"voyeurism" poems
Lets have rough ***
in the courtyard of our kingdom
while the peasants and jester watch.
"Is that the king?"
"Yes. Both of them,
**** Did he just hit h~?"
"Yup. That was a moan."
Pan flutes.
Lutes.
purple green and gold garb.
There's a bunch of knights training in archery
and somebody in a far corner of some ocean
plotting to ride their horses here and declare seige.
But right now
it's the first of may
and we're just throwing each other around on the grass
under the flag of our castle
that we founded on voyeurism and being good at what we do
Which today is rough ***
In the grass
Of a game of thrones set.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
I’ve got a lock and key, what you got? You got a door,
a shrapnel embedded cupboard
Curiously covered up that there is, do you want go out?
No I got a boyfriend, but I do have a few contraceptives
Or I could show you my funny parts and we could plateau on the platonic
Abstinence is on par with networking
Oh shipwrecks of relationships, your waters never looked safe, your shoreline so rocky,
but your sail, if you see what I’m saying. ******* that wind a high-inducing pitch of a stank
You took me to the foreign lands and never brought me back,
a souvenir got emailed. Which I have just picked up, it’s actually rather beautiful,
especially if we picked it out together
It is a bullet and that is rather cliché in the expectable in this sense of the world,
but the copper lining is exquisite, insert random bit about consumerism
Then spin a bit around voyeurism, then mention the outcome of the movies,
the moving bits. The back & forth where it all starts
But like I said, you want a contraceptive? Or maybe just a sock? How about a **** addiction?
This really isn’t a discussion we should be having,
I don’t like arguing about these things and I’m a transvestite and rather think they don’t apply
See the bit you said was babies and the bit I said was from the bible
Jesus and Black Moses, walking down the street
Preaching for the freaks
Then the bit you said was more like, I don’t know what I’m saying, I mumble and moan
And think about *** and college and loans and the bit that really stuck out was
“Babies, they really just freak me out.”
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC
Addiction
No, not what you think, not needles, not bottles, not too much food or too little, not sleeping 18 hours or running until feet bleed, not *********** not voyeurism, not pole-dancing or jello shots or driving 150 mph down dark streets, not working to exhaustion, not bizarre rituals, not staring into bright lights or ******* on sweet treats until a migraine sets in, not pulling out fingernails or walking with pebbles in shoes, thinking any of this brings God to the door.
No, none of these excesses
But, life? Yes. Addicted to breathing, yes. Addicted to sweetness of morning-light, yes. Addicted to aroma of salt water, when the sun swings low and pelicans skim the curling waves in search of dinner, oh yes. And playing hide-n-go-seek with my three year old neighbor, yes. Addicted to not giving up on that African violet in the windowsill, despite its crispy appearance, to watching my child shimmy, yes and yes. To her well-being, her off-key singing, a resounding yes! To letting family be. To the solitude of a hot shower. Addicted to your righteousness, your swagger, the way dimming sunlight cups your body, I’ll admit it, yes. And anticipation of oysters still in their rough shells. And never, ever worrying about whether these are excesses or not because it’s in the elusiveness of the word (addiction, for example, or desire or want or tenacity), in the lone gesture, the moment before that door opens and the house empties of terror and fills with human breath that the balance is reset.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
how can we know where lovers go
or when they take the notion
to stop the flow and try to slow
the rhythm of the ocean.
we cannot seek to reach this peak
or lift above that sea,
we are too weak to mug the meak
of their sincerity.
we are alone, together and free.
and here's some stream of thought (that just so happens to rhyme, kinda)...
loopy arousal.
lofty appraisals.
disabled and taken for granted.
in the eyes of the dead,
instead of the usual red,
we decided on green
to dress the scene.
the sound man listened.
the light man leered.
the chef was cooked.
i'm hooked.
heaved on to me like voyeurism
and sought like publishers.
distasteful? yes.
useful. yes.
knowledgeable? sometimes.
lurid trysts and poltergeists
expounding.
multiplication escapes me.
pen and paper **** me.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
***** dai the dogger,
went searching thro the woods,
with hope of voyeurism,
or ********* if he could,
sound of heavy breathing,
saw shadows through the trees,
a man was standing up,
woman on her knees.
they noticed dai was watching,
a dogger with a bone,
would you like to join us,
if we take you home?
*** show and a *********
***** dai's delight,
they led him to a carpark,
in darkness of the night,
we don't live very far,
our house is near caerphilly,
lady did'nt say much,
her partners name was billy.
snuggled up in bed,
dai's pants off,
so was billy's,
then dai shot through the window.....
cos both of them had willy's.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:40 AM UTC
looking out bus windows
you can't tell if someones
screaming or yawning;
laughing or crying.
flipping through channels on mute.
a goldfish
peering out his bowl.
every three seconds
staring at a new world.
unless you spot
some natural wonder:
a mountain or the ocean.
in that case
none of this applies.
you get to know well
the geometry of the snow cap,
the rhythm of the tide.
the same goes for those
with whom you share the bus.
in which case
clothes and moles and ****** hairs
can become all too familiar.
but looking out bus windows
at people's
what this is all about.
speed voyeurism.
where a yawn and a scream
look just the same
and either mean
just as little
as you
as you
move on to
the next person
walking along
or standing in a doorway
or sitting on steps
or carrying something
and maybe laughing
or maybe crying
and either mean
just as little
as you
as you
move on.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 7:39 PM UTC
houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
In your Sillouette,
Painted Gold, against Magic Curtain.
This Oz Stage, Hiding our bodies.
I am lingering.
You are gilded beautiful
Bare ******* pointed at Chandeliers
****** Capstones sealing perfect Arches
I am a foot protruding from your sculpture
In mustard.
I am that blot behind your Hip Bone
Cold Draft from the window
Opened Opposite the Magic curtain
A breath of ocean waves
Our bodies casting illusions
In ripples of Moonlit fabric
Dancing around our sillouette.
Black Moss collects in the shape of your tattoos
Silk screen thighs,
Underbust Corset
where the breeze whispered
where my fingertips wrapped your hipbones.
growing where we Calloused
In our Roughs
In our trenches
Rubbing Leather against Silk
You invested in our common interest.
A mirror, Fastened to the Ceiling.
Reflecting Our Two Loudest Vices.
Ownership,
And your body.
I love the Chips in your paint.
I hate the man who painted you.
infected by Tunnel vision Voyeurism
Sick with a Spiderweb brain
Spinning from your imperfections.
You are so, perfect.
Artists come from all over
To watch the magic curtain.
Your Golden arching Back.
My Mustard Toes.
we all look at you,
even you look at you.
we do not Blink.
Just stare, position ourselves.
behind this curtain.
Our callouses grow like the black moss
bodies marble under ocean pressure
erode from the chill winds
Your archaic exhibitionism
Carved From Counting Gazes
Mustard eternally pondering
why our sillouettes, different colors
Drawn by the same moon,
Casted on the same cloth.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
for your majick to paint into thin air
from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
expecting
a fantastic creation
with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
dissolving
almost as quickly
as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
kept it just long enough to smudge,
a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are *****
the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.
How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
It ain't locked.
I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
and a lot of hate built up inside that you
refuse to acknowledge,
try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
Facing a mirror,
Worshipping and damning
at the same time
That's when it boils over.
***** **** dog, frothing at the mouth...
Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
but there's no one at the bar.
Only a witch's cruel mirror
and all it says is...
"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"
So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
to your face
that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
even as I know you're watching me right now,
with all your wasted mental projections,
charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
and as I sit here,
naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
of disappointed voyeurism
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
The internet, social networking, you, reading this, now.
It’s all about surface value, the judgment of likes and dislikes. It’s all about interests,
"Oh, you like this band?
this movie,
this painting,
this author,
this show,
this piece of ****
"Oh, you’re so cool, you’re such an awesome person", obviously.
You will never know me, never know who I am, and with the way this world has shifted,
with the acceptance of this voyeurism of superficial attractions, I’m afraid neither will I.
You’ll rarely know when I’m genuine or when I’m plagiarizing, original or manufactured, real or phony.
But that’s alright, it keeps a distance, it keeps things calm, and safe, and clean.
That’s all we really want. A facade, a dream, the image of our desires, not the manifestation.
We want cold, hard, unbreakable, shiny plastic perfection.
No one wants the warm, moist, moving, ever changing mess that is life, and love, and humanity.
So stay at your computer, stay inside your factory, keep typing instead of talking,
keep pushing instead of feeling, keep staring instead of looking.
It’s okay, it’s alright, it’s now.
circa 2009
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
There’s a rumbling a-coming
And yet I build my dreams from glass;
I hope you’ll peer through to find my face
Through the fancy, frosted, crystalline patterns.
You blew sparks into me that became novas;
Now they fuel my beaming eyes in the melt.
Watch as sands of time are blown into fragile fantasies
And yesterday’s memories twist their colors
Into improbable dragons and stars of tomorrows.
Glimpse me through my new frail fortress.
Keep watch as I hang tiny galaxies in the rafters.
These walls are your windows.
Use them well,
For the rumbling’s a-coming,
And I might need a savior
Who knows my dreaming face.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
.
*A beautiful sunset
embraced a naked sky
in sensual reflections
as a blushing twilight waited
quietly in the shadows hoping
the moon didn’t see*
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.
Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.
Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.
The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,
(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).
Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.
His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.
He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.
Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 4:36 PM UTC
You and I have become a house on fire, a thousand hoses cannot douse us
we just spark up again, like a Phenoix of desire.
Rubbernecks scoff and say we will go out any second
yet we're still burning, and we will glow white hot
long after all the scoffers go find another house to stare at.
Their voyeurism only feeds our carnal flame. I suppose that we should thank them.
Our flamethrower love cannot be snuffed, slingstones and swords will never be enough
to tear down this house, even our own heat will not destroy it.
Our love is made of the toughest materials.
So we will dance in the bonfire that cannot burn us,
their hoses cannot douse us.
All the hoses fire fluff, that evaporates without ever dimming our light.
This Inferno of ours, is composed of coloured myriads
of lust and passion,
always blended with equal parts love and tenderness.
Because tenderness, it tempers us
it turns our lust to loveliness,
nothing is as perfect as us, standing in our pyre
when we realize we are not the ones being burned.
It's our passion that radiates, our love will never hurt us.
Our bodies aflame, they can't take their eyes off of us.
I can't say I blame them,
for I cannot take my eyes away from you either.
So lets stoke the heat between us, and we will stay together,
living inside the fire of our passion, free forever.
A Burns 2012
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Masks seem to superimpose upon a vast anonymity,
faces beneath become slack...forego face-hood.
A strange empowerment surges, these masks cannot
be undone...haunting an already haunted landscape
whilst peeping through eye-holes.
A certain voyeurism of inner terror playfully diffused
where it may.
The head feels bagged, sold and carried around--one
feels decentralized...combed over by a losing of gravity.
A sparse connectivity runs the body deliciously, as if
the consequences of the material world were scared away.
The interplay of what's dead in such a living, gives masks
a life of their own.
All Hallow's Eve all day long...till what collective ghost be
given up to its night.
To wander a night that's pitched itself forever more--
punctuated by Jack o' lanterns that grin and bear...what's
at the tip of their flame's tongue.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
The Mecca is the trifecta of the vertex of the epicenter of the apex
But we just use that as a reference point
We refused to be swayed by centripetal force
And peeled back the layers of the mind to find the inertia that had given us the centrifugal force to push us in our quest to find the ultimate reality
I saw a vandal giving in to voyeurism
When a watershed moment happened
He had a sudden premonition
There were nervous virgins about to take the plunge
There were people giving hi 5's to each other and making pinky promises they swore to keep
There were poor soul's trying to quit cold turkey
Eating molten ****** cakes
I looked to the East and visions came to me as well
I saw kids having fever dreams of pitching fits and fever pitches
I saw liberated lesbian librarians eating their feelings and playing
**** one, **** one, marry one"
I saw the extinction of guilty pleasures
I saw a man being caught up in getting up to speed with
I trifling teenagers
Low on money but high off drugs
I saw myself checking in to check up on the check out line to pick out and pick up a new catcher's mitt
I caught a case
A call
And a cold
I saw the love of my life running towards me on a soft white beach
As she came closer I could see her beginning to decay
Her skin melted
Her organs and blood fell from her
Her eyes and teeth dropped out of her head
Her hair fell out
And her skeleton came into my arms and I heard a whisper
"I will always be with you, my uncrowned king"
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
I think
I've forgotten
What pleasure is.
