"wettest" poems
A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.
4.4k
At the tip of your tongue,
o' love, so much I can taste-
the taste of your love.
My dry lips that call,
those licks of words.
You come to my mouth,
as it's theme song!
_For as you are my darling companion,_
_shall I find myself in you,_
_as I rest under his strong embrace._
_My lover of his brightest eyes,_
_are like sun kisses to my face._
As gentle as the gazelles,
and all their delicate deer,
my love for you shall arise.
I will embrace the touch of
both our wettest skins.
Stuck close to the grips
of your sweetened lips.
Close to feel the gnashing of
perfect teeth.
_Come away from me-_
_my mightiest lover._
_Your touch for me is much._
_You are the glee to my heart,_
_held down by your love-_
_on this scented bed spread._
_By suchlike a touch so rough._
Your beautiful eyes of their worship,
as with a strong voice of prayer.
I shall plant within you,
of what more words show.
And shall we together,
be of one flesh, and
bone of bone.
To our spirits to connect
of their souls.
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
Pink Palace, I’ll protect from the white fish
Satisfaction is sometimes a slippery slope.
Pink Palace, the wettest and darkest cave
Never exposed to sunshine
Hopefully never exposed to unwanted prey.
Pink Palace, fingers, toys, members
No need to feel guilt, girl, for being human.
Pink Palace, no matter what they say
“Shield... security” or “Expose... enjoy”
It’s my choice what I do with you
My Pink Palace.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 11:12 PM UTC
standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions
and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime
it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 11:06 AM UTC
Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******** history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 4:01 PM UTC
I’ve got this massive ego
I need to deflate
Or else the only
time I’ll finish is when I **********
There’s apologies I have to make
But should they be heard
Should I write him or
send a bird
I might explode if I go unheard
But I should probably mind my business
So his baby mama won’t witness
The weakness we might share
What if the spark is still there
I’m not prepared, in fact I’m scared
His two beautiful daughters
don’t need to see that daddy still cares
Not just for their mama
But for someone whose not there
As far as I know
He’s unaware of how much I care
How sorry I’ve become
Don’t see myself being welcomed
Into his arms, into his home
****** up my chance
Now I wake up and feel alone
I want to atone
I pray she brings you misery
And you tire of her company
Like this fool broke his promise
Of matrimony..
I’m tired of being lonely
I’m tired of being late
So I lay awake
After I **********
I ask myself
Why did I wait?
Maybe I wasn’t ready
I think of him now
And I can’t keep my hand steady
Stare at the ceiling till my eyes grow heavy
The wettest of dreams
when I wake it isn’t as real as it seems
My heart sinks
It’s been so long.
Maybe it needed to go wrong
So I could write this sad song
Maybe I needed to get hurt
So I could see how much I treated you like dirt..
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Let it be known throughout the land
From highest peak to wettest sand
With sharpened tongue and steady hand
The talking frog is in command
With belly white and skin of lime
A hero for the modern time
He uppered fun and lowered crime
His skillset includes pantomime
Of all the kings he is the best
A chiseled jaw and manly chest
We even put him on our crest
(He helped to found the turnip fest)
A friendly frog we all adore
With lots of fun and games in store
He'll make us smile, he has before
We thank you, frog, for this and more!
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
what is a telescope
-a tyrannosaurus skeleton
-a reluctant birthright
what are *****
-a state line
-an obsolete receipt
what is a wave
-grandmother says: she will never forget as long as she lives
-a forest trail in thick fog
what is sea sick
-he ran over a dog
-wettest March of the century
what is an hour
-no smoking allowed
-the fuming face of a buffalo
what is sunburn
-inedible black toast
-I think she slanders me
what is wine
-overnight contact lens solution
-a humble canal
what is a mirror
(child | beluga)
~(ham):o + ¥ineapple
what is travel
-a last minute thing
-warmth within a windshield
what is revision
-a slow explode
-milk in coffee
what is antacid/calcium supplement
-a bottle cap
-handy clutter
what is a fist
-something to try eating when in circles
-flour, 1-to-20 eggs, some ennui, expiration dates
what is a sigh
-a fresh seismograph sheet
-sound mechanical in early morning
what is skin
-a shoelace
-child labor
what is a workshop
-scalpels, piñata bats
-a lunar module
what is that shiny dead thing in the green eyed river
-New Year’s Eve ball drop
-otherworldly return to beginning
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
take the darkest moments
look to the heavens
the rarest jewels, stars.
take the wettest of days
look to the heavens
the rarest jewels, tears of the sky
take the brightest of clear days
look to the heavens
the rarest of jewels, the sun
take the lowest of moments
look to the heavens,
the rarest of loves, you
All looking down on
this wreck of human flesh,
decay is okay as long as it won't stay
or stink, or turn black, the pink,
part that still has a pulse from the heart.
Roll back the cuff, cut it off if you must,
please tell me, you feel a pulse, touch me.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
I have not changed in years (it seems),
physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.
These months have flown as
leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
of my roots.
I am like to wither and rot,
left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
Hello love,
I've been away for a while,
contemplating this degraded earth,
putting different things into place.
I know you've moved on,
but I still think about your lips.
The sweetest joy of an impermanent heaven,
and the messengers of hope.
I took too much time loving you,
too much time holding you.
Our bodies were the worlds
separated by eternity,
your eyes
the distance
I could not bridge.
Wishing I could make you mine
was stupidity
marching in time,
and off-step.
Pearlesque moon played the lighting,
in our drama,
as I held you on top of my car,
lavishing in your plums of delight
and your wettest ******
of ecstasy.
Don't let me go now,
when I've just begun to remember
you.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
The wettest of love written out of my black
fountain pen. I’ve got hearts to spend,
customs to save, and not a lot of people to blame.
Oh what a shame, in this love’s long game,
starting off as friends, good remarks,
All into permanent scars; how haven’t we
come as far?
Oh I wonder how to slow down, to keep on
searching for something not yet around.
_Love!_
Oh where do I search, with the possible heartbreaks
that seem to lurk? Cut and burnt, soon after I had
my first.
Love letters into ashes, ashes into the dust,
scratched out names, nails turning into rust.
Pinned down by the wrists; to hold onto pain,
crosses are instead exes. Restless, into resting
soundly in my death.
In over my head, thoughts are covering
my shame. I’m waiting patiently after all,
to fall in love.
_Once again._
May 14, 2022
May 14, 2022 at 11:39 AM UTC
short is the most delicious look
silence is the loudest book
with lips the hungriest food
and night the darkest wildest mood
breathing is the deepest ****
giving in the hottest ****
love is a bittersweet borrowed lie
time is a slowly emptied sigh
deception is the sharpest yet rustiest lance
and rage the slowest, saddest dance
while truth's just polished-up confusion
with words - the slipperiest illusion
- - - - -
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
*we inscribed poems on each others souls
in ink at first
but ink did not touch the magnitude of our love
so we wrote in the wettest kisses
and snaky tongues
undulating pink spells
but still we needed more
we wrote with the unguents from our *****
and while it was as lush as paradise
still, we craved
so we wrote in pain and blood
we suffered for each other
and at each other's hands
we drank each other's tears
consumed each other's emptiness
till arteries darkened
and our life force
ran through each other's veins
like vermilion claret
until we died each other's deaths
and felt the shadow of each other's ancestors
and then we fell in love again
transformed
true initiates of adoration
and everything each other
a rapturous yoga
fused like thrice folded metal
living silent incantations
ethric urns
burning
gold frankincense and myrrh
enshrined in the heavens
rapturous mouths
in a tangle of kisses arcadian.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
Behind the shades of eyes; does leave something much
more desirable. Wettest eyes behind the blinds of time.
I cherish those little moments—likewise the most we
make out of them.
Shakes me keenly: like my shaking arm after hitting the
funny bone. Careless laughs in good company; my stomach
in knots. Tied between the twisting craze of advertising
love--ours is intimate.(a secret place)
You're close to me; close as the tongue to it's teeth,
speaking the word _Love._ Your name roles off the tongue
out of my bright smile. (you give me summer in my mouth)
A month like no other, may I attest to your sight,
ghostly; as the presence of you raises my skin hairs.
My goosebumps of knowing you're near, and a extra
beating heart—I'm out of breath.
Let me have a piece of eupnea, by a kiss I'd make
as my last. Lungs of passion; passionately kissing each other.
Jul 10, 2022
Jul 10, 2022 at 12:04 PM UTC
as tears rolled down from the depths of your core
the thought of us fulfilled the absence as afore
our love is frozen in time
your wettest dream will always be mine
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 9:37 PM UTC
I never wanted a man
but when I did,
his chest had to feel as soft as mine;
our *** was to be the kind
that made buds
blossom and petals fly.
Thought
he loves me
he loves me not
it doesn’t matter, he is still hot.
I could not be reminded
of a gun
when a man wanted to press me up
against a concrete wall,
I wanted
to think of bubblegum or
August rain;
soft, warm, moist things
keep-me-close sort of things.
I never wanted a man
until I met you
who had me the wettest of all things
mimicking hot tea
on the very small of your thigh
dropping leaves for
summer storms to pick up
and love us, love us not, love us.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Those letters I won't send,
The wettest dreams you still haven't hear,
That dress I want you to make shreds...
Is our physical distance as far as our souls feel?
cuz even now I can recognize the marks on you
Give me one chance, so my face appear when you sleep.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
To him,
she's the calm in the blustering of his mother,
a goddess against the devilish charms of the libertine father,
a dry land away from the wettest inequities of coitus,
a blue violet in the skies of her affection—love and compassion
grows of her red lotus,
far apart from peers; they shunned her from their groupings,
a series of events makes her love home; so unlike, amongst
many few, to seem fictional as movies.
A queen; diamonded on the silk of her skin,
maturity read in her eyes, and red as her passionate lips,
fetching to behold—spirit, looks, and within.
"He who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor
from the Lord" __(Prov 18:22 NIV)__
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 1:26 PM UTC
the pitter patter of rain
hath stifled all sporting plans
they've put a dampener
on the kicking
batting
and bouncing of *****
weekend fixtures appeared
much brighter
on Thursday
the weathermen
trotted out a fine forecast
they were talking up
the sun's forty eight hour
weekend blast
yet they didn't mention
a thing about a substantial rain band
which was very close
at hand
those of the golfing
and soccer fraternities
are taking shelter
in their club houses
out of the down pours
no driving with a nine iron
on the par eight hole
nor twill there be
a heading
of a crowd pleasing goal
the mid larks
at Flemington race track
are to the wither
well and truly bogged
as the entirety of furlongs
hath been water logged
enthusiasts of sport
are glum faced souls
their weekend of competition
swallowed up in
the wettest of bowls
the weathermen
never showed any consideration
on predicting
the weather's
wild fluctuations
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Emotions, ashes of a flame's love lit up,
Bones dry, with wettest eyes of desire,
Soils, eroded, vulnerable, and bare,
Bitter taste of sea salts under sands,
Vast nothingness in a wilderness,
Lips have longed a kiss, cracking and shaking,
A child in a womb, love grows till conceived,
Grass tips wait patiently for first raindrops,
Seasons of spring in a summer's winter,
My dearest love, I will fall for you,
Mud cracks played in, unafraid of stains,
We're wrinkled lines, of sin on clothes,
But sinners long for love,
And battle between lust.
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 3:26 AM UTC
it isn't snow
it isn't snow
it isn't snow,
but it is so wet,
not the wettest winter yet,
but you can't call this winter,
April showers started in October,
oh we had some sun
oh we had some sun
oh we had fun,
little time $spent$ on the $slopes$
one part of tourism had to cope,
with weather patterns, that
go in seventeen year cycles or fifty one
year bunches, no pulling punches,
but who makes this stuff up?
the drought will follow
water restrictions to swallow,
will there nary a drop of water to drink?
I have a cow bank, white and black sitting
empty
on my desk, by my elbow, waiting to be
filled with, all my savings for a rainy day
spent, for as the saying goes
"save something for a rainy day"
we have had so many rainy days, it is all
spent
cow is bent out of shape, and starving for some
coin of the realm, and the natural order of things,
scrambled,
saw three ducks out of their lake, taking a chance to
take swim in a monster puddle in a Wallmart
parking lot!
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
feels like, your mouth, i like it
little hot crushed
(wettest ember of thy face)
to mine, darling, your
hair
is immense
tangled briefly
with my fingers
against the excelling nub
of thy fragrant skull dear, i
press drink and of, into
my
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
[i]
No soaring pain could match her, draped across a dying flame.
Like cinder,
she whisper-whistled through lungs thin, teeth sallow,
a promise in song.
“Towera jinner mulbeena,
Poodinyoober mulbeena.”
It was a good promise;
belonged to everyone
and wouldn’t change for Tomorrow’s ranges.
It asked for nothing
but patience and faith.
From where she lay,
the trees, gums, were akimbo.
[ii]
For generations she had walked, through the wettest of wets and driest of dries.
With hope in her ribs and a nature savage and pure.
You could break her, throw her to the cockatoos,
And yet, ***** and punctured,
like driftwood, she would drift back,
Blossoming in your lap again.
[iii]
When the kangaroos have done their dance
in the twilight.
There she'd been.
Supine. Broken open and
lily-white (on the inside).
and we did this.
with our prospecting and land grabbing
we did this,
with our parking lots and Starbucks cup
she was dismembered, priced, "loved," owned.
discarded.
to the meek edge
of an eternal flame ****** to embers.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC