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zebra Mar 2018
dangerous woman
she looked good in black electrical tape
with a knife in her hand
ready to yield to a switch blade bite
a red comet
scarring the pale blue sky

trussed like a raveled snake
tight around her belly throat ankles and thighs
her lips sealed shapeless
with a black
X
shut down hard
and needing it bad

a black light
Lilith

the *** slave look
aches to be used
ravished
and amused
head back
*** high, enflamed
maid for love
a moist yoni clam
pushing up from the earth
in pink ******* smeared puce
red rubber sheet
for the mess she wants to be
dressed in salad oil
extra ******
hot pressed
a squandered torso flexed
buttered *****
like a gaping toothless mouth
her pain pleasures dinner
with searing crystal eyes
her mouth fire black
and rabid pink tongue
pink flickering hot
i brawl under her feet
like a mob of bloodthirsty *****
chattering slaves
masters of the taboo
face down in her heat
her musk is in my lungs
i'm
lost in her every twitch and writhe
a ******* bucking *****

can you touch her mystery?

there are many women like her
more then we can imagine
behind stone faces
of shame
in every culture
and innocence

what they do is secret
so dark like clanking skulls between open thighs
dancing goth belly rolls
in a crypt of jerking slick *****
and greased swollen *****

have you met her?

she holds her cards close
but dies in desire
that you may penetrate her
insertions
insertions
insertions
the glory of gory sumptuousness
every hole
a wound of butter and fire

can you feel her at a glance
the whites of her eyes like a flashing ghost
handcuffs razors and a black nine tails
the aesthetic of voluptuous cruelties
barbarous ***** upleaping
a tarnished moon
of broken skin weeping red
and begging mouth for tender kisses too
the hard geometry of red teeth
and milk saliva out of curved lips
through flesh
that brings
tears like rain to swooning visions
that yield relief
like heavy cloud monsoons
plummeting

a dark storm of craven urges
poised dregs and stretched legs
from the black corridors of her soul
a plate of ****** *******
and bruised thighs

service with a smile

squeals and welts
whelping gorgeous
ascending from hell
like temple incense
melting the gates of heaven
with
screaming lady sauce laughing
giving God
the **** of the beast

she wouldn't have it any other way
can you touch her mystery?
For Liz Vicious Dark and those like her
Derek Yohn Jan 2014
The hounds of fear nip at winter heels,
whelping doubt and baying at the moon.
Cocoon prayers whispered across the fields
of becoming; this dark of the light is
contextually contrasted.  i am little and
young against the ages, something loose
and rattling in the box of reality and
afraid, fleeing the dogs of war.
i write post-it note prophecies and  
crumple them,  building a nest in
the trees, a mother's womb nearer the sky,
for when the sun comes it comes
first to the birds on high.
zebra Mar 2018
i see her
and my shadow grows
gold like Harlows hair

then to
black
like a digested sun
and the music of a gnawing universe
with whelping teeth
and melting white candles
gets me dancing
like a dragging needle
through grieving flesh

she droops
like a thick cloud
bending towards me
a sky in flames
in a torn dress

and her kisses whip through me
like wind through mists
He told his sister to feed the dogs,
His twin sister; Sophia Bogvoskya,
As he was to take out the herds
Of horses, sheep, donkeys and cows,
Out to the plains and hill land for grazing,
She never took a ****, she locked herself,
Up in the ante chamber of the main house,
She took the mirror and began looking
At her beauty, Russian model beauty
She began picking her nails,
As the dogs were starving in the sheds
They whined but no succor came forth,
A fiat that coincided with arrival of ogres,
The great Western Ogres, the tongues wagging,
They had a plethora of eyes and mouths,
Noses and ears, limbs both hind and fore,
They ate all the young sheep,
They took away Putin’s young brothers
Crimea and Ukrainian, both were taken away,
By the ferocious NATO ogres they were taken
In a whelp and desperate kicking for freedom,
Dogs stood aloof as ogres thrashed Sophia
Into thin lacerations of red flesh,
They ate as they roared with laughter,
Then they went away with their loot,
Vladimir came back home, found nothing
No sister, no brothers no sheeplings,
Only two white sepulchers glared at him,
The graves of his mother and father;
The former cooks of Lenin Vladimir,
He mourned and mourned grievously,
Then he sang a dirge of his forefathers
From the herculean land of Bosnia,
And also Moscow, he dirged;
We were born in the wee of the night,
When the bear is whelping,
And we were suckled by the Tigre
When our mothers were taken slaves,
For no man or creature
Will ever make us victims
Nor subjects of fear,
He recovered from the moment
Trial some moment of loss and bereave,
Then he chose to go after the ogres
But with a strategum of no match,
He began arming himself first
Before  he could set on,
His mobile armory full of deadly weapons;
A bunch of wasps, wild bees, black ants,
A thousand slings, spears and sickles,
Machetes, poisonous saps, and toxics,
Wild dogs, five hundred snakes and scorpions,
Bows and arrows as well as cudgels,
Clubs, stones and chains,
He also learned how to use the hands
In the most lethal manner,
Then he went for combat,
To rescue all that was taken,
Taken from him by the ogres….
Tail wagging


His tails wagging is no barking
Balking at wind, at passing car
Just body friends of wet sniffing
Two pant legs to be followed
Only to be shaken off in a vile
Basement of dark shadows
And sleeping cars in their veils.


Pant legs have no steel in them
And a  soft bite is afraid of  pain
By four ****** just below navel
Here love ferments but festers.


Lame dogs


Plenty of action is in the street
A dog leg is gone  to child's pleasure
By  a boy's stone at its whelping
But three legged dogs still bark
At passing  cars, their shadows.


You cannot straighten his tail**


His tail is like  a crescent moon
Its flies like  stars buzzing around
Or like a scythe the  farmer uses
To bring  his crop under control
And cannot be straightened ever
Like a crescent moon or a scythe.
Mitchell Jul 2011
Exhaustion hangs on the tips of my fingers
I feel as if I cannot go on but must
What is this place?
This place which weighs down my body
This place that vomits heat and horror
This place of anvils admitting they are the coming rain
They have no need to comfort you for they pain
They need no introduction much like the insane
Shivering sick sedated injecting sorrow
How many more days until this feeling goes away?
The leaves turn brown as the sound from the dog pound begins to rise
Whelping squeals they beg for meals that will never come
I am tired
Oh so tired
Of this funny sad feeling
Kanak Kashyup May 2018
Pierced the surface of
Moving life by making
It immobile
Captured it's skin
On the wall
Supported by the
Heartlessness as courage
The whelping innocence
Growing with that hanged skin
Swinging around
Looking around
Hovering around
With joys and laughs
Unaware of the agony
Of that rope of his swing
Nature is destructed
Walls are smirking
Childhood is blinded
With cruelty as bravery
And spring, spring is
Losted forever......
Are you a fairy Daddy like Terry Hanratty? No, I'm daddy-normal
& daddy-hormonal. Can I violently tug on your scruffy beard like a
punk who is weird? No, because I'm not the murderous Ted Bundy
daddy college women in 1973 feared. Will you never come home
Daddy & give ill Mommy her Daddy-thrill-hammer thrill? Never!!!
We can't go there & we can do something with boats in our pockets
'cause heaven's God's door for the sum of 6 ***** & mid-leg sockets
that fall under the underlings whose socks are from cotton-sock kits
for high frequency, amplitude & pulse brassieres made to shock ****
of crude gals schtupping **** males in a kettle of ½-stewed whales


Maiden, mother, crone are the 3 stages of femininity, you vaginitis-
plagued *****, so go back to your age-defying goo, you ***** witch
My tranquil inner peace is ******* with my sedate inner harmony a
lot. The Luzon Pinay with 1 eye ain't the mail-order bride I bought.
I ate the moldy bread knowin' full well what's coming, loose guts &
diarrhea = an annoying disruption to pre-diurnal plumbing function
We must take heart that putrefying, dead folks will make, for living
folks, the rightful decision, though not with mathematical precision
I can't wolf Alpo as it makes me howl, bark & **** wayward stray
******* in heat, whelping in the park-lands of Centralia's burnt park

Impose my will upon the willing, hot chicks with bleary vision into
feeling men hungry for lesbian love at its most sike-a-**** thrilling
Let us not breed insane rumors nor self-diagnose huge brain tumors
in the presence of wall flowers, freaks, flits, sissies & late bloomers
I remember when reliable prostitutes were 3 for a buck or 1 for 35¢
but that was in April '95 before we elected vice prez Michael Pence
You sprayed 10 toes with decarbonizing spray 'cause both your feet
were black-coal carbonated before you left for Guam on Labor Day
as your motherhooded mother motherly mothered you to be ***-gay
Tammy Boehm Jan 2016
This is not what you think.
This outpouring of ash and smoke rings,
Whispered in the solace of shadow.
And I know you're unmoved by the little foxes.
Tails tucked they fawn,
Whelping poetry at your feet.
Feigned flattery
And fangs bared
They would feed on your exposed heart.
Pick the sweet fruit from low branches
And leave the acrid waste pooling in their wake.
Perhaps I am no better.
Scattering my humble saffron wreaths of words,
Set tiny lights adrift
In a river thick with blood
And suffering.
If I were sustenance you'd starve.
There is nothing I can give you but my simple truth:
I love you.
I am so blessed to call you friend.
TL Boehm
04/08/13
Her name is Sharon. She's a poet. She inspired me in 2006 to start writing again. I don't associate much with her anymore because life and distance happen. But I am grateful to her - and I wish she shared her poems these days.
Chelsea Chavez Dec 2015
There is a time here. Everything has turned quite flat.
But I do not resent the sinister feeling overlapping my worlds.
A great whelping worrisome feeling fills me up.
And I am encountered one by one by dreams
I will not remember.
I am a gentle touch. I have left scorched earth everywhere.
I am still hungry.
I too have lips. They also are chapped each morning
from the bitter rinds that dreg from the sea.
I cannot account for time. Nor do I wish it.
I cannot hear the space or the conviction
that will sway you.
From me, the reflections have dried up.
I have become a foreign presence in my own body.
Neither truth nor wholeness matter.
But a lingering darkness.
The wick of all things.
Kanak Kashyup Mar 2018
Millions silences
lunatic word...
Longing patience
Abruptly rode...
Overwhelmed sweetness
Engrossing sword...
Increasing contusion
Terrible award...
Coloured night
Immense Ford...
Smiling motivation
Grieving thought...
Helping hand
Helpless afford...
Whelping affection
Regretting wayward...
Comparing beyond comparison.
I punched m y self today
Amidst to many thoughts
And helplessness.
An over whelping hopelessness.
A tired soul an active mind
I've been thinking thoughts with to much weight.
Seeing people walk around living their lives is begining to make me feel
Like....
There's already enough going on in the world
Like plenty of people will do plenty of things.
Like what's the point in one more person fumbling their way through life.
I'm going I'm going.
But it's not out of hope.
It's put of guilt and fear.
When I think of my husband
While I think of my uselessness
I feel such a deep sorrow.
Not because I feel like he needs me.
But because I know that he loves me.
And I know that he would some how feel guilty.
And I'm tired. I'm so ******* tired. And I'm frustrated because I feel guilty. For being tired. And what sounds so lovely is sleep for ever. I don't hate myself. I don't even want to **** myself. I just don't want to be alive because my ******* tired. I'm so tired of day to day life that I could **** myself. I'm so tired of all of it. I love my husband very much. So so much. He is the sweetest most christ like being I have ever met and I am happy with him. I think he's perfect. There's nothing he could do to become a better person to me. It's not that that's not good enough. It's that I'm to tired. It's like having a really nice meal when your not hungry. You love it it looks great it smells great it makes you happy. But it doesn't make you hungry. I don't have much a a drive to be alive and I don't know why.......
I just wish I could hit the pause button shut everything off and nothing existed any more.
They say this is a temporary feeling... that it goes away..... but why does it always come back.
In light of tension twixt
brinkmanship rumbling one
East Asian Tiger
country otherwise known as
"the land of morning calm,"
yours truly t'will invite
"freedom foo fighters"
tubby regaling with a jubilant aire
total mortal Kombat
levels threat of human warhead
bomb dubbed "Fat Boy.”

I barely get ma palm pilot sized
dear derriere i.e.
gluteus maximus in the air
just a cat whisker
across the DeMilitarized Zone
(DMZ in military parlance),
when the Earth shuddered from blare
ring fusillade expressed detonation
issued by Kim Jong Un,
whose craven dark excitement clear;
no match for one man
bow welled bombardier

propelled ****** bowel
movement game changer
will hit designated target precisely clear
and North Koreans (no matter
mostly innocent victims),
howling and whelping doggone dear
for quasi legerdemain
identifying, fraternizing, colluding,
et cetera with the enemy (in general,
the NATO bound countries) 'ere
really quiet, as preparation (H) gets made
to bring out the big guns

(actually shaped like a fleshy
posterior man knuckled ***) in truth one
dead reckoning sphincter muscle
that doth flex with fantastic flair
impossible mission to espy, cuz sieve
all the flak whistling
induce sing a glare,
but...the Hermit Kingdom got another
bad a$$ bombardier to fear
deathly, stealthily quiet,
hence released **** Jed

motive predicated to lob
early Holiday nuclear missiles,
me cheeks with
blasting buttocks akin to
young Frankenstein blazing saddles
as sole portal oozing gaseous
noxious flatulence - majority
of North Koreans will not hear
amidst din and clangor "bad medicine"
smiting nemesis courtesy blaze of glory
eye ordnance impossible to hear,

I strongly advise tubby not near
as you might already correctly guess,
when while mooning Pyongyang
well taut smart cheeks,
blindsided immune to any prayer
so...upon confiding this tidbit,
yet will need to seek out specialty
of proctologist who doth rear
lee **** seed unfortunate victim,
yet this silent deadly *** sass sin hated
hard as a ribbed rock stainless steel

guaranteed to wreak havoc, with loathing
what information divulged
ye moost promise never to share
else...any (red) turn coats
can not muster posterior haste,
and other emotions hints sin sere
which top secret (never bottomed out
during test practice trials,
whereat Johnny spot on)
proved to vaporize underwear
and caused a "big stink"

that lasted about one year,
whose po' country mutilated,
reduced, wasted to ashes after
every nuclear and
traditional military contrivance,
an IC and BM (mine) did destroy.
Maiden, mother, crone are the 3 stages of femininity, you vaginitis-
plagued *****, so go back to your age-defying goo, you ***** witch
My tranquil inner peace is ******* with my sedate inner harmony a
lot. The Luzon Pinay with 1 eye ain't the mail-order bride I bought.
I ate the moldy bread knowin' full well what's coming, loose guts &
diarrhea = an annoying disruption to pre-diurnal plumbing function
We must take heart that putrefying, dead folks will make, for living
folks, the rightful decision, though not with mathematical precision
I can't wolf Alpo as it makes me howl, bark & **** wayward stray
******* in heat, whelping in the park-lands of Centralia's burnt park
I can't wolf Alpo as it makes me howl, bark & **** wayward stray
******* in heat, whelping in the park-lands of Centralia's burnt park
It was a school camp excursion,
we rode on these rental bikes,
About 20 of us, changing lanes
and so hurriedly and rapidly,
and BANG, we heard a single shot
and flew down the hill to witness.
A man with his foot on a rain deer
It's heart was running and pounding.
He didn't listen to any of my pleas
or the whelping of that of my friends,
He proceeded to shoot it again.
I was 9 years old.

— The End —