Like the other day
I thought
"I should act
like a child today.
Child Brian had
much more joy
and fun-love."
But then I realized
I couldn't be
Child Brian, anymore,
Because I didn't have
any toys to play with.
Just the toys of today
My laptop -- for voyeurism and empty dreaming
Results unqualified and
Pictures painting pain.
My bottles and pipes -- for inflating my emptiness
A temporary filling feeling
That fleets and leaves me.
Waking up the next day
And wondering when
Why? What the hell does today mean?
But, pleasure, from the things I love
Is pretty much lost on me,
When I've stumbled upon the old cliche
"I've lost interest in the things that once brought me joy."
Maybe it's a lack of credit where "credits" due
Or maybe it's no longer have "friends" to run to
Or, could it be, because I'm actually attempting
Responsibility, that then bleeds me of anything.
The former coping mechanisms that once empowered me.
Fuck. Me.
This poem is no good
And my word is dirt
I've submitted to sadness
And laid with hurt.
Every old strategy has expired
And I'm forced to think twice
Do I fight through and try to
go with my new way, or
continue on in these cycles
of suffering and temporary euphoria?
Fuck. It.
It matters not
Because the one
purpose of this was
My reason to swear:
Today is the last day I wake up and accept my depression
… so there.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
we're still only expanding
on the scenario of
encountering internet chat rooms,
social media is just
a complication of chat rooms,
i.e. you have to show yourself
and relate to people
inhibiting the same kind of voyeurism
you wish to state by
an exhibitionism, although fully
attired, and completely stealth,
and all the many conceivable paradoxes
creating an intelligence of some sort...
but social media is still an advanced
version of hot-mail chat-rooms,
while modern novelists are too
attached to flimsy paper encodings
rather than attached to the pixels of pages
that want change but by wanting change
simply yawn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Almost feels like voyeurism
as I
undetected by you side
watch
as you sleep...
always a hares breath
from waking
you
just so I may kiss
once more
those perfect lips
tasting upon them my name
murmured softly
as you snuggle deeper
into the gentle depths of your pillow
that so cradles those
perfect features I long
to take in my hands
gazing deeply into your eyes
hoping to see myself
reflected there
always a part of you
never apart from you
my dream sweetly dreaming.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
the right kind of voyeurism: watching fields between two secret lovers burn in public conversation
always scorched with the threat of renewed fertility
always racked by a chilling lonely wind that gently brushes back the hair the manifest intimacy of a crafty doppelganger: in these spaces we live in constant mortal peril of discovery by an other or a spore
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
A new Tunisian poetic genre is born.
What is a "Kasserine"?
Structure:
A Kasserine is a new poetic genre created on July 9, 2017. In it all is condensed in two lines with a sum total of thirteen or fourteen syllables. Its first line cannot exceed seven of them.
The title of a Kasserine must be an integral part of the poem in terms of interpretation. The number of its syllables must not exceed seven.
Subject matter:
In a Kasserine nature and imagination perform the same poetic activity. Nature ceases to be a mere mirror reflecting the feelings of the poet, the political or social situation, etc., and becomes symbolic in the very moment it renounces representation as a one-to-one correspondence . Nature in a Kasserine has no existence prior to the pricking into action of the imagination by the self of the poet. For, even though it is groundless (it does not belong to the self), the imagination has no intentionality of its own; this is why it needs the intentionality of the subject in order to be operative.
Samples of a Kasserine
Ruby Sun
Among amethyst silk clouds
She flirts with the sapphire sea
(c) Paula Swenson, USA
Tunisia
A fair island of light
in my imagination
(c) Jeffard Ster, USA
Red Giant
A star inside her implodes
Heavens of chaos unfold
(c) Stefan David Sederscog, Sweden
Voyeurism
The sea kisses the sky
Imagination beholds.
© LazharBouazzi, Tunisia
Note: Friends and acquaintances are cordially invited to start writing sublime (marked by repression of meaning) Kasserines.
(c)Lazhar Bouazzi, 9 July, 2017.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC