COVID-19 RESOURCES
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

Neo Classic

Tear

Half life is just that, separate,
not fully alive then
less a beating heart.
Today, inhale, I get nothing
because of the hole left there,
a sucking chest wound.

I can't remember, do I
cover it with plastic?
Leave it be and hope for you
to save me one more time?
Tomorrow, maybe.

Stop holding your breath
gimme some of that air
before your other half is gone.
 
No King's Ass Wiper

Was born too late in June
in the wrong house
but in the right body
I am quite sure of that
(I'm vain, I know that too).

I fear however, Henry
would've had me drawn
and quartered, shown me
my own guts as they burned
instead of a noble head
in a basket.

Then again, I wouldn't have been
caught. A backdoor man
is a backdoor man
and we never kiss and tell
or promise silly young Queens

anything more then one night
lay, off and we are away
because, quite obviously if there
is a Queen, there is a King.




Just nonsense. Need to stop eye-guzzling The Tudors and go to bed.
 
Idaho Shaped Box

You say you are not leaving yet
but I hear you making tickets,
readying for the job. All the while
laughing with work-friends
I don't know for reasons
I don't know since I'm not a part
of that world in the sense I never met them
though I do know them through bitching,
about "assholes", "so and so not doing this"
or "doing too much of that"

When you ask if I'm OK
and I say I am, I'm really not
because I feel like you've already left.
 
Last edited:
Equestra Not

There's a pony that lives upstairs
galloping across wooden floors
she bangs cabinet doors,
plays her stereo with too much bass,
way too loud. She must not be able
to sleep at night because her hoofs
clomping a path around and around,
probably making a moat around the kitchen
island. Clomp, clomp, clomp all day
I wait for her to fall through
so I can tan her hide.
 
-Thanks again champ for finding my little lost sheep


Sensory poems from, I don't know where champ dug them up at:


Hazy gray smoke burns my eyes.
Stinky stank of tequila, beer and puke
makes my stomach slip into a queasy lurch.
Condom dispensed—all colors of a rainbow.
A few stalls down I'm practicing dry heaves.

A bathroom in a bar.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Vanilla, hazlenut, latte flavor menus.
Cinnamon, fresh roast, fresh brew.
Cappuccino maker steaming milk
Hot cream and coffee burns my tongue,
it's my daily grind—sweet, mocha caffiene fix.

Could be a Starbuck's near you.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Mussed up dirty blonde locks
Sweat, dripping sex lube.
Breathing hot, hard and fast
salty dew—sweet soul kiss,
Your lips on my lips.

My bed by your hand
 
Flashback to Ropongi

Flash Back to Ropongi
Obscure bland buildings
in a jungle of concrete cubes
vanish at sundown,
turning Tokyo’s Ropongi
into a ‘High Touch Town’
full of bar hopping, lust crazed,
all maniacs—and I’m one too.

Neon city lights have me
sipping rice wine in
Gaspanic and Baccara;
minute-sized clubs
jammed packed with bodies
as sake with dead Habu snakes
pleasantly buzz my mind.

Hypnotic rhythms of trance music
groovers grind, others writhe alone
in a self-absorbed oblivion.
Snakes come alive to dance.
I'm charmed by two of a kind
in 5 inch 'fuck-me-pumps',
tattooed with golden koi.

Drinking Habu sake makes me dumb,
cum greedy for threesomes.
Lucky me, 6,000 ¥en pays for
three hours in love motels,
role-play behind secret doors,
a good time with less than
honorable flesh perverts like me.

I want dirty sex on clean sheets,
get nasty with Natsu and her
plum sweet sister, Setsu.
They teach me kinky can be endless
with twins in lotus position,
disappearing into ivory skin,
a double happiness, bliss out.

I bid my sayonaras 12,000 ¥en later.
After sex munchies attack me
via vegetarian yakisoba,
sticky fried rice,
no beer,
no liquor—
"Please, just milk tea."

Now wasted and fucked away,
I watch my first red sun rise.
Time to join ranks with
squids and jarheads
in a red-eye, hung over shuffle,
the long crawl back to
home sweet home in gunmetal gray.
 
SSDD

Every day is a cloud,
is a hurricane not in season
but all the same,
I prepare for them
by boarding the windows,
securing potential projectiles.

Still, it all, as always, hits the fan
and god, the splatter!
It's a mess I find harder and harder
to clean up
but all the same,
I bring out the rubber gloves,
the bucket and the bleach,

even though nothing ever stays
sanitized in this giant shit storm.
 
Mocha Maraschino

Every Friday, it's topless barista
and I'm there like every other
titty lover going through drive-thru
at Witch's Brew. They eye-guzzle
the honeys for free, are cheap, asking
for dollar drip and leaving no tip.

For me, she's a double tall,
extra hot Cherry mocha.

I like her coffee art swirled
in my fluffy foam along with
her other appealing body parts,
all chocolate flavored curvy.

She always gets more then a
coin shake in her coffee can.

Sometimes she says let's go,
add another shot, and we do,
rather ice him up, put some
Chino in our order, a size up
more for later b'cuz we take turns.
 
Trace Evidence

Blinds closed in broad day light,
a shoe, a sock or two,
bra (she unhooks under her shirt,
pulling it through one armhole
and flings it on the lamp shade),
pants, panties and the finally the shirt
are in a long trial to the bedroom.

The sheets are rumpled, pillows
on the floor for a rough and tumble;
most of all,
it still smells like sex in here.

A backdoor man occasionally
gets caught, even before he makes
his clean getaway, that door, slams shut.
 
To Ashley Madison Customer Service

I do not have any, "pics plssss"
for you or anyone.

I don't have DD's, blond hair
or long legs up to there
and my there isn't dripping
for you. Matter of fact,
I don't have what you're implying
and I'm sure as shit not inferring
any of your fucking innuendos,
not a kitty, jack, no fur trimmings.

But you can believe that or not
as everyone on the internet lies.

Now once again, this place, is too
sausage fest, Customer Service
fuckers, how do I delete my account?


(ps, not a real story)
 
Nihonshu

The person in the military ID doesn't
look the same he did a few hours ago
because he got tore up in Japan
listening to the VAMPS
drinking lime chu-hi and sake,
dancing, yes, dancing all night
(girls like a guy who will dance)

Then that one girl who smelled like
sakura in a soap, grabbed his hand,
ran out in the rain, pressed against
him to get warm again. But during
typhoon season, everyone stays
wet and cold in Tokyo, that's why,
they drink and dance, drink and drink.
__________________
 
Postcards from Yokuska

Hana Gyoza & Noodle Snack stand's
no longer here, replaced with
a 100 Yen shop carrying touristy,
plastic cheap crap made in China.

Down the path, no more sushi
art revolving on bamboo mats,
but drinky holes in the wall
with business men falling off bar
chairs, cat-calling school girls.

The Ginza lights used to glow here;
surprisingly, so did jazz.
Even they've been replaced
with hard neon nights, karaoke
spilling aloud into the street

Everywhere smells like cigarettes,
beer and puke. I go back to the shop,
buy a pack of postcards of the past
because that's all I have left.
Click to expand...

Revised:

In Japanese: Wakai

The haunch in Yokuska was
a good time, spent mostly
in a sick sake haze with shipmates
all afternoon and later, with one-night
bed-mates until early next morning.

Decades pass and Mikki's
Gyoza & Noodle Snack stand is
no longer here, replaced with
a cheap Yen Shop carrying touristy,
plastic crap made in China.

Down the path, there's no more sushi
art revolving on bamboo mats,
but drinky holes in the wall
with business men falling off bar
chairs, cat-calling school girls.

The evening lights used glow here;
surprisingly, so did jazz.
Even they've been replaced
with hard neon, karaoke
spilling into the winding streets.

Everywhere smells like cigarettes,
beer and puke. I think it's always
been like this, but I never saw it
for what it was. The drunk's gaze
is shinier, but less enlightened.

I am disappointed in my youth,
hold my daugter's hand tighter
and find all postcard memories
a comfort, at 100‎¥ a pop.
 
Last edited:
Basudekado

Haiku's were born here;
a Japanese poem of seventeen
syllables, three lines of
five, seven, and five.

Nine, ten, soon, to be eleven years
you've been my poetess, still writing
in smiles and steps
that I capture in mind.

These images evoke a world
I am charmed to be living in
your wondrous, beautiful existence.
Click to expand...

Revised


Basudekado

Haikus were born here;
they are Japanese poems of
seventeen syllables,
three lines inspired by nature,
five, seven and five.

Nine, ten, now much too soon
to be eleven years old.
You have been my poetess,
still writing with
your smiles and steps
I capture for the most precious
chapter book of my heart.

These images evoke a world
I'm charmed to be a part.
It is your birthday today,
but it is also mine.
I took my first breath with yours
and that's when we both begun to live.
 
Last edited:
Hanakotoba

I take her to the orchid garden,
where we are surrounded by
what seems to me, an anti-flower.
Its geometric petals are alien-like
compared to every other soft,
rounded shape of ordinary ones.

