?
Helen, Helen,
let me in,
let me feel the flour,
is it blinding and frightening,
this stuff that makes cakes?
Helen, Helen,
the kitchen is your dog
and you pat it
and love it
and keep it clean.
But all these things,
all these dishes of things
come through the swinging door
and I don't know from where?
Give me some tomato aspic, Helen!
I don't want to be alone.
1.6k
Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Thursday to the shopping list did add my tremulous bequest,
Honey Nut Cheerios, great was the anticipation of a marriage with cold milk,
product of the oats and the cows that made this nation really, really great,
but in the Manahattan organic commisary seems this
so called food is strictly verboten,
so she brought me home on Friday some imposter named
Grain Berry?
this pseudo Cheerios tainted with Onyx Sorgum,
intended to give me heavy metal poisioning surely,
and rob life of joy by slowing down my sugar absorption rate,
and the plant fiber contained was purportedly natural,
as if there was another kind!
clearly a plot on my life by the Bannonian alt-right, for it,
this "whole grain toasted oat cereal,"
supplied more free radical protection
by sun activated antioxidants!
I am a real man,
I love my artificial flavors and colorings,
how better to preserve my pickling, briny brain
than in artifical perservatives!
From West Texas came this grain,
surely they will appreciate the insoluble fibered irony,
while I eat cold cereal for Friday dinner,
SHE is eating steak rare at Gallagher's Steakhouse!
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Oh Glenda (Miz Gee gee)
years elapsed since, I didst hawk
verboten fruit adrip
from yar verdant bough,
thy strong craven raven
doth still twitter and flip
sans thy testosterone switch,
where woody pecker missus grip
ping re: egret ting prospective
relationship nixed thee
as gull friend material, hip
mistress, though heron eye did pay lip
service verily orgasmically quip
yes...wren doer ring
more'n commit Freudian slip
which peeping cardinal tip
towing thru nested tulip trip
gave balled oriole peck whip
ping lil *** pistol be
friending chirping ***** riot
inserting thingmabob
after pants sigh did un zip.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Egg gad unlike rob bin duck cradle
yar mature red breast all aswirl
asper a stationary dreidel
mammary ducts mine mouth pursed
yar ******* mine gums did ladle.
Only in memory, aye
hungrily thirst and thirstily hunger
fort deux aureole dye
still affecting this gab
bird, who didst deign
as milquetoast guy.
Whenever this birdman alone
his thoughts metaphorically drone
worm wayward toward
***** thatch, where
hello kitty doth purr and groan
of quintessentially
***** coiled hair moan
ning softly as thee
bared naked lady lies prone
admiring pinkish puckered
def flesh tone.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.
She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.
She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.
Scrupulous? Undeniably so.
She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.
My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Easter Monday (2015)
The silence
It was the silence
As we entered the gates of hell.
Then…
The bird song,
It was the bird song
That chorused our way
To the well
Of tears at the wall
Of many tongues
That speak to the silence still,
Of the voices that cried
For the people who died
The void only time will fill.
The sun
It was the sun
Shining on the wooden cross.
And…
The sky
It was the sky
So blue, and flecked with the floss
Of clouds so white
So pure in light
That the wall of the well of tears
Transfigured the sin
We heap on Him
Whose loss for many
Is the only way
To feel the void time fills.
The woodpecker drummed a beat
On the trunks
Of the trees so parallel still.
A whisper of wind
That rebounds the sound
Of innumerable roll calls
Of the thousands who now
Lie deep in the cradles of mounds
Stone faced, inscribed Toten
With the number interred within
Verboten… now
But why not then?
In that world of men
And women, when humanity’s meaning
Was turned on end.
And a godless creed
That shadowed the world with grief
Which now for many,
Is beyond belief.
The stillness
It was the stillness
That gave silence the space to breathe,
To remember the times, the godless times
That now are so hard to believe.
But silence and stillness envelope the House
A silent place to be
To hear the past that shows the present
The prayers for a future that sees
What could be,
What can be
But will we
Learn, the history from then to now
To forge that future for future’s sake
And answer the question…
How?
David Applin
… late afternoon and evening of Easter Monday 6th April 2015 following a visit to Bergen-Belsen earlier in the day, completed 7th-9th April.
15th April 2015 … 70 years after the liberation of Bergen-Belsen by the British Army.
David Applin (Copyright 2015)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
It took you some time to get
Where you are; no overnight
Fall or idle thought to drop out
Or taste how the other half lived,
Although now you know,
But a collection of erroneous
Decisions or the wrong people
At a bad time, or maybe that child
You lost and husband quitting,
Was all too much for you
To soldier on in the complex
World of the here and now.
Shelter is shelter, you mumble,
Sipping the warm soup, the memory
Of the last good supper long forgotten
Or put aside in that room marked
Verboten, and the trainers, yes,
The trainers fit the feet well,
Best for ages, you smilingly mutter,
The rest are rags, but they keep me
Warm at the best of times, which
Are few, you add, sensing the chill
Of the wall against your back;
Maybe Buddha would not pass by
Unnoticing, maybe he will give
Smile or coin or kind words
Like oil for rusting joints.
