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zebra Aug 2020
human erotasisim
essentially submerged
in a grim compulsion
where blood
is more resplendent
in death than in life

cannibal
path of consumption
a contagion of love madness

what does it mean to be human?

analysis of an imaginative animal
out side the structures of power
and their conventions

if you ever figure it out
you'll never look at your eggs
the same way again

*** is evil
taking you to the summit
of death

death strengthens eroticism
and erotasisim
strengthens death

where we are driven to look
yet hate to

*** frenzy ******
joyful illumination of the base
stunningly beautiful
and absolutely horrifying

romantic poetic and despised
this is not poetry
this is witchcraft
Rooted in
Georges Bastille's
"The Story of The Eye"
https://www.redbubble.com/i/t-shirt/Ac%C3%A9phale-Andr%C3%A9-Masson-by-Saddleworth/50895256.1YYVU?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=g.pla+notset&country_code=US

"The Sacred Conspiracy" and claims that "Secretly or not... it is necessary to become different or else cease to be."[2] Further on, Bataille wrote: "Human life is exasperated by having served as the head and reason of the universe. Insofar as it becomes this head and this reason, insofar as it becomes necessary to the universe, it accepts serfdom."[3]
zebra Jun 2017
deep deep
in the
in the inner inner
cauldron of self
one can hear weeping
it is Achlys
daughter of Nyx

pale emaciated
her razor teeth chattering
over pomegranate tongue saliva
elongated mottled nails like shears
etch a wooden table
and sever small rodents
for nourishment

dismal girl with swollen knees
thick dust upon her shoulders
her nostril's dripping
like drenched grass
demons concealment veiled
yet her scut barely hidden

while attraction remains
the fabric of existence
the sacramental bed of Christianity
carries the fear of authenticity
the aperture of *** betrayed
by girded *****

renders self a darkened hollow
incomplete and hypocrite
absent of beauties gift
a pink light bleeding
daughter
of the night
GREEK MYTHOLOGY ACHLYS
DAUGHTER OF NIGHT
zebra Jan 2019
I do believe all poets must not only read a lot of poetry but read a lot about poetry. Of my 50 favorite poets, there is not one who has not written about poetry, the philosophy of their work and of the craft. That in itself is fascinating- and difficult, like the depth you find in NY Review of Books. I do about 2/3 (poems) to 1/3 (being books about poetry) From the most philosophic works of archetypes by Northrop Frye to the most public and basic questions of Zupruders good seller "Why Poetry?" .
That last book opened up a new reality for me, to I ask myself all the time who am I writing for, in context to all this reading...I realized I was really trying to communicate the poetic truths of living, of my own small life in the world so full of beauty, horror, paradox and death. I realized to do this I had to make compromises, to not try to impress or amuse myself with poems that could only be understood by me. The craft and presentation became as important as the message. That is currently my direction, I'm writing "collections" of poems with themes so a reader could enjoy a concrete theme. (The last book I just read, a signed collection by Ferlinghetti ( nice and cheap in a used bookstore) was just that- the theme of light in "How to Paint Sunlight." Accessible and very full of several poems about light)
So you are stating two different issues:
I don't like being not understood, Having people throw up there hands perplexed, I'd rather be popular.... Its lonely
But I cant write for others because than it would be feeling like a commercial venture My motivation would be destroyed.
Id rather be desolated and write for those few who get the twinge...
Well, first of all, we poets are possibly lucky because we ain't making beans for our poems. Forgetaboutit. Even our most lauded poets end up teaching to get the health care and severance. I suppose there may be 3 poets in Amerika that make a living on just writing poetry....if that many. Who's buying? I didn't see much word "poetry" once in this weeks NY Times review of books. Only some letters crashing last weeks review of Leonard Cohen, who the critic called a wonderful lyricist and performer, but an awful poet. These dialogues are important to me, but really, quite a small audience. Either way, lyrics and song paid the rent, not Cohen's books of just poetry.
I'm sure there is no immediate cure for your paradox. If you want to be popular you have to make compromises. If you don't want to alter your vision, you can get the joy of a smaller readership and forget the rest. You have to manage expectations is a world that hardly notices our craft.
It's hard to be both, I suppose you should stay true to your motivation. And if readers like me don't get it, **** em. Let it suffice we acknowledge the craft, and that we will get closer to some poems more than others be enough. For me, accessibility, the ability to engage a reader into whatever poetic truth I am feeling, is more important than in any way hiding the meaning in the poem in which I alone can understand it.
I want people who never read poetry, which is most people, pick up a poem by me and feel the poetry power without feeling intimidation which is what most people feel when they read most poems published today. For me its that fine line between letting the imagination do the work, and the poem setting up the narrative to allow it by inviting a reader into it. I get great joy reading my poems to non poets who are scared by even the idea of it, and get them to feel something new, that wonderful way Aristotle put it- that poetry provides an ultimate truth that is found beyond the boundary of philosophy.
Best Mark
…………………...