Language of flowers
are messages, emotions through
symbolism. I shower her with
pink roses that are my trust,
bluebells, my gratefulness,
red camellias and these orchids
are love and more of my love
I have never given to anyone but her.

In the middle of the garden
of purple, pink and white delicate
beauty is the butterflies
where she stands still, covered
in monarchs of every color,
big and small. She giggles
as they kiss her, tickle with delight,
their wings against her cheek

They adore her, like I do,
I orchid her, always.
 
Last edited:
Kokuhaku

Raked ceilings, white walls,
black lacquer tables with cloth napkins
feels fancy, too rich, but I'm still here
people watching, watching me.

I’ve never seen such well-dressed,
beautifully groomed women as in Tokyo.

In some fashion, I've passed the test
wearing Armani, last summer's
Coeur d'Alene tan and a
Rembrandt movie star smile,
a D-Lister in disguise.

Kozue, high-glamour eats,
is where I meet an impeccably coiffed
dolly, tottering on impossibly high heels.
I seat her with a lusty growl,
her reply a girly, flirty giggle
sounding better than the jazz.

We sit in our own cloud nine
made up of her amber perfume
with lots of sake on the rocks
and my broken Japanese
and her broken English;
we find each other alluring.

I can taste excitement in the ice
crunching between teeth,
making a cool drink of promise
for a hot evening yet to come.
 
Tsuri

There is an ocean of black-haired waves
but surrounded by the people, I still see
loneliness crashing down the boardwalk.

Sachi-chan gets lost in the dark waters
I search for her, dive under,
holding my breath, but I'm assaulted
by too many faces in my personal space
in a place where there is no room
to move. Too many conversations
makes my ears go pop in the ring of
cellphones and talking all at once.

She's quick in the waters, done this
swish and disappear more than not;
she likes me needing her in this din.
I think she probably laughs when she
does. Manipulative yes, but I've never
had a woman who didn't try to hook me
with a little bit of that in her sauce.

Must have air. I'm not a fish; swim
against current to press the glass
and rise for that precious commodity.

I've lost her for now, but will find her
again between crisp white sheets
in a frayed crimson kimono
that's been torn off so many times
it's merely silken rose colored threads.

Maybe I am a carp after all, her bait,
plied with yuzu cocktails and sex,
her golden fish in a pond but by now,
I'm so wabi-sabi with that, I'm her koi.
 
A Shutter Click: Sunbleached

One hundred nineteen fahrenheit
is so bright, bright, everything white.
The heat bakes the marrow,
roasting the landscape to death,

in death valley of all places.

I've been here when it was madder,
when sweat vaporized before it beaded,
desiccated my breath.

It made me swoon with a mother
of all headaches, see stars
even die for a moment

but what struck me besides the
insufferable sun was the silence.

So quiet, just shutter, click, click
of me with a close-up lens
chasing a scorpion who chased a lizard
who chased a spider across the sand in a

place where Hell is not red hot, it's bleached.
 
Con Juan

The Ace of Hearts
he says is me, a new romance
though one-nighter is what he means
as he claims the Six of Clubs,
meaning victorious.

It's tarot with his scuffed deck of cards
a con game I let myself
be played for an amusing hour or two.

Oh, he says, I'm not gay, but something
about you ... ha-ha-ha!
Ya, I get that a lot
grin at his nerves, lighting the
wrong end of his cigarette

I taste his acrid smoke.

Then cliche, across the crowded bar,
I Saw Her Standing There,
barefoot, painted on jeans
peek-a-boo top and
Godiva red hair, all legs.

Bi-curious has folded; like it
or not, I steal his game.

The Ace for her, the Clubs for me.
 
Café au lait Casanova
Born in a Treehouse


Summer 1992, felt like this:
Wind snarling through the pecan tree
shaking the fort snug in a fork.
The nuts rapped on the wooden roof
as rain swept teenage
lust out of the other window.

It wasn't the first time I saw tits.
I saw many of them in Playboy
but it was first to feel them.
Stripping her bra was like
unwrapping a dirty magazine,
flipping to the Centerfold,
but finding a better secret.

Though, hardly a mouthful,
her realness was sweet saltiness,
had me thinking of cream,
caramel and double macchiatos.

It' funny, I realize now, that's when
my moniker was born, in a treehouse,
not a coffeehouse, where the
beginning of everything that felt good.

Ya, coffee came later,
but I remember, sex and lattes
were first topped with nubile cherries.
 