You sit and stare and muse
And feel the wind whisper,
Sense the passers-by look down
At you, feel their eyes, their
Muttered utterances, their shakes
Of head, their tut-tutting, and just
Remembering now your mother’s
Soft hand brushing your childhood
Head, soothing the poverty from brow
And cheek, maybe that’s what you want
On this street, maybe it’s her that you seek.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Something worthy to write about
Her mother was in tears of happiness
Her father gave a loud grin
Everyone were cheering for her life
She finally managed to be born
Swimming all along the redness she survived
As a child she always adored something red
Be it a lollipop or a tricycle she rode
Her eyes caught the red house in the neighborhood
She jumped on the lap of someone wearing red
She giggled to be in red dress
Later growing up brought no change
Mothers red lipstick on her lips
Getting to the garden to pick the red roses
Friends farewell, that red card she says
Sisters birthday ; red cherry topped cake she remembers
Always being redness lover days passed by
Alas, one fine day that red colour betrayed her may be
Those red fluid between her thighs messed her up they said.
Those red patches on her clothes gave her feeling of shame
What a weirdness the redness poured in life
She now turns to be untouchable; reason, red
She now can’t even talk to any guys; reason, red
She now can’t feel the warmth of sun; reason, red
Turnovers in life
Girl you cant go there
Girl you can’t talk that way
Girl you can’t sit in such way
Girl you can’t be close to any guy friends
Girl you can’t enter the kitchen
Girl you can’t even worship now
All because she was cursed by the color red
Getting locked in a dark room she cried tears of pain and emotions for loving red.
Why can’t she be happy for being a red lover?
Being surrounded by taboos and verboten she turns weak
She wants to get rid of the redness now
She makes attempts to get over it
Leaves, clothes, paper and stuffs she uses to do away with the red
Even her faith on god distorts as they say she was red because of gods curse
Why but why they seem to be know nothing?
She gained her life due to the redness her mother achieved
She now is ready to give life due to the same redness
Human existence is only possible of that very redness
Her adolescence and her redness can replicate a new heart beat
Please don’t hate red, don’t be ashamed of her on being red
Redness in her is not a matter of impurity but a matter of life
Let’s understand her, let’s love her, let’s make her feel good on being red!!
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 2:13 AM UTC
By S E T
Those Shelter Island nights,
When the air hung sweet and salty
and the shell-laced, pebbly sand
still felt jagged against your toughened feet,
Inviting and profound
You walked with your best guy friend,
Tawny, and burnished from the summer
side jobs, gap tooth and lightly nasal
desperately wanting not to hear his yearning
paens to your best, most glamorous friend
lamenting her leaving
Who'd been up for half the month,
She of the glittering auburn hair
and TV roles, and heartthrob drummer brother,
and even then, deep, throaty laugh,
Wondering if she'd go for hick, Long Island him,
Instead, to feel his teen-age muscled lips
bear down on yours, even if you fidgeted
with desire and uncertainty, half-longing to bolt
Never letting on that second fiddle
was not your instrument of choice
Crossing the warm road to (pinch yourself)
board Chuck's yacht
The only one you knew who had a yacht,
not a grand affair, with modest galley and monk-like sleeper
but a yacht no less,
And drink the bootlegged verboten
beer delicious, slightly acrid,
Stealing away, out the kitchen door
after the small stones clattered against your sleeping window,
Your signal to renounce the troubled house
for a midnight ride down paradise cove.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
My sadness makes no sense,
Like what you said.
It's substandard
It's self-absorbed
It's not fine.
My cheerless comes from rejection
Rejection to accept me
To the world
From myself
I dread of rejection
My sadness secrete in my shadow
Behind my smile
Behind my laugh
Behind my happiness
This sadness is forbidden
My sadness comes from waves
i am drowning,
sinking,
but slowly dying
still smiling
This kind of sadness is verboten
So i covert
With my pen
And a paper
To write a poem
This sadness made a scar in my heart; a mark that will be remembered
And i'm sorry that this sadness hurt you, the way it hurt me.
Just like you, i hate this feeling overwhelming, and i'm sorry.
j.d.p
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
With Ma Lil **** Dill
one bilabial fricative smacking
tongue thrusting (lizard like)
indefatigable prelapsarian
Garden of Eden dwelling primate
doth pine with two lipped treating zest
for Eve fun juiced a tasty droplet, wrest
ting kitty meowing Mz er loo,
sans verboten fruit Yukon die vest
via jump starting
a hovering damn
electric kool aid acid test
Hair and there, a bare naked lady attired
in her birthday suit, the sexiest
plump ***** roseate
sear suckered ******* trickling milky nectar
when casting shadowed umbra at rest
thirsting, unleashing, vaunting,
et cetera viz prurient quest,
whereby this rambunctious
***** bull lever severely oppressed
condemned with life sentence
of ****** solitude, nest
souled (sorely testing
agonizing Victorian modest
tee primly and properly
tortures carnal temptation lest
surrendering syllabus "C" ) even jest
a jot, cuz tis pure torture restraining
feral, hormonal, integral hankering
to stoke libido at Parochialism be hest
thus, aye feel unfairly deprived,
no hello kitty will be guest
unsure how helpful "getting off my chest"
works thee unnatural tethered
****** suppression, perhaps best
left unmentioned, encumbered
with jiggly, flabby droopy breast
works, and unwanted love handles
state of reined swiftly tailored
harried stylishly groomed
FitBit bridled uncertainty I attest.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:00 PM UTC
The answer it appears,
Not.
For this exercise,
Of filtering life thru eyes poetic,
24/7, is an equation, with a single constant,
Eyes wide shut.
They would sleep,
If they but, could record their dreams,
Precisely, securely.
Absent that assurety,
Without that guarantee,
Sleep verboten, lest a single poem
Escape unrecorded.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
'ENTRY' --I go in
'EXIT--' I get out
'VERBOTEN' I stay away
These three words ring so strong and loud
Should I stay ?
But what's this all about?
Should I get away?
Can't decide--due to my doubt
VERBOTEN
Forbidden
I don't bother to argue
Prudence--a rule that's golden
When to get out or stay in I'd know
If I do have wisdom enough
Living life is not as easy as changing your clothes
The journey is long, lonely, burdensome and unrelentingly tough
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
The poem I would never write would tell of the sun
And the moon and
The stars,
And how the color gray
Describes everything by far.
The poem I would never write
Would be about roses
And the wind in branches and trees.
The poem I would never write
Could never be read.
You see,
The poem I would never write
Would be about the unchartable,
An unwritten world waiting to be created.
The poem I would never write
Would explain my every wish,
The desires buried deeper then the sorrow I hold.
Words would not suffice in
The poem I would never write.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
I’m okay, you’re okay.
That’s the game we play
Pretending, day by day
To not let our demeanors betray
To tamper everything we say
When we daily play
This game of I’m okay, you’re okay.
Meanwhile, when we’re alone
We can feel free to bemoan
And groan (but not loudly)
Everything we haven’t shown
To each other but is known to us
But when we’re together, that’s verboten
It’s just “I’m okay, you’re okay.”
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
peak skill wafts milky aroma from ******* Eros they win
an apt pupil dial lates with a twin
thus…two orbital allies – seek carnal *** sass sin
while sunk kin their sockets, they scan yar scenic skin
drawing interest sharp as a pin
while testosterone pump kin
not cease…thus juiced hum ma gin
slicing ether of sea like an ocular shark fin
past yar eyes darting from toes ta chin
where ****** fantasies shift their shape
letting daydream let me lips braise the nape
of neck before shimmying with invisible escape
resorting to atavistic antics per great ape
within me twenty first skein of muscle and bone
especially verboten iced creamy country where
this pal wannabe wants to drone
and in fair weather or foul would pine to hear ya moan
upon me milking tropic of cancer as ye lie supinely prone
regaling tulips and rivulet dribbling over miniature mossy stone
aware when proboscis nearing bulls eye by your purring tone
ecstatic I located an erogenous zone
mentally book marked careful not to slide nor slip
a live as one googly eyed earth linked yahoo excites
pheromones on the outlook for purr act perch per verboten trip
could don role of aim mesh applying his little buggy whip
of ca horse heading to bird in hand
*********** paradise or some other place grand
dill a quaint as would be surmised as this animal
a carnal, excitable, guttural one-man band
seething with hormonal secretions
unfairly forced into a coe wide dill cell bait
coveting to reach the integral female bad land.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
two legged beasts choked
in afternoon's haze, days all rated
like pain, 1 to 10
3's admonitions were to the
elderly, the infirm; lucky 7 still said all
but necessary travel was verboten
9 was malign enough for
the bug eyed masks, and even indoor tasks
were advised with caution
double digits meant doom,
stay in your room, with equal measures
of oxygen and prayer
outside if the scale
really read the ominous 10, fears were
of fire igniting in the skies
but some days were yet a 2,
when masses moved about enjoying
a respite from wrath
though 1 was remembered as if
a dream, with skies a strange hue, most
thought it was once called blue
plants, trees, were taxed without exemption,
mixing molecules, a chemical coughing in silence,
their belching of atoms, our salvation
and there were those who ventured
far enough into the fields who vouchsafed they
had yet seen daffodils, wilted but alive
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
As life is full of adventures,
People take it sort of ventures.
Whatever endeavor one has gotten,
It is a choice though to some is verboten.
Nobody truly influences what we aspire,
Only God surely invades our innate desire.
Yes man is gifted with inborn intelligence,
Best if he utilizes it with able diligence.
All five senses except one man detests,
Is it his religious orientation that protests.
Sexuality does excites different social reactions,
But the higher IQ one has the better interpretations.
It is a taboo for most to discuss ***
Why is it so, are you doing it to vex?
Is it not innate part of being normal persons,
How come we relay much on irate reasons?
Maybe those frigid have overlooked,
Even animals do it not just for hooked.
Have to resolve all our life's contentions,
Explore the five senses for self expressions!
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC