"wetly" poems
Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.
As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasureable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.
32.1k
she despised the word.
d e p r e s s i o n.
it was so heavy
like the disorder itself.
they both wetly clung to her
thin frame
wrapping around her
suffocating her
completely.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
While in the pool
Your foot rested on top of mine
And suddenly you were all the things
I had loved you for
Again
And here we were in this house
Where we had spent the best part of our time together
Breathing wetly inside our cocoon together
Here we were
You're being funny again
And you're looking at me again
I know you so well
But I never got tired of you
Even when I hated you
You're looking at me
And I know exactly what you mean
I miss loving you too
We get back inside the house
And you go upstairs and wake up
Your boyfriend
And you loudly ****
And I feel like a worm inside someone's shoe
Again
I'm more bothered that I'm bothered
That there's nothing new to bother me
That maybe I'll never stop being bothered by you
But it's nice and terrible to see you
And I'm glad everything between us is fine on the surface
But underneath it
Your foot's still touching mine
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
There goes Lady Fate,
donned in solar sparks
and her lace corset
whose overt promiscuity
catches the attention of
one unsuspecting astronaut–
his helm fogs as he exhales,
his breath crude and lascivious.
Even Neptune’s eyes themselves
glitter wetly with passion
as she struts towards Polaris in
her pinprick stilettos.
She adjusts her stance accordingly:
I. Purse lips into a smoulder
(might as well look
pretty while ya get the job done.)
II. Aim for the desired target
(that there’s the bull’s eye.)
III. Wreak havoc
just as any Fate is meant to do.
(But, of course.)
She picks up her staff and fires.
The universe tremors
in an unbridled spiral
of colour and chaos
as the planets
d a r t
about like billiards, * * *
colliding/|\with/|\ the/|\ stars
who, in the midst of the madness,
d i v e r g e and c* r* o* s s
for fear of being vanquished.
A cluster of mismatched constellations
and forsaken cosmic particles
settle into a state of
mutual negligence and destruction.
And, together, they liquefy into
a festering pool of molten silver.
Lady Fate grins–
yes, she has the stars right
where she wants them now–
and, in a final act of defiance,
she strikes against the earth
and watches with satisfaction as
it hurtles towards the silver
and sinks down into the molten
like an eight ball.
(And everyone knows it’s
Game Over
once you’ve sunk the eight ball).
From where she stands–
bent over Polaris
in seductive pretentiousness —
she relishes
in the screams
of some wretched lover–
the first to ever be
betrayed by the stars.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
He stirs, slowly...
watching the spoon,
break the fog,
settling over his morning cup...
opalescent eyes,
scanning the sleepy blue,
of daytime horizons.
Porcelain fingers, shift
into hard, ceramic claws;
first smoothing up,
snuggly cotton pantlegs,
and then running them down,
forcing his navied thighs, to separate.
The fork, in the road,
as I crawl in, between them,
headlights, and a glossy smile,
on full beam.
He jerks, with surprise
at the unexpected motion,
lips, arrested in a subtle purse--
a pinched pink,
pouted gently, outwards
to blow away the steam
gathering, around tense fingers.
I mimic the tension,
with my own, slaking lips.
Hands shift,
to cup him,
and slide, upwards.
Suddenly, he needs two,
to grip the mug.
My tongue, slicks out,
wetly,
to follow his ascent,
as he stands, upright;
neapolitan soldier,
with the suede skin.
The heat,
gathers,
in my palms
flushing his thighs,
and it circulates, warmly
against flickering flesh;
mouth, moving limberly
to drink him,
under the table.
My feral eyes,
fix his drunken ones,
as we both take each other,
in.
"I hope you saved some cream, for me?
Good morning, honey."
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC
"Please." I meant to say it assertively, but it came out meek and quiet.
Please love me, please want me, please don't leave me, please I need you.
Closing my eyes, I tightened my hold on him and tilted my heavy head to his broad chest. A hot tear bubbled over my eye, rolling wetly down my cheek.
Please go, please leave me alone, please I can't help myself, please I'm too weak.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
And so resounds the echo...
Sewn against your shadow,
handstitched destiny edges,
unraveled in the fire,
pulses rage
in heart-paced whispers,
collision of midnight panther
pelts, bleed into powder silk,
ravage the gentle merge,
your touch upon my awakening
sway me softly in your gaze
taste me with eyes that pierce
my soul from wingtips of butterflies
cast from the fire of your existence.
Unfold the unspoken words
dripping in the creases of this
throbbing...needing...wanting
heartbeat-slip-stitch,
suture seal the ache
of gossamer flesh
pressed against raven,
twin glances,
the bookmark,
fingertips
tracing the eyeprints
of your words upon me.
...so resounds the echo...
As echo wrecks the body
in a fever of words, purged
from the ****** night,
that devours_and devours_your lips,
my hands' gentle cradle, spread
its roots dark these russet
threads the gold, swept
wetly over hands, like nerves,
quickening and so laden
with tremors, these words echo echo
Slip knot tongues intertwine,
tangled tasting breathes, exhaled
in slow moans surging, purging
that drink_and crave_and need
m o r e
beneath hands that unleash
the fervor, lips pressed through
the flames, as gossamer falls
upon panther silk,
an exigent trespass,
beyond the touch
beyond the kiss,
educe the quake and the quiver
within this rapture.
...so resounds the echo echo...
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
It comes suddenly
a storm that rages to fury
bleeding me between your hands,
your mouth,
to where each syllable lost
between midnight’s satin
crests into a crazed madness
where the soft slide hardens
to gripping intentions as my arousal
tastes in jasmine-licked surrenders
like manna
for your hungered heaven
there, where no scream
goes unanswered but only echoed,
you are with me
primal
seared,
the flesh of you wetly hot
to my thundering pulse,
I am surrender laced
with impetuous desires
woven to linger upon your reddened lips
pressed *******
scrape across your flesh
as you moan in greedy adoration
to my whispered frenzy,
“taste me here,
let me feed you
there”
the suckle of your hot mouth
plastered to my ******* fills me
and I am burgeoning
upon graven yearns
here,
I ache in throbbing flames
as your tongue lathes
love’s lick playing tag
to my purr of silken gasps
and breathy mewling cries
in your ears
stating my submission of this
plunging dominance….
I burn…burn
…to inferno
Smiles wreathe pearl
as you revel in my passionate blossom,
your lick peels me wanton
where we are
pooled
shameless and painted,
my torrents are spilled for you
stained and swallowed
greedily
and I,
quivering in the tsunami
that you bequeath to my racking body,
I arch,
reaching that shattering golden gateway
singing joyous to the columns of fate’s
raging wave
Unleashed,
I am
the tide
Where you are damply hollow
and drowning...
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold
raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light
has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I
peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe
dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full
a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense
numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws
for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb
through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell
grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite
tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck
others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity
the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls
moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes
through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
I can just simply tell you how tired I am
but it's something that's been done before
over and over
so I will describe it.
arms are loose, hanging down in defeat at my sides, knuckles dragging against the ground, hair unwashed for yet another day because I just can't get myself to stand and walk into the bathroom, much less turn on the shower, much less let myself stand under the droplets.
I'm screaming, eager to be normal, to stop feeling like this, but nothing changes, ever. muscles in my face pull, then I'm smiling, and they smile back, and it falls.
the pain in my chest grows sharp, both in pain and in realization; I'm dying.
I reach for a star, and it stings in return. I drag my hand away, muttering apologies, and cradle the wound against my ribs, swallowing back my words.
walking is hard, sleeping is hard, moving is hard, breathing is hard.
I'm not going to get any better.
I long for that shower, but I'll stay in the mud. I'll roll in it, until the dirt sticks under my nails, painting them mocha. I'll have grass for hair, beetles for eyes, and a worm for a thin smile. I can't wash this away anymore.
I'm but a drumset playing in an empty room, falling out of tune, angrily bashing myself in until I'm nothing at all but unrecognizable pieces, floating away with a whisper.
I take a drag of the world, it corrodes my lungs, and yet I dare not cry out in pain, there's no room for that right now, I have to exhale.
but with the breath comes my guts, pooling out and piling onto the ground, wetly smacking against one another like slabs of meat, wriggling like snakes, hissing as if it were a spark doused in water.
I'm being emptied out, to make room for something else, perhaps the hit will create a new little ecosystem, maybe they'll create serotonin enough to fill me.
I'll rot, and the maggots will dance across my flesh, digging until they find something worthy to feast upon, spreading the flesh with their want, I'll be a part of something that lets creatures live, and then I'll one day become something worth loving, saving, caring for.
but for now, I'm nothing but a sensitive overdramatic piece of complete **** sitting alone in their room with music no one gives a **** about on repeat, praying to the Gods and Goddesses their girlfriend calls them so they don't **** up their arm again. but there's no ringing, just the drum alone in the white room.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 8:28 PM UTC
hard-candy crunches between
chattering teeth--warm blue
drool pools down wet chin. wet skin
reeks of chlorine, and swimsuit
sticks to piggy thighs
and pancake chest. eyes
are everywhere: eyes to stare
and judge and mock
and compare. it’s unfair
how these other girls eat
chips and pizza yet
their bodies are set to be
nubile marble demigoddesses
living off six pomegranate seeds.
i am teenage Taweret.
the unforgiving spandex drips
upon the floor, as if i had peed. quick!
get a towel, you’re ruining the parquet!
leg bones, feet bones hit the floor,
followed by white waves of flesh, always late,
rebounding wetly. bones and fat.
soggy pig bones.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
A pull or a falling feeling
At the heart
Head fuzzy, blood drawn below
The touch of another, so new, so full in its sensation,
Dispelling the separation of the world
fueling the engine of desire.
Entering, she holds me wetly and warmly.
Encouraging, finding sounds
to exchange love and lust and awkward sentences.
No, yes
What am I saying.
Discovering, touching, thirsting,
Release, collapse, silence, holding
A new beginning.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Prompt: Write about a recurring dream.
…………
*They say it’s nice to drown,
peaceful to drown,
swallow your tongue,
shut yourself up like a pearl in a clam,
let it rush into every hole in your face -*
I plough like a cosmonaut losing memories
Surrounded by diaphanous tremblings,
Surfacing every three moons or so
To set my eyes on the prize of a particular liner,
To swipe wetly upwards
At the sky and her yellow jewellery.
I’m not surprised by the cold,
I welcome the white frail blaze of it -
Let me break the surface with a
Frothy lace collar
and then
Rain on me,
Pelt me,
‘Til we all become one another,
And I will feel it like a tremulous applause of tiny fists,
Knocking on the sand ten miles away.
I am shivering between shoals,
Joyfully sailing with silver starlings,
(How have I come to it so late -
This joy of flying?)
The water is at times a tortured mask
That I wear like a shifting grey veil,
I wrap my thighs around it’s efforts,
And we churn our legs like a billion dying insects.
(The green will reach out and mouth you,
But the splinters will not stick.)
Colours:
Bleached,
Frigid grey,
Dark wholesome,
Bible black,
My lips part for the waves blowing back -
And my body has no blood,
No organs,
Hollow but for the colours of the gloom.
I am a drifting column,
An angel of sand
knobbled stars **** at my head -
(So this is it -
This is what it is to be dead.)
I will meet you here
in this fantasy of glass,
We won’t even speak,
And we never needed words anyhow,
We will just elegantly teeter on the very edge of dreams -
Floating together loose and unsinkable
Like two formless sheets of hooked reflections
That drape and move and are never lost.
And I could cry now just thinking of it,
I’m crying now just thinking of it,
I want us to live in a miracle,
Two spectres between the spectrum of the layers -
*I can’t be up there anymore,
I can’t be part of the sculptures….
and neither can you.*
Am I any closer?
How many leagues?
How many times do I have to visit?
How much closer can I get?
And when I wake up saved,
Will I wear this dream upon me...?
Will I stick to my blue sheets?
Will my hair be wet?
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Rain on me
In the cold clear Taranaki air,
waves of rain across the field, pelting down.
Saturating, pouring down my face, glasses fogged.
Every item of clothing on my body drenched and clinging.
The little red ride on mower spumes rooster tails of wet grass skyward
And I exult in the sheer brilliance of wetly getting this huge green swathe mown.
Marshalg
Laughing in the Taranaki rain
22 May 2011
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
(as transcribed from original ancient Muidic mud verses as received through tidal meditations, as some words are either untranslatable or can only be recorded in the sand, some rendering freedoms had to be taken)
MY FEET
MY ARMS
AND MY #SEAGULL PRINTS#
WE ARE ABOVE
THE WET VEIL
IN OUR REFLECTIONS RIPPLE OUR FOREFATHERS, THEIR FOREFATHERS AND THE FIRST MEUK
WE WALK AND OUR MOIST PRINTS FADE WETLY
WHEN OUR FEET SINK UNDER THE GLISTENING FILM
THE #DECAYING SEAWEED# GROWS BETWEEN
OUR TOES
BUT OUR SHOAL FOREVER PREVAILS
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_____________________
The original poem:
Share |
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 9:40 AM UTC
Jetting away to your far away home
I'm left with your fragrance and image alone,
To sit on the chair with a scotch in my hand
Miserably aware that I can't understand,
Why you left, why you cried,why you sped for the door
Leaving pungency there in the sheets on the floor.
The aching emptiness, hollow inside
The confusion and rawness of pain, I confide,
That I'm lost. Tomorrow is pointlessly there
When I wake up to find that your gone, in despair.
Just yesterday, we lay spent on the bed
Entwined and sated, unseemingly spread,
And now the ghost of passion's done
When then, we were so wetly one.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
26 October 2009
- From "Watching the Ripples Radiate."
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
I keep falling in love with ghosts
They flitter in and fade away
Three little spirits slipped wetly into my hands
****** and beautiful; we called each other family
The foundation cracked and poison filled the gaps
They used to laugh and call me daddy
Now…silence and estrangement
That name is reserved for another
Everything in my life was thrown into a heap
Misunderstanding and pain collided to spark the flame
I walk through this new reality, ash covering my feet
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
///
A wraith tall and handsome extended his hand in kindness
I reached with my entire being
Poured my heart into his chest
For a moment he washed me clean
We laid bodies entwined as poetry spilled from his lips
A summer zephyr under my wings
I was a phoenix
Balladry devolved to insult
He removes the dagger and ashes spill out
My brokenness is scattered everywhere
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
///
Splintered, scaly hands attempt to rebuild
A heavy mind sits in an empty room
Passing by houses filled with the ones I love
Never fingers to grace cheek again
I’ve become the stranger that can’t find a home
Saliva stretches as lips part
Lungs evacuate and heartbroken cries disappear into the sky
This hollowness haunts me like an apparition
Love…the ultimate curse
It’s previous forms have burned me to ash
Yes, bartender, I’ll have another
And another
.
.
.
I’m in love with ghosts
They flittered in and faded away
Aug 23, 2022
Aug 23, 2022 at 12:38 AM UTC
(PARODY, SATIRE & TRIBUTE)
From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_______
The original poem:
Share |
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
*The scent of you on my hand and lips
lingers in my dream and limps
through my every day,
I am consumed as I resume my dull way
through the heart of an indifferent
novocaine.
it was like mars had lips to speak of us....
last we met wetly and the Earth moved
from the hole I'd chosen to die in.
we were both of Us
tying to come about
from a dim luck... as we ******
at each other's rust
where our steel was frost and numb
but our towers gleamed young
and less ridiculous
than a close shave
in a black room
too beautiful
to refuse a sun
too small to be a star
and yet too huge
to be
removed.
II
It was a Wednesday
when our Tuesday asked
for Tomorrow
back.
We lacked the skill to atone
for our fumbling
but conjured our errant will.
you had smoke in your dark brown eyes
and I had both eyes
on your wanton thighs...
we clamored toward Utopia
clutching no heavenly thing
save our fire
in Ice.
III
Lately,you seem one with the gone swans.
and I know how they forage thru unforgivable
songs...
but the scent of you lingers on my fingertips
Like a long dawn.
A sunset, upset...
where the light keeps
every dark
gone,
and all the rest
inept*
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
in the part of the cool hill's soft thighs
trembles the callous shaft of dawn
penetrating the ephemeral violence
of the stabbing rods of arbor scent
damply the night mare goes galloping
whinny little sins of star caresses
but none are so shy and sly as the
eye clasped hollow in the stench
of (and also the slender flowers
smirk at the blossoms young
flesh broken by the light song)
Morpheus' guileless laughter
as shattered the disheveled clubs
swing ransoms of heart lips between
the twain of the enchanted leaves
there rests a silver bit of girl so
blisteringly beautiful blushes all
the world for holding this trembling
aperture of onyx plait holding femininity
so electric is the artifice of her glimmering
chastity, swore the sun it would never
shine on any other thing so savagely its
shivering skin of golden pleasure as this her
(but just so the moon loved her too
as passionate as any other lover ever imagined
or material. spitting delicate strands of shimmer
upon the golden-brown skein of her shoulders)
she woke startled by the amorous dome
crinkling on the perfection of her lithe
sensual frame. stupidly the ideal birds
sang, trying to match the elegance of
her narrow waist; but failed hideously
drowning the silence in virulent soundless
noise. then brimmed every god to the lip
of everything to peer upon this unbearable
visage and dither in the perfection of its curves.
suddenly the Rose blistered from the soil
and came wetly a residue of crimson from
its supple petals mounting the vision of her
absolute eyes. splaying the gentle hips of
sight to receive the splendor of its thorned
stem into her hand and ***** the silk
of her hands slowly releasing a jewel of life
all this witnessed by the cloistered huddles
of gossamer children. hideously perfect men
wantonly begging for the grace of her sensual
pond. beckon they, to them, her but she refuseth
and make for the realm of Hades. quietly, in
death, waiting for some heat to unfreeze the
skin of her blue heart frozen still darkness.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
Yet another in my "Barry Hodges" series
O what a beautiful city is baroque and unspoiled Vilnius,
A veritable rose in the greyness of Eastern Europe,
And a centre of fierce Lithuanian pride and nationalism
Where loathing of Russia comes as part of the national tapestry,
Woven into the heart and soul of each true descendant of Gediminas:
"Tik geras rusų yra miręs rusų!"[note 1] my Litvak lady love would cry out
In moments of extreme and poetic ******** excitement,
As she farted tunefully through purple quilted haemorrhoids.
O dearest delightful Vilnius, where my obsessive adoration
Of this rather plump but still juicy middle-aged lady
Went unrequited when she was sober, despite the perpetual onslaught
Of my tenderly whispered syllables of love and lust,
Even when my mispronounced tirade of affirmations of desire
Rose to a pointless crescendo, wasted on the midnight hour,
As she shrieked: "Lietuvių valytojoms yra geriausias pasaulyje!" [note 2],
In a desperate attempt to retain her composure post-climax.
O how can I ever forget her egregiously insatiable ****** appetite or
Her immense cantilevered ***** whose glorious silhouette
I can still recall in the silvery moonlight shining through
The toilet window, as I peeped at her through the keyhole,
Watching her wipe between her gorgeous silken arse-cheeks,
With an improvised corner of the unfurled bathroom curtain,
Mysteriously muttering "Jei nėra silkių nereikia valgyti!" [note 3]
As she reviewed the remains of half-digested Cepelinai [note 4]
O woe! All is now finished and dear overweight Valerija is lost to me,
Having fallen drunkenly down an open manhole on Pilies one evening,
And I am left alone to wetly kiss the cryptic letter she left for me,
Staring sadly at the tear-stained smudged ink of her illiterate scrawls.
Yea, mate, her last words of warning and patriotic exhultation were:
"Jei jūsų kūdikis turi imbiero plaukus, mesti jį į upę!" [note 5]
Followed by "Valio už Lietuvos Vermachto karo didvyrių!" [note 6]
And I think they were probably the sanest things she ever said.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
stoked lightening, does where your fur stroked unmeeting skin
a ribbon grow heating wetly (at fingers tightly coiling sin)?
does where from stocky steam ****** ***** effuse drunk blood,
a stagger of giggling ****** giddily unstoppably bud?
perhaps, or, does (i know) your unknowing skirt a mutter
a rill of sweetness (acrid) as like honey and butter?
A query, i think, your parting question answers.
At cherry pressing; at crimson lancer.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC