"voyeuristic" poems
Copulation of the minds...
as word play
leads innuendos to fornicate
upon the poets tongue...
unrestrained
his fingers give voice to wanton
carnal desires
laying the reader bare
to writhe
helplessly beneath his hands
with ink stained kisses
he forces
words into their mouths
a breathless sigh
resonating his ache to be heard
as he stands naked before them
offering himself
to their voyeuristic gaze
before taking them upon the sheets
in punctuated passionate
embraces
leading them toward the ******
they so
cried out for...
Jesus I'm Good.
~<3~
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Xeroxed vitals on paperplanes
Crashing into window panes
Broken-heart blisters and voyeuristic veins
Appear and create transparent glass stains
Blue-Green grass on the other side
Laying there, our fathers died
Dreams and streams of alcohol
Run from their mouths with no control.
Shaking, breaking, no where to decompose
Skin peeling off of worn down toes.
Tell me where their love goes
Tell me where their love goes
Everything turned into gun-shy eyes
Blue-lipped Sunday surprise
Bodies breaking into waiting
This is nothing but carbon dating
Bottles breaking of ***** that's so clear
That I won't see until they're near
God and Jesus in picture frames
Suburban families with jungle brains
Broken homes and replacement Brad's
401 k's and missing ads
Finding our homes that aren't so black and white
Let us sleep in our dreams tonight
Validation through our existence
Is dead but still our resistance
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
1.
Inhaling poison like it’s a sweet spring breeze,
an antidote to the pounding heart and aching stomach empty of comfort or substance
Meeting with pavement in a tiger’s crouch
fingers float toward parted lips
awaiting the taste of relief in the form of smouldering leaves.
2.
One tentative epidermis approaches another
tendons and ligaments straining, aching for contact
attempting nonchalance in the lamplight privacy of early morning,
cocking ears to detect voyeuristic insomniacs
who would disturb the disorderly expressions of early experimentation.
3.
White lady dusting the concrete path, sterile and unconfined
laid new before careful feet making their way to shiny metal boxes
bundled in seasonal expectations they trudge through stardust
on their way to blood borne obligations,
leaving behind careless tracks in ****** flesh
4.
Blazing sun presses down on shoulders hunched behind compact table tops
peddling penny prologues to unabashed strangers
bartering unwanted pocket change for rejected trinkets
haggling over half-dried finger paints and unfinished chess sets
rescuing garish afghans from dusty closeted life.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
He peeps through the looking glass of life.
Emotionally detached, a social recluse.
Avoid eye contact.
Avoid eye contact.
Don't dare look at me!
That's right you've seen him!
But.... Have you actually seen him?
Or is he just a figment of your imagination?
For he's the stalker.
Lurking about in the shadows.
Spying on you from afar through those holes in the wall.
A human CCTV system looking you up and down when you least expect it.
Recording your every move in the memory bank.
Voyeuristic tendencies with the inability to openly admit he's one step away from the psychiatric ward.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
I would kiss you
under cherry blossoms,
pink petals drifting down
like parachutes of desire
covering us with beauty.
I would kiss you
in the rain, drenched to
the bones not noticing
the fat raindrops
kissing us both back.
I would kiss you
in the wildest woods
surrounded by rustling leaves
beneath the jealous eyes
of voyeuristic birds.
But I have no idea
when I will kiss you
or where or even what
will happen when I do.
Still, in my imagination
it will be the right time,
the right place and
the right circumstance.
And it will be exactly
like kissing lightening.
~mce
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
At night we were a fresco
painted by an astronaut, our
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, ***** spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Need some binoculars for you to see?
Please it's not cause you're blind to me
Jeez it's just cause it's far as **** away from this tree
I'm no peeping tom, voyeuristic sightsee
Looks like you're sleeping, boy you're quite the catch
wait I mean girl, actually honestly I have no idea ***** snack
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
She ran from me
in her voyeuristic
tendencies.
Bespectacled in the night,
she shed away her divinity
this girl with a penchant for tragedy.
A dramatic prelude to her kiss
would be the fixations of the poet
to her eyes and lips and skin.
Those which he can only recall
in music--
the slow andante of violin strings
entangled in the coasts
of her body.
Come morning you wake
to the tune of silence.
You could never tell her
those three words she longed to hear.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
(in life)
who am i to warm a cave of darkness with my lust?
or assume your darkness mine to dissipate?
as if a sacred candle burned behind the windows of my heart
and ****** its light through tip of flame beyond
,above the piercing point to spark our confirmation in a universal eye
invisible, but seen as heat you flail about
and cause to quake the melting, sliding crust i am
you have wandered by to rupture me from my serene espy.
to quarrel with mycenterself i turned into myself i am a fool,
how can a taint intention claim essential gravity to good?
encumbered with a blinding zeal
i almost rage amid to satisfy
irrupt, and only drape with words i barely see defined
to justify the greed
in unknown passions gathered out to sun,
eyes aglint of golden maxims worn
by public distorts, magisters of lies
spilling over paths..the voyeuristic farce of virtuosity and virtue mating there
commodities of ****** pride and shame
that cater to ambition's lurid lure:
massively conjoined our worlds, aswirl
transform the pulsar-vortex at the base of me
from threaten-fount to million-twiching node
it sears the face from all our superficial doubts,
gluts us writhing mercy in oblivion.
...transparency collects an inner soot
as we devour red-tip wicks in wax we puddle with our sport--
the outer glass respires steam into the winter nights
--hot against the skin
in flesh embarking in that window *** at last,
we smudge our bodies over every icy pane
--entwined, concupiscent flames
to blacken out the world we claim as only there for us
.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
A voyeuristic view through the windows of happy friends
is not nourishment enough for this poet's heart
and does not sate this dreamer's hungry soul
before this spirit journeys on
i'd like to know what it is like
to be loved from the inside out
those delicate strings,
that haunting duet,
of love not bound by fear
i'd like to know love
from the inside out
and not from the outside in
that stuff of dreams,
(yet real i've seen)
that one true union of souls
it's honeyed nectar taste
would be sweet upon my lips
and those delicate strings,
tender music to my soul.
oh muse, you take me too far
i must leave off
before i break this tender heart
and having been turned inside out
i fly completely
apart
--bruised orange
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 7:35 AM UTC
In our voyeuristic ambivalence
In our savage pacifism
With bureaucratic diarrhea
We **** on Lady Liberty
And wipe our *****
With the Constitution
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
She's seen everywhere
flashing her underwear
to voyeuristic
passers
by
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
She, betrayed, in histrionic flow,
Heart akimbo, flailing at the sky,
Fired with voyeuristic need-to-know,
Rages at the outing of a lie.
He, defensive, understanding, sure,
Accommodates the outburst in his stride.
Lassoes her with a practiced sinecure;
Instinctive gesture, expertly applied.
She, bewildered, aimless and morose –
(He, distracted by the barmaid’s hips) –
Casts aside the guilt-effacing rose;
Repealed devotion scrawled upon her lips.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
the city's moon
fixated in its peoples tics and behaviour
crass and mentally fractured
traction acts
the loony satellite makes sway for rude construction
padding our ego psychology
nothing simple allowed
we are all a manic reference of each other
the city weather is steered
by currents of gossip
withhold your info
culture clutches
misguiding alliances
treasure your details
it is your only insurance
this city
it's a view to thrill
but it odors me til ill
****** privacy and get undressed
too much time here harbouring thirst
quibbling hurt feelings
signals ; Life Emitting Distress
so
lock up the night city stars
mar-glaring bulbs of pity-me
staring about for vagrancy
i flip up my hood
lucent pandery eyes span the communal routes
search us out merchandise and mood
i turn down an alleyway
and am confronted
a vain and voyeuristic fan tail
varieties cocktail of sales and entertainment
ad lights send out sonar 'pings'
wing-ed ; fencing judgement
i wear pricy contacts to veil my retinas
and my hood is lined with aluminium
i cough and concentrate on breath
commemorate each step undertaken
weaponize my walk
eyes low
my being is voided into guise
heading further from the city centre
i can straighten from my defensive pose
in amongst the dwellings
the urban effect dwindles
kindled instead by the dosey soup wash of streetlights
delights; the holy crop of them
webbing outward retching past our boundaries
shored back upon natures breath
(so i imagine)
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 9:03 PM UTC
I want to
Kiss you
...in the morning
...after bringing you coffee
...with loud laughter
...and uncontrollable smiles
I want to
Kiss you
...in the sunlight
...with waves crashing at our ankles
...or amidst the clouds on mountaintops
...sharing adventure
I want to
Kiss you
...surrounded by trees
...to the delight of the wild
...and the serennade of birds chirping
...with excitement
I want to
Kiss you
...in crowds of people
...with raindrops falling on our heads
...to the musical harmony of life
...and feel your heartbeat
I want to
Kiss you
...alone, beneath the stars
...caressed by the moolight
...filled with passion
...giving voyeuristic opportunity to the nocturnal
I want to Kiss you when you least expect it
And perfectly timed for when you need it most
I want to
Kiss you
Goodnight
Every Night
Simply
And
Softly
For all time
And
Forever
Then again
The next morning
I want to
Kiss you
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
amid pentagrams
satelliting my mind
an outward location
of an ostentation
that lids a voyeuristic eye
to Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar
waiting anxiously for them
to move, perform an ******
panache of evocative art
but they are congealed
in a stalactite shiver
that lacks transmitted urgency
but contact with these
enigmatic digits causes
a correspondingly delayed
then urgently convulsive frenzy
that somewhere in time
bring frictional contact
with a canvas or a ceiling
Da Vinci’ fingers in a jar
an outward location
of unclasped curiosity
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
There is a longing,
a deep-seated human instinct
that pushes us in to meet
strange people.
Strangely,
technology
has turned me
into a peeper,
legally voyeuristic
with strangers
I have never visited.
I have the delusion
of a connection
because of some
social media intrusion;
Which means
I don’t have to
have a friend
introduce me to them.
I can just chat them up
or watch them
from a cyber distance
with a binary connection
of ones and zeros.
So, this human need
to interact and meet
strangers who are
similar and unique
is satisfied
without any risk
of rejection.
But this is an illusion,
despite my intrusion
I do not know them,
and as this
tacky techiness
evolves
we will
stay secluded in
our sic soft shadows
without actually connecting…
to….to…
User----Offline.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
I'm just exploring the possibilty of
giving something more of me.
A little bit of naughtiness,
so rich, but rarely seen.
A darker side.
*My wild
devil
she.*
SO
if,
upon her
RED lettered
voyeuristic discovery
therell be gasping punctuation
(it's written, mostly, on bended knees)
& s p r e a d i n g the words out
on naked sheets ~ it's all for the tempted ~ eyes to see
<3
Should you wish to
Would you wish (too)
Could you?
;)
Come With Me
***
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
fear holds you captive, immured in darkness
rejection pokes at your timid soul
neglect watches with voyeuristic pleasure
and your torture continues until...
hope finds you
happiness arrives with salvation
and love embraces you with a warming light
they are here, to keep your torment at bay
Jan 17, 2023
Jan 17, 2023 at 4:45 PM UTC
Insecurities are usually masked by specific external characteristics.
Looking back, I can visualise dead wasps as they floated in water-filled jam jars on the foundations of the Campsie Fells.
Please, will you save all your kisses for me amidst this mass observation of our voyeuristic society?
I give thanks for the blood that pumps through your veins. Can I explore your labyrinth within these flittering and electric shadows of death?
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Reclining on the garden bench,
leaning on my shoulder,
your eyes intently watch
something, I notice, though,
in my book,I am engrossed.
Taking eyes off the page,
I scan the the fecund garden,
abuzz with bees, chirping birds,
all kinds of hums and songs of life,
spring brings,
and then, my eyes catch
that scene:your object of intense interest,
Two mating birds, in their frenzy of love;
two love struck mandarin ducks, very colorful.
It's in this season they find, their pair,
and give themselves to shameless lust,
gentle tune of their bodies turning,
intense, scorching their *****
You withdraw, feeling shy
on your voyeuristic streak,
which i found out, inadvertently,
*but your eyes, cryptically,
make inquiries to me,
"Interested?" I whisper"Of course'
that sounds like an evil hiss*
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
I wish I could stop shaking.
And as I sit here, curled around myself,
holding myself together,
I wish someone was here.
Anyone.
Well, maybe not just anyone.
There is a certain someone that tends to
creep into my thoughts at this hour of the night.
But not in a voyeuristic way.
I just want him to hold me.
Just to hold me,
to sit with me.
To feel the pressure of another,
holding me,
wanting me,
valuing my fragile humanity,
keeping me warm,
holding me together.
To stop the frantic nature of my pounding pulse,
that I feel though out my entire body.
Not to make it stop.
I do not want to die this young.
Just to make it slow,
so even the smallest motions,
do not feel as though
I am getting ready to run a marathon.
One time you did hold me,
and I hadn't been held in such a long time.
I was almost desperate, so desperate,
for the human touch,
and you obliged.
I am not ashamed to admit
that just like everyone else in this world,
just like any other human.
That I have wants.
That I have needs.
And right now,
holding myself together,
under the weight of the pressures of my own mind
and the world around me.
If I had a wish
that could be granted right now,
I would wish that you would be here.
With me.
Yes.
Being held,
just for a while,
would indeed,
be nice.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Showering, peeping through the curtain
Waiting for ghosts in striped camp clothing
Waiting for gas
Terror
Back to reality
Me in the rose tiled tub
Music playing
Hot water
Driving, staring at tall trees in the forest
Waiting for smoke to billow above
Waiting for the smell
Eerie
Reality
Three children strapped in
Husband holding leather covered steering wheel
Air Conditioning
This isn't my chosen voyeuristic retreat
Drenched in the ease of today
Still seeing what lurks in the shadows
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 9:18 AM UTC