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LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

Discipline

We are haunted not by spirits
but questions that visit
in the night and whirl around
inside tired skulls
like parasitic intruders
until they find friends
in doubt and worry
and take them by the hand
to vandalize the pastoral scenes
we wrap ourselves in.
My mother told me to picture a colour
to coax sleep
but no matter where I land
on the rainbow black graffiti
bleeds from the night
never with the intent to say something
new-it lives
so that anything bright will die
and I will be backed into the dark
alleys of the mind, wondering
which way to go.
 
Butterflies Have it Backwards

I don’t know if it’s the sway
or suspension of reality
in the wind between the willow
and the hickory but when I am flying
into the sun on Sisyphus days
I’d give up my wings to crawl inside
and lie in the stillness
of my striped chrysalis
and embrace the simplicity
of stasis and the purity of silence.
 
twelveoone said:
I may want to use this in another thread, asking for your permission
This is reminiscent of a drone incident in Kandahar, that surprise, no one cared to hear about.
And really how much more artifice would be appropriate?
Click to expand...

Feel free 1201. Sorry it took so Long replying but I've been out of the Country.
 
Midnight in the Library of Congress

I reached for a book, not to better
myself, but to end the life
of a spider that threatened
my chance at love tonight. By spider I mean

an idea, a many-eyed malice at the center
of a tangling trap. I’m all buzz
and quiver, but the story lines
keep coming and then I’m easy
meat. By lines I mean

a braid of hair that snared me, the
woven lumps that walk
the stepping stones of her spine. I
criss and cross but nothing stays
buried. By spine I mean

the volume and author in gold
letters on a library of reasons
we can’t get naked right now. There’s one
on our nightstand. Quick. Finish your book.


....
 
Lord 'a mercy, KatieJ, you are putting some mighty fine work out there!
 
KatieJones said:
Butterflies Have it Backwards

I don’t know if it’s the sway
or suspension of reality
in the wind between the willow
and the hickory but when I am flying
into the sun on Sisyphus days
I’d give up my wings to crawl inside
and lie in the stillness
of my striped chrysalis
and embrace the simplicity
of stasis and the purity of silence.
Click to expand...

this one draws me back and back
love it

those introductory lines mesmerise me, and the end wraps me in silence
 
corndog_ said:
I'm picturing you in tights.







Now I'm attaching my ShopVac to my ear.
:eek:
Click to expand...
No, no, no.

I'm more the Polonius type, big gown, huffy words, funny hat, hiding behind the arras.

Yeah, yeah, and my guts get lugged into the other room, etc.

Now, if you're talking ballet and my Grand Jeté , well, then I can only say you would be stunned by my performance.

Anyone of normal faculties would be.
 
KatieJones said:
Butterflies Have it Backwards

I don’t know if it’s the sway
or suspension of reality
in the wind between the willow
and the hickory but when I am flying
into the sun on Sisyphus days
I’d give up my wings to crawl inside
and lie in the stillness
of my striped chrysalis
and embrace the simplicity
of stasis and the purity of silence.
Click to expand...

So many "s" sounds even ends on one, the way the Sonics play in this piece they build gradually until the sibilance is relentless, then you end on silence halting the poem but ending on a lingering "s"
The rest of the poem is a beautiful cascade of effective imagery that is buoyed by the sound structure.

Here's a challenge write something of your I don't like :p
 
todski28 said:
So many "s" sounds even ends on one, the way the Sonics play in this piece they build gradually until the sibilance is relentless, then you end on silence halting the poem but ending on a lingering "s"
The rest of the poem is a beautiful cascade of effective imagery that is buoyed by the sound structure.

Here's a challenge write something of your I don't like :p
Click to expand...

Thanks, Tod! Haha! :) Well, if you had even a quick perusal of my hard drive, I am sure that mission would be accomplished-a million times over... :cool:
 
today tasted a little blue
with new experiences and old hurts
i had to stay the course
when the old 'me' would call it quits
i found a new friend
he only nearly broke my toes
but that's okay
he's nicer than my mother in law
 
Dance Lessons

I stand outside the window
admiring the sweep and sway
Even the missteps
make me a touch
envious and nostalgic
as I remember the work I put into
mastering the moves myself

Choose a partner
Take your position
Heads up, don't look down
Now begin
One two three four
Step step back back
Find the rhythm
Feel the beat

I glide step away from the window
down the street in a bird of paradise dance
meant only for myself
All the partners
I've ever had
have long since lost the music
but it's still in me
though I now dance alone
 
I'm not looking for a boy toy
a model kit that I have to build
and handle with extreme care

I want a real man; gently used
is quite alright, as long as he comes
pre-assembled, in working condition

Functioning motor neurons
are more important than
a dent free exterior

I want to hear how he gets
all revved up
before I take him for a spin

Little bits of cushioning
poking out show character
and indicate to a comfortable ride

He needs to hugs my curves
and be able to handle my reigns
when the going gets rough

His antenna should be well tuned
so he can pick up my song and
his speakers good so I can hear his

I'd like an automatic transmission
so I don't burn out the clutch
trying to get him into gear

And finally, no built-in GPS,
getting lost and finding your own way
is the best part of new adventure
 
(Confused) Poem for Lori

You never noticed me. Or, if you did,
I was that dullard boy who sat behind
Your friend Charlene, the girl who had a kid
When she was just sixteen. I was your sieve—
Your notice leaked through me like katydids
Consuming my desire, as if resigned
To never notice me. 'Cuz, if you did,
I'd be some duller boy. One more maligned.
 
Check

When did life become
based on a true story
with autobiographical narratives
written by fabricated selves
surgically sculpted into a series
of nesting dolls whose emptiness
varies only in volume. Why are we
competing with Peter Pan, playing
games and pretend? Always recreating
and reinventing, forgetting
the dignity of acceptance
and the grace that comes
from appreciating what is. We watch
people famous for doing nothing
do nothing while a stranger crawls
inside a crumbled building
brought down by gravity
and greed. He saves a boy
but they remain unsung.

Our heroes have fallen
from the headlines and we hop
between the extremes
of Justice's scale and elevate
everything into art. Stick a price
tag on a newborn baby
while her Mama bleeds out
and the cheque falls
from her lifeless fingers, uncashed
but we still we pay the price.

Beware the glister
and all the pretty
boxes wrapped in gold.
And all the pretty people
so easily bought and sold
Beware of the walking death,
a life of insipidity and a world
that would have left Pygmalion
cold. Beware the moment
the truth becomes the lie you're told.
 
Last edited:
corndog_ said:
Midnight in the Library of Congress

I reached for a book, not to better
myself, but to end the life
of a spider that threatened
my chance at love tonight. By spider I mean

an idea, a many-eyed malice at the center
of a tangling trap. I’m all buzz
and quiver, but the story lines
keep coming and then I’m easy
meat. By lines I mean

a braid of hair that snared me, the
woven lumps that walk
the stepping stones of her spine. I
criss and cross but nothing stays
buried. By spine I mean

the volume and author in gold
letters on a library of reasons
we can’t get naked right now. There’s one
on our nightstand. Quick. Finish your book.


....
Click to expand...
I'm arriving late to this thread, but I got a kick out of this one.
 
Note

I only initialed the love poem
that I left on your desk,
so that you could pretend

you didn't know quite who
it was who left it there—
as either a chocolate or some bird shit,

something delicious or a stain
you'd have to scrub off the diary of your life
just to feel clean again.

If you get a washcloth out,
I will leave you alone, for my love
is not obsessive. I am simply

eager, mournful, yearning. . .
based, I know, entirely upon how
we sometimes have talked

as if that meant my hand on your thigh
might excite you
or my tongue might interest you

twirling, in some sweet way other than words.
 
Squall

Flailing against the wind
gale-force desires
never quite met
attempt to grab
scraps that swirl
on the current of want
to catch whatever you can get
before it all blows away
leaving you disheveled
and windburnt
 
Coat upon a Stick
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick. . .
—W. B. Yeats, "Sailing to Byzantium"

Please look at me for what I am;
a rustic hanger, upon which
some clothes are hung to mimic Man.
A curiosity, a glitch,

a brusque affront to GQ types.
Givenchy vest? I'd never wear
some suchlike thing, mix checks with stripes,
be seen with matching pocket square.

I may be quite a paltry thing,
and one ill-dressed, in fact, besides.
A football jersey's how I swing—
though clean and pressed. Quite dignified.



https://www.adventure-journal.com/2016/09/outdoor-research-satirizes-gq-climbing-shoot/
 
My soul claps hands and sings
although no tree in forest falls
or if it does I count no rings
for here past time all's
well (that doesn't end between
the dawning and the stone).

I've perned and turned me clean,
gyred, gamboled till I dance alone.
 
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