Smells Like Green Spirit

attachment.php



The rain tap, tapping, ruins
the last visage of my beach vacation.
But it's not the worst that's happened.

It's the coastal waters at Haystack Rock,
a 'so-called' reprieve from heat waves
across a hotter, angrier nation.

The only waves I see are mucky green algae.
Worse, is sea shell hunting,
more like sliding through snot,
boogers sticking to the bottom of flip flops.
The bloom is a tenacious toxic slime
that smells of marsh and sewer trash
with a hint of a sick and salt.

But, it's all right.
I've got my matcha lattes,
found a lotta' bud (courtesy of
the bungalow host's junk drawer)
and a long weekend left to kill.

Yes, sir, every day all spent
sipping and smoking everything green,
making a good point of view
for a glowing Airbnb review.
 
Some Kind of Purgatory


The fan set on high hum
blows mowed grass and stinky turds
through the crackling mini blinds.

Breaking off a soft snore, she sits up in bed,
rubs sleep out of her eyes.
I can't help but grin, knowing that a
dog just chased her cat nap away.

"Ew, close the window."

"Nah, time we left,
as the saying goes, still miles
left to go..."

I lick fried chicken crumbs off
my thumb, turning a page
of an ancient album full of
black and white photos

One in particular,
a truck parked on a dirt road
with a boy sitting an open tailgate
swinging his legs.

It's not the boy or the truck,
as they are not me or mine.
It's the road. It's where I left
a different girl in a strange
place that flipped my world
into an uncertain time.

When I go back
the peace of me will return
I know it
I know it

sure as a dog who eats,
he shits.

And it begins again in some
no-tell motel
catnapping
finger-licking good chicken,
it all hits the fan.
 
OD: The Party Monster

Alex was the center of every party
and that's the truth.
As the saying goes,
all girls wanted to be with him
all the guys wanted to be him
(some wanted both ways,
be him, fuck him.)

Wherever he was at, that's where
we wanted to be. He was a live
wire, not because of his
alphabet disorders, ADD OCD or
PTSD but he was A-OK, always
all right, he said so.

And of course we believed him
or pretended to because
the part of him we knew
the most is what we liked best.

Every pill that Pharma boys pushed,
(and some of that dl shit, we dug that too),
he had them in little Walgreen's bottles:
Adderall to focus
Zoloft, Belsomra for sleep
(aka nightmares, they made him
their ever loving bitch)
He took Xanax, some weed
and mixed that shit with Oxy
for a calm that gave him a nickname,
DEA, not for feds but
Dead Eyed Alex.

Most would've said DEA
wasn't the Alex they loved
because The Walking Dead
should've been buried long ago,

like the drugs but "friends"
are knowing enablers
and addicts are addicts
fighting the fight but often give in
for one more last taste,

which Alex eventually did
ending his long, long party
(he was good while he lasted.)
(unlike his favorite zombie show.)




*still working on this.
 
Last edited:
OD: The Pharma Boy

Preston had blond and blue-eyed
good looks, wore Ralph Lauren, Gucci
and sunglasses with everything
went to prep schools, but weekends
and summer time, he had silver spoons
for his junk.

Preston was that rich boy we hated
to want to be. But he cliqued well
with that endless stash of his,
buying us up, making friends who
didn't wear collared shirts
didn't drive Porsche 911's.

No clean pharmaceuticals,
not him, that made daddy richer.
Pharma Boy liked to slum for his drugs
or so that's what he said.
(even though the money
for heroin was his allowance).

Interventions were so often
it became passé to talk about feelings,
so it was one rehab after the other.
Crossroads was a line he slipped,
then he lied at Promises,
and lastly, The Dunes buried daddy
(twice), but no more.

Disowned, desperate, not a man,
but really a child, his last dollars
bought a speedball.

Pharma Boy was found in Camden,
homeless, penniless with a
needle between his toes,
very alone and very dead.





*still working on this one too.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

Wonderer67
March 2024 Poetry Challenge A: LUST
2
Replies
33
Views
1K
BernadetteRochelle
BernadetteRochelle
EmilyMiller
Best current guidance on Literotica and AI
6 7 8
Replies
196
Views
5K
AG31
AG31
AwkwardMD
What I Wrote And Why: The Perfect Storm
Replies
9
Views
280
lilshymynx
lilshymynx
8letters
What I Wrote And Why - My Mom Competes with my Stepmom
Replies
16
Views
457
burgwad
burgwad
StillStunned
What I Wrote and Why: Ben's Big Mistake
Replies
10
Views
272
VerbalAbuse
V
Back
Top