Admittedly I have gone off the rails focusing on the meta or man as dreamer. Are we not dreamers first before descending into the material, deadening the faculty of imagination or as the I Ching says "a darkening of the light"
I want to bring the reader up and when I read I want to have the sensation of ascending I try to give what I like to receive which is to be brought into greater fluency and light
Have we abandoned our inner life to such an extent that when confronted with it we find our selves strangers to it; reinforcing and amplifying a kind of cognitive dissidence?
Are we in a sense a stranger to our selves having lost the lucidity of our magical youth
Do we see the world as vacant utilitarian stuff and other humans predictable lusterless cogs in a wheel like cued robots?
Witches Seers, Voodoons , Hermeticists, Kabbalists and Occultists of very stripe know and use objects as essential to their operations and craft because they have hidden meaning and power.
Has the life of fantastical creative cognition been sacrificed to inveterate congenital pragmatism?
"Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality".
Andre Breton
To transgress is to process ones madness as opposed to the customary botched behaviors of repressive modalities we hide behind . It seems to me that poetry is a great ground for that exploration.
Perhaps Its a good thing for a reader to think about what the writer means, albeit a difficult pleasure as opposed to the instantaneous and facile modes of naming and claiming Reading towards the abstract can be a mystical experience Most people who read are shallow readers Shall I than aspire to be a shallow writer?
What surrealism (Detailed descriptive language unmoored from linear rationality) affords the writer like pure abstraction to the visual artist is a great opportunity to explore the musicality of language ie the musicality of form i.e. the energetic configurations of architypes.
Part of our craft that makes things crackle as you know well remains sound play ie the strategy of syllables ... Long vowels / short vowels...the length of words and sound of words in relationship to one another
As you know Mark to analyze the subtle abstraction of sounds i.e. words to the ear is just like music and like music although not wholly translatable has an undertow of non verbal meaning especially if exploited out side the linguistic necessity of linear prose like poems i.e. a device that most never use consciously and strategically or certainly to its fullest potential.
So when we say a poem is beautiful do we impart mean its those amazing tintinnabulating sounds that ****** with their musicality? Poems that do that well stand out to me.
Further I think we are in error when we confuse the realistic with the materialistic. It seems to me realism has magnitudinal underlying meta elements that need to be felt in poetry and to think other wise in my opinion would be a dull conceit
A good example is thought itself
When we speak our ideas thoughts impulses we have no real sense of where they emerge from The processes are so meta their incomprehensible even to neuro science and scientists have little if any understanding of consciousness or its meaning as far as I know
So perhaps the surrealist has a place of worth too; and that is to remind people of their inner life out side the cage of end product think and commodification. After all what is a life and what is a poem?
Best Z
zebra Oct 2021
advice
to
William Shatner
don't eat
Mexican Food
before lift-off
zebra Aug 2016
love is a
state of mind
an emotion
sometimes ephemeral
sometimes steadfast

its source
an archetype
formless
it is not a relationship
although it may exist
in a relationship
or only
in a moment
like a spark in the dark
it is a function of imagination
as is empathy
it is magical thinking

*** may be an instrument of love
or a powerful healing balm
in and of it self
a profound therapy
and seen as an act of
divine grace

the ancients knew this
but unlike them
we have taken
sacred prostitutes
from ancient temples
vessels of the
goddess eroticism
Astarte of the Canaanites
Áine of the Celts
Min of the Egyptians
Aphrodite of the Greeks
Kama of the Hindus
Inanna of the Mesopotamians
and transformed them into demons
by subjugation to the depths of our subconscious

the archetypal female was replaced
by the neutered holy ghost
the patriarchal symbolic genital mutilation of women
a gift of horrors by Romes Council of Nicea
crippling values written in stone
frigidity guilts child
an abysmal morality
a theft by
kleptomaniacs of freedoms desire

for two millennium
vessels of the goddess
have been transmuted into a profanity
inflicting
a cold homicide on
****** freedom
forcing the abandonment
of a most essential constituent of sanity
the miraculous repair and revitalization
of the soul
through passions physical touch
sensual love
and the release of pent up desire

and left in its place
a harness of deprivation
an expression of a regressive culture
that promotes
a barren terrain
between
emotional ****** insecurity
and the monotony of monogamy


I am a voice of Thelema for the coming Aeon of Horus
LOVE IS ALL LOVE UNDER WILL
philosophical spiritual ,adult
zebra Aug 2017
she sat quietly in a cafe
pale
freckled with only one arm
and a missing foot
always shaking invisibly

deformed
from the curse of desolation

facing downwards  
she read the couplet

"her maiden voyage was a lonely one
and it lasted all the days of her life"

she wept silent tears
through interminable silent days
and starless nights
fearing her resemblance
to that ode of the forsaken

her countenance
a broken heart

i've come for you
i murmured

i'm a busted doll she said
see my pretty stumps
wheelchair
crutch
do you like them

strangely yes ...so very much
i wept softly

no one wants me
she whispered
i'm a blight of horror
a castaway to be avoided
my life a nightmare
of dark estrangement
a walking wound in tears
a torn doll
to crooked to be loved

looking into the depths of her soul
i called
i've always wanted a lopsided girl
with flaying stumps
and a brooding heart
to save
to love
to heal
to cuddle
and adore
to cry over
with wild warping hugs
always aching
for my darling
little *******

we kissed
wet mouthing clamors
lips and tongue
like oleo spread

i picked her up
and tangled her in my arms
as she thawed like heated oil

i ran off with her
tears streaming
and visited upon her
every kindness and pleasure of heaven
and it lasted all the days of her life
LOVE
zebra Dec 2019
perverse anarchies
within the well ordered hierarchies
nightmare cycle of contempt
America trembles
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
zebra Jan 2019
blood blot
a hideous music
like fixed stars
a chaos of shattered glass
you can hang your hat on

bamboo shards make a ****** wound
gold spun hair
on floral linen
blemished soaking red
like a shaking rat in a cats mouth

Hazels glistening ******; a pretense
salutes celibacy and high end moisturizer toilet paper

to shock simplicities morals
of an excretory affair
a dark chandelier hangs in the balance
torpedo runnels through chambered knots
unleashing treacherous sanity
sins crib
theater of purgation

father forgive her
she took a ****

an idealist without ideals

the grand masturbator
a simulacrum of a lubed god
in nights dragging shade
oracle of a  ruddy opera  and legs over head
flexed crimson wattle rolls

theories invite anti theories
light invites darkness

silence yields
shadows throat
and cacophonous whispers
a grind house temple of gods and demons
in horrendous geometry
of inflicting malice

until the serpent ascends
from black pitch hells
like a bomb through the skull

lusts antidote
waterloo of the soul  
annihilation point
the cadaver smiles
surreal ….a poetry of fragments
zebra May 2018
"To have someone give you control of their bodies and minds,
to be entrusted with the responsibility to take care of them,
to have someone willing to suffer for you,
to forsake pride and dignity to please you...
what can other gifts in this world possibly equate to that?
And more importantly, what makes you worthy to receive it?"

~ Anonymous

The Feminine Paradox

while i live for anonymous
do you think she is a freak?
does she not own her master
with the rarest of adorations
more
then those in the temple of thinning lust  
with mouths like twisted placards
screaming
"know your value"
and
"just say no"?

told by
Victorian prudes
what is permitted
full of pride
in shapeless days
yet counting the insults of puerile lovers
one moody scar at a time

a *******
Eve
could take a lesson
from
bruised titillated Lilith
*******  

with the sadist, the cards are on the table
fingers like
gleaming swords scented with ***** perfume
that drool for her quivers.

he melts with feral abandon from her cries
as she thrills exhilarated
to pains promise of pleasure
crucified and pitted
like spiced guacamole
on hot fire-tongues

his, bruising buttery shaft
her God
drooling yoni his salvation
her form a jeweled flame
a swirling constellation of blood and sweat diamonds
writhing undulations and ****** mouth
all chattering castanets

better than most
they give each other their truth
to take and to be taken
like pierced sparrows fluttering in paradise

then
with tender kisses and aftercare
quite like the watering garden

they are rinsed guileless
drenched flowers sweltering
in asylums
moonlight
and made smooth
by the hand of God
...........
"oh baby
i like it when
you do that dance
gonna stick my ****
through your underpants"
The first part was written by a woman in the life of dark sexuality and ****** masochism
a collaboration
.......
A slave submits primarily to her own nature… That she requires a material, extrovert focus for her submission, i.e. the dominant, does not alter the fact that on the spiritual level her submission is essentially introverted. One could say that through the dominant she submits to herself by proxy… Each makes the other possible, tied together as they are in symbiotic interdependence.

~~ J. Mikael Togneri
zebra Sep 2017
Some of us believe decency a is cruel hoax
It's a ghost.
a woman wearing a frilly dress
in a room of tinsel stars
and the leash of immortality
a big hush with searing looks
and knee knocking
that speaks,
across rooms and boulevards
in another language
between myth and truth
the myth of principals  
and the truth of primacy
still blood flecked from the last incarnation
and a twisted smile that dazzles
like nothing you've ever seen before.
zebra Sep 2019
A poem
a strategy of concealment
about epic development

a war between love and artifice
inflections and innuendo
imagining a fiction
or the absence of imagination
as in shed or replaced
a truth woven from reality and fiction
strangely mixed
like a wild flute song
and the distinct glitter
of floating perfume
zebra Feb 2019
I can **** you in a poem
and walk away scot-free
so, bend over
I got a gun in your ***
ready aim bang
I love you
zebra Jul 2017
are you objectifying me?

i can bench 300 lbs ten times
im a rich artist with a graduate degree
sun tanned
good teeth

drivin a new BMW six series
with a rag top
big keen blue eyes
like a pretty girl
wavy hair
smooth *****
seven inch *****
nice ***
with the tender heart of a poet
and a square jaw

want to wine and dine you
always smiling
bay *** kisses
silky tee shirts
Hawaiian
luau vacations

or is it off to my castle
in the
Carpathians

impeccable manners
i smell like lavender coconut butter cream
live in a grand house
on
beach front property
mucho bucks in the bank
nice as spice

you will never have to worry again
are you objectifying me?

GOOD
because im objectifying you
and id rather not hear anymore about it
lets not argue with nature
its like a rock falling
arguing with gravity
all the way down
zebra Aug 2018
a curved pastry
like a prune danish
in a sway
a weaving kiss
anointed by a melting stick of butter,
pushed and puddled
deep and slow

the shape of a heart
with a hole in the middle
ooow dark fig
stinking rose
a comfort that sweetens with the grace of form
and pops like a trigger releasing a bullet

i covet
with eyes like erections
pants sticky wet
hot glue factory
for you love, my *** angel
red skin girl gaping
with circular yearning set in motion
tarnished petal mix meister
sinful hot house
for quaking tongue and lips,
a wild cherry *** kisser
spiked ***** blushing
lord of ****
solar ******* hero
flexed and oiled
to the rescue
a god send
triumphant and blessed
looks like a fast cigarette boat
hitting the speed bumps hard

she said yes please
dip like
nautilus of the black sea

What?

no loitering
no parking
not a through street

haahaahaa

****

that

****
adult ***
the ***** don't lie
and every word is a small miracle
zebra Jul 2019
she moves her mouth
wet lip chatter and eating
it makes me think
of her pinkish ****** lips
and her tender tawny ******
like a lollypop
a surprise tootsie roll center
with a urethral delicate opening
the **** eye
her pipsqueak fig staring myopically

a dark vulnerable miasma
it is the shape of gods 3rd eye

a material correspondence
to the heavens
not the sky that whistles through canyons
but the astral worlds of angelics'
a thanksgiving feast
of rebuked back door paradise
a glistening hemic muscle
vomiting stormy air
for my throbbing nightingale protuberance.

as it swells imperious *****
and raptures tight waving spasm's
from long smooth canoe strokes
squirting succotash and tadpoles
into her velvet
banana booth
chapel of ****

and greedy ache
smothers gloriously
this melodic snake
in her one eyed doll head

she smiles
i need it in the ***

and i asked
as it winked a drivel

dark floret  
do you love me?
******
zebra Oct 2017
according
to some people we are all going to hell
because god made us all ****** up sinners
and we don't hate ourselves enough
to be worthy of redemption

well I'm ****** up for sure
and as far as i can tell your ****** up
but the good part is you have an ***
and I'm an *** man

you know
"the position of power"
don't you?
thats right, when you bend down low
and rhapsodically sway your hips
as an enticement
not that i need much encouragement

so all is not lost
that is if you don't get all ****** on me
and act like we have to be in love first
although,
I'm pretty sure i do love you
no
I'm not just saying that to use you
i really do love you
how could i not
with an *** as lovely as yours
:D
*** adult explicit
zebra Feb 2021
wild atavism ritualized
in a bed of straps
a riddle of alchemy
in the temple of sapphire
catechism of freedom
summa of subversion that frees
architecture of cruelty that breeds kindness
in a doll house of ******* babble  
and pleasures of disgrace

read my lips
use my  mouth
walk my face
strip down
rise up
where mouths
are fiends for love

her body the covenant  
the bread of life
a fetish
the scent of musk
the ****** and the non-****** switch places
for hazards sake    like a loaded pistol
that pierces her frothing mouth
engorged with white blood butter and spit

a trigram of lust
the bottom is firm
i ching aling-us cuna cuna a ming us
the top dominates the bottom
a love bite hurts
a deviant psalm    
sings liturgies of adoration  

pain is not its own reward
fictive death makes her ready
for this hungry haloed devil
the greens of his jade eyes heal

what does it mean?
resurrection through mania

i am an insider writing for outsiders
it is your exodus from Egypt
she is the mana streaming from the moon

most humans
**** like livestock
and black is the earth
And the air came in with orange-blossom fingers
over all the sleepers:
a thousand years of air, months, weeks of air,
of blue wind and iron mountains,
as if soft hurricanes of running feet
were polishing the solitary enclosure of the stone.
zebra Mar 2017
i was five
she stood before me for the first time
looking down
like a great bird with ****
and a face that said
made to kiss
a mouth that said
warm lips
enter here
lick
pour your heart into me
and aquatic sharp eyes
pulled me into her soul
where i happily lost myself

i was smitten
rapturous in love

thrills
spilled through my small body
and ravaged me
cherry pepper hot
an electrical storm
of
thunder shock lust
and
quiet despair

lust for want
and despair for
what must be denied
i knew even then
i would never crawl, over, through, or into
Audrey

looking up into her blue eyes
inhaling her countenance
i inquired
whats under your dress

meeeeeeeeee
she replied smiling

we where in love

my face piqued
with heat and blood
my heart trembled
my legs weakened
my feet got hot
my little *****
fluttered

i thought dance
do the **** ****
i want to kiss your feet
i will toss my self
under your dress
mouth first
to taste you
your love slave

my father married her
i could hear them laugh and **** at night
i would imagine it was me
**** in hand

somewhere their marriage turned
left
an inferno of bickering
and snarls
dad
the critic
and mom
the back stabber
a war that lasted decades

my love and admiration
for my father
the hero
turned despot
withering to hate

mom finally
died
from a life she didn't want anymore
but before she did she looked into my eyes
calling to me
from deep to deep
lover,lover, lover

i dreamt of her last night as i often do
we made love  
she covered me with her body
and i wept and kissed her
thinking she was mine
zebra Apr 2020
To many young writers think a poem is just a story obsessed with making points
In this writers opinion anyway, this remains an immense failing of perception.
To me a poem is also about music i.e. the sounds of words as they interact with one another. In other words the sonic resonance of language as vowels interact. This becomes so obvious when one reads the most lauded poetry
EX
"Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles"

"The suffocating aeons of spinning stone pillars"

"butter yellow blink mouth
like a strutting pigeon
squanders the language
of pebbles and seed"

Just sayin...…...
zebra Sep 2017
Black agat cat
koshei-deathless
fire in a skull
a conjuring crone
grand mother of terrors
nag
draped in black
the key hole to her door made of teeth
black salt queen
she rings the  alter bell
her curse
return to sender
address known
dancing alligator pendents
worry dolls
worried
she dances on chicken legs

For many years now
I watched her son
"I have been trailing this old murderer,
this cunning ancient seducer,
this revolting old rake,
deformed by old age
yet disguising himself
time and again
as a youthful prince charming.
This crafty hunter
of the broken-hearted,
this vampire wooer with a voice as bittersweet as that of a cello on a lonely night,
a subtle, velvety charlatan,
a master of stratagems,
a magic piper who draws the desperate and lonely into the folds of his silken cloak.
The ancient serial killer of disappointed souls."
This Poem is taken from the mythology of Baba Yaga....Slavic Witch
and the writing of Amos Oz excerpted and put in poetic form from
A Tale of Darkness
zebra Sep 2017
mother of mysteries
love like water
spirit of life
puer and puella
arm and arm
a tangle of kisses
with fear and faith
they walk
tear blinded
through
the
roads
of
God
zebra May 2017
im breaking apart over you
dark girl flaming
blond bomb shell
toe head
red dread
black coal heart
with
lime green nails
and
cherry lips
fire breather *******
toy
that plays with me

im your top
spinning dizzy lolly pop ****
im on the floor
at your feet
you kicker
your a balabosta
that would feel so good
if it didn't hurt so bad

your foot
my crotch
high heels
and hop scotch
right in the labonza

better smoke some **** and recede
turn up the ****** music
to forget that
YOU
SAID
NO
zebra Jul 2020
I love you
because we
both come
from vaginas
******
zebra May 2019
slash, gay, romance, grind house, love, boyxboy, ****, fanfiction, angst, horror, death, ******, fantasy, race play ****** sadist ladies friendship, lesbian, school, fanfic, hate, lgbt, music, sad, adventure, alex, boys, cut, emo, harry, humor, hurt, lgbtq, magic, mental, anorexia, aris, axl, blood, blue, boy, boy love, boyfriend, ******* ******* boy on **** spank me daddy burn, cute, dark, drama, edward, fan fiction, pom pom **** dance, femslash, fiction, fluff, gay ***** fun love, toilet slave, hula hooping hula
Because you're worth it
zebra Aug 2021
dejabrew
zebra Feb 2017
before
we
know
kindness
we are silly moons
a primal scream
ids
gaggle of wants
having not yet understood
our own vulnerability
and its connection to others
the agony of self
uninitiated
by the sacrifices yet to come

in effect a criminal mind

as a child growing up in brooklyn
my friends and i would
make a mad dash
out of ching-a-lings
chopsuey restaurant
after eating sumptuously
with out paying the bill
electrified with terror and excitement
at the thought of being grabbed
by a chinese boogy man
and laughing breathless
when finally
out of harms way
sadistically delighting
by the panic
we caused
as some red faced hyperventilating waiter
caved trying to catch
five little hell boys
fury fast

all adults
were filthy rich
compared to us urchins
idling in the darkness and tenements
sniffing glue
in a number 2 brown paper bag
hole in the pocket poor
slow starters
uninspired
pressing through
the dragging weight
of a barren world
not yet knowing
we too will toil endlessly
worry sick for loved ones
and quake at endless indignities
trying to eek out a living
like the waiter we robbed of his pittance
on this Sisyphean rock

our lives
stretched out before us
a white knuckle ride
between hope
and quiet desperation
struggling not to be swallowed
through pitted black holes
and fake floors
into downward mobility

our pin ball souls
like small metal *****
jarred and knocked
from one ringing bell to the next
in a turbulent game
player or not
without an inkling
of the fated
dark signature
written into our genes
by deaths hand
before
we
know
kindness
zebra Oct 2018
I bend towards you ...hold your sweet head and bring my mouth slowly to yours searchingly.... your eyes brighten my heart ...its that perfect rare moment when two souls fuse...when time stops...when the world fades and that inexplicable undertow of feeling overwhelms.... lifts high... and then pulls down hard into waters of voluptuous pangs and smoldering ruins …. my brain in flames...I WANT EVERY MOLECULE...your flesh.... your blood.... your eyes burning naked....
******* DROWN ME ....
EAT ME …
**** ME...
and i slip my swollen aching **** into your beautiful mouth....looking at you as you **** me falling falling falling through your soul like glitter
Apparently my intelligence is exceeded by my sensuality ;)
zebra Jul 2016
i bend towards you
hold your sweet head
a glowing rapture
and bring my shimmering lips
slowly to yours
searchingly

your eyes brighten my heart
its that perfect solitary  moment
when two souls fuse
when time stops
when the world fades
and
that inexplicable undertow of feeling
overwhelms
lifts high
and then pulls down hard
into waters of voluptuous pangs
and smoldering ruins

i am thrilled from the bottoms of my feet
up through my **** and ****
while my mouth swells with saliva
as if hungry
and my brain catches fire
i want every molecule
cherubim kisses
your flesh
your blood
your eyes burning
like a lecher
******* drown me
eat me
**** me

and i slip my swollen aching ****
into your beautiful mouth
looking at you
as you **** me
falling falling falling
threw your soul like glitter
zebra Mar 2018
she drank her own blood
to nourish herself for the long journey
into darkness
dragged down
like a leaden black ball
to some distant netherworld
a scape of shattered moons
she a weeping mouth
hot
for the synagogue of lusts cruelties voluptuous  

while being taunted
she beckoned hells demons
come hither
blazing tongues to lick
pretty hellhounds
telling them that they were incompetent
that they did nothing
compared to the evil humans wrought
shaming them to their cold dead souls
as they nailed her to wood
and confessed that
they where more terrified
of men
then Satan
especially the religious ones
do-gooders that spread
the evil machinery of war
unlike themselves
always willing evil
and spreading good

their black tongues
and slippery red shafts
all sticks and rattled storms
setting her on fire
penetrated every inch
like she was a bed of earth
all leaves in a spicy bog
oozing poked holes

an **** in hell
her haunches
splitting bones
ridden like a bucking horse

better than a day
human
she thought
in a rapture of shimmering kisses
thundering claws
and
buttery
***** shoved up to her lungs
zebra Sep 2017
i may be a sick boy
with lots a bad habits
and neurosis
always writing evil poems
about women with twisted ideas
about *** and love
cause its more fun
to be a ***** creepy boy
cause im trans romantic
account of endless deprivations

but im beyond good
sinless really
as perfect as could be
better then god
who doesn't have to  put up with being finite
having to worry about stuff
like getting sick
money and payin the ****** bills
getting fat
body image
stayin regular
getting love and attention
emotional ups and downs
and reality distortions
putting up with poisonalities
trying to write right
tolerating ******* politicians
insults and death
and various other kinds of
**** hurt
zebra Nov 2017
I'm bilingual
i speak
English
and
Baby talk
from the bilingual genius academy
zebra Jan 2017
im bilingual
i speak
english
and
baby talk
zebra Dec 2016
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by *******
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon

your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Let me say for the record i don't think women are ******... that they adore suffering but that my poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story not judge me  although i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean .glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...you might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about
zebra Aug 2021
binge
watching
a
sorority
squat
zebra Nov 2017
her name Hysteria
she cried a gutter of tears
in search of a rhythm
that meant something
a moral enigma
her soul a run on rant
her nights
tears and terrors
days nocturnal
stirring dreams
of dark shimmering
and charmed ruins
lumined
in her rose cove heart

her soul
a sun drenched cathedral
a great baroque opera

her mouth a plugged shadow
a dammed dark pool

so she talked with her chattering fingers
pecking away

the birth of a poet
zebra Nov 2017
she didn't know it
but she had been bitten
not really by any body
more like a vision
of a vacant stare
and girating open mouth lips
like a strange idea
for a face
that caused a gnawing hunger
evoking a devils form
maybe a virus
that consumed her
while groaning as if almost human

she would wake up in the dead of night
imagining vividly
a veiled man
muscular
wet with sweat
a blood spilled mouth
raw and naked
sloping between her legs
biting her inner thighs
his teeth like syringes
with a lapping black sapphire tongue
it hurt so
but she let him
strangely she loved every second
and stroked his thick black hair
as he consumed her
and called her mommy
in a thick accent
that reminded her of summer heat
and wild groves

it happened every night
after she woke
she looked forward to it
she would wait
beguiled
her **** an oozing wound
and recite

*come sweet demon
come and eat
drink your fill
my blood is sweet

my flesh is willing
my soul is yours
do what thou wilt
on all fours

come to me
this very night
crack my bones
do it right

will i die
a long slow death
keep drinking love
take my breath

my ******* hard
bite me deep
my legs spread wide
you are my creep

i need you so
your blood **** berry
don't stop now
my **** is cherry

finish this thing
you started cruel
i need you so
watch me drool

now i slip
take it all
kisses tender
watch me fall

a dark abyss
veins run dry
hold me close
let me die

mmmm

she wept
she loved the pain
almost finished
dissolved like rain
zebra Apr 2020
Snow White
blood red
my liminal
tabloid Venus

anatomy of a nightmare
made her wet   
like a flaming June
of glitter crowns
spanning lighted pageants
and black perfumed candles

she pressed lubricated insertions
teasing open thighs
with ticklish pleated feathers  
and dressed up
to gild a galaxy of red parts
and trembling guts
that moisten *****
like slippery eel conbobulations  

***** blossom
thrilled for derrière calisthenics
yield dark fairytale Upanishads,
of tenderness
and splashing  horror

she fell to her knees
seduced  by the ******* villainess
*** **** demon queen
who kissed her pearl toes
and shapely contoured feet
*******
hot as fire night pyres
face down *** up
at her own imagined funeral
I'm glad to say
I know women like that
***
zebra Feb 2021
i'm as tiny as a fake something 
in the middle of nowhere
on the edge of nothing
wing-like 
with brazen teeth for grinning bites 
and the knee of listening 
howling into a phone
telling of hunger for food and herb
in a dream of diagraming sleep

~~~

she has no respect for the weak
hating her vulnerability
shrunken living in a cardboard room
stiff and dry the size of the sky
ranting tears in braids of rain
a five o'clock shadow of begging meditations
until deaths' lips formed the shape of O 
shaping a tunnel rimed in late afternoon
telling me her body is but metaphor
for orbiting angels
a fashionable estate of limbs
in apple fruited curved headlands
and demitasse islands of past desire
floating in pink glimmering heavenly clouds
licking the blue
where the emptiness of life used to be

she shimmers rainbow tranquilizers 
packaged by twos 
in shinny tinfoil marvels
slick as icicles
for the perfect dose 
you can feel in your hand like braille 

at tongues touch 
it folds into dark warm nothing
showing her that death 
has it's own special charisma
like calico tattoos
or syncopating neon moons

deaths mouth opens like an opera singer 
and eats her eyes 
till these sunken alters liquidate
and breath ascends distant from the ache of want
in the knee of forgetting
red and wet
black as crows
zebra Mar 2018
I'm a black dog
with a torn heart

you
are carved out of light
heavier then rocks

my bowels
a crumbling fortress
dire

in my emptiness
you
make my blood run down dark gutters
to the city of your legs
pooling at your soft pink feet

i strain in prayer
for your love
a black dog in panic

i run seven miles a day
to **** you
my body lean and wire muscle wet
women look on dreaming
as i search for you in their faces

i run killing myself
till your dead
all curving sadness
and broken creel

a hallowed
crypt of desolation

you
a sword through me

farewell
zebra Jun 2019
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark

ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees

her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands

she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled ***; a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******

her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame

her ******; buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang

her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
****, brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim

my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
zebra Jul 2019
Black eyed Venus
your lascivious confessions
a voice of thorns
made the priest *******
and for seconds he felt close to his god

i burn for you on this
iron jawed fire escape
crying on your thighs
as if landing on a dream
like a canon
that could take out the moon

feel me fickled fingers
I am potters clay
prom queen
*** goddess
luminous dusty winds
of the miraculous

everything is about death
even being born
clouds like asphalt flowers
and ancient monks

her mouth
wet like peaches and syrup
her beauty
an arrow in my throat
and the moon claims the light

i consume you a thousand times
before i die by your hand
oh so willing
tired of living in this dead house
of harsh destiny
palanquin of lust and blood
zebra Oct 2020
her bones
like splintered stone
scatter the blood of a darker self

                              "a high note at a low point"
                

eyes flicker red flames
nightmare's wine
beats the soul to the ground
in secret's place
where bodies are poems

                            "bodies of a puzzled lust"

Venus in furs
fractures chime and broken bell

                            "tell me how she hooked your mind"

staccato aphasia
trembles disrupted linearities
in a coffined mouth
as visions brim
by a mindless god's
elective horrors
in balconies of eternity

                                  "let your hands be her hands"

vertigo falls through windows
black hole air

                                    *"the coat that covers paradise uncovers hell"
Non-narrative poetry
Non-narrative poetry does not tell any story, unlike the narrative poetry. This kind of poetry reveals the speaker’s emotion, feeling, thought, mode, attitude, belief, observation, experience, state of mind etc. Poets of non-narrative poetry directly address the readers, without describing the characters and their actions.
zebra Jun 2017
have you read the book of lies
such a comfort
to know how acceptable we are
like well placed silverware
as long as i keep moon shadow
in a cellar box shut tight
where little cocka demons
play unuttered
you can't hear them rustling about
but
i shake little bats and owls from my socks

am i lookin congenial today
just a teensy icky inside
bubbles in the belly
clinched toes in crowded shoes
eek
hope i'm not dead and don't know it

my graciousness plastered on
like white sheep over a goat
to get what i need of course
to make friends and influence
sorry
about my ti ti ticks
the way my fi fi fingers fi fi fidget

my towels are folded
and in place
vanilla cup cakes with sprinkles
all in a row
like little ballerinas prancing
as plutonic volcanoes heat
like spires pandemonium

my life a white glove inspection
all pressed and starched
like a mythic poem
written by a ******
stiff with holiness
as saints float over my head
yet the world
for all my good
a thunderous
black light
a poem about the struggle between who we are and our face to he world
zebra Sep 2017
please cut along dotted line
.........................................
ouchie
zebra Apr 2020
morphine chapter and psalm
a goat herders guide to the universe
like a quantum haze
the blood drunk good book
a causal necessity
blabbering mouth piece
of ****** up fairytales
intruding cryptograms
and metric talk

an algorithm
of child ****** priests
a ***** house pope
of whispering voices
the Jesus of Satan
the eye for an eye
and
turn the other cheek
while money is the greatest
story ever told

holy mother
opens her legs
i am birthed in sin
watered in the baptism of heretics
like a panicked oyster
******* pearls
licking her **** shaped moon
in a ritual chamber
of enlightenment

bed of Lucifer
stroking his solar phallus
raising conciousness
like a ******* rocket ship
in the milky way vaginal fluid
of self deification

i am the blood in the yolk
embezzled passed the sanctum of lore
a genocidal ******
and ****** amputee
cross bearing sheep
with nuclear bombs

a Mardi Gras exterior
a death addict
having free will
without a choice
worshipper of bald faced lies
and i believe in Jesus
…..
Old Brethren's Prayer

we are the pure and chosen few
and all the rest are ******
there's room enough
in hell for you

"With regards to the immaculate conception
which is more likely
that the form of nature
had been suspended
or that a Jewish girl lied?"

Christopher Hitchens
In Memory of Christopher Hitchens whom I loved

There is no greater sin than self deceit
Anton Le Vey
Church of Satan
zebra Oct 2017
i just wana be
your sweet dreamy demon lover boy
nocturnal emissions crimson puddle
a storm brewing over your body
blood moons kissing
your eyes in my mouth
your *** a sanctum
spired kicks
and hot spit licks

Satan and the Saints weeping
like naked torrents
i play her like a cello
a languid dirge
licking deep deep
with utterances  
wild caress
like black tea
steep steep

mouths gaping like
cherry blood raw
and dark jam
a vampires moistened lips

till **** drooled and pooled thick  
muscles flex taught
we are voodoo dolls in flames
all falling red ribbons
i am a pole of lightning
you all *** smog spread
your tongue a flogging lolly
spilling sparks

the body of this woman
a crying wound
red sun streaming
freaky kisses
flesh eater drinking
beaten bones and skin
marrow melting

*** crime
sublime
who did what to who
is it bad
are we sad
where we've  been
is it a sin ?
adult sadomasochism *** explicit spicy
zebra Jul 2016
she thought
could it be morality
thats got her depressed
not letting the devil out
being hemmed in
trying to be mommies
good little girl
no filth
no blood
no ****

no cries that call
do it, do it, do it
use me hard
make me Raggedy Anne
floppy doll
will less
lucid
unhinged
from cruel moorings
of well
reasoned behaving

what if i loved you
in immoral ways
no one would have to know
will you love me back
like a fish
loves a worm
make me cry
take blood mouth fulls
from a cut neck
and tear at me
till i beg you
never stop
zebra Mar 2018
i am a fallen star
bornless, motherless
gripped in a wet black screaming tunnel
hiding in pulsing
slippery walls
all red uterine tears
afraid to come out of her
hiding under mothers dark dress
i am a soaking wound in her
descended soul
born of blood and seed
a skull under pressure
****** by gravity
swallowing mud
beaten with sticks

cold grips cotton swabs and cloth
held upside down
and spanked

now i eat the world
and it digests me
always praying from whence i came
to a lord on some far off parametric edge
a glittering kingdom

i am no thing
stunned thoughtless
to discover
that in ******
we are closest to God

more then flesh cries
when lost in its swoon
we are
all halos
as
fire flares up the spine

and lost in paradise
we are found
in beauties eclipse
all burning moons
zebra Dec 2020
he watched her excitedly
eat **** shaped food
especially eclairs
as she languidly tongued
the white buttercream
from the sides of her mouth

thinking of her
his masturbations
powered the lights
of the Catskills

it wasn't just his profession
it was his obsession

just another horney
borsht belt gynecologist
https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=bordchtbelt+humor&docid=608009001296593341&mid=97D5DA384A98BD24BFED97D5DA384A98BD24BFED&view=detail&FORM=VIRE
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