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LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

007 Challenge

Two candles meet.............become one flame
then separate........its just a game
love must be more.......than physical

Lips that touch.........tongues that meet
voices whisper...............words so sweet
is love really all that..................mystical

Bodies pressed to seek...........release
short lived is the lovers.........peace
nothing seems to remain ........in the dawn

Hand clenching hand..........in lovers dual
a game played out from fool.......to fool
and it just goes on and........on

But then a light inside of.......me
reflects an image you can....see
and time seems to start......again

You greet me with your bedroom.......eyes
hide your truth in lusts ........disguise
for pleasure mixes oh so well..............with pain.................thank you for the welcome.
 
Jack Cassidy

whose brother was bishop
stole from St. Dismas,
The Good Thief Roman Catholic Parish.

Poor Jack!
He went to Iona College
for a small business degree
when everyone else went to Yale,
Bates, or Harvard
for Wall Street or Washington
carnal knowledge,

and when Jack confessed his venial malice
of congress with a street walking trollop
he wondered what the metal was
in Father O'Leary's chalice.
 
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You green like a virgin but Hawaii
I know you are older than you look.
Even your water is patient, filtering
through mountain for 40 years. Not
that anyone would know,
looking at you. Lush
ly carpeted thighs beckon climbers
up to that round window
of your moon which is somehow
fuller than other moons
and lower. I admit I wanted
to curl my fingers around the slight
fat of your thigh and nuzzle
the brown smooth places
your forests have worn or shrugged
clean away. Hawaii, I know

all about tourists. New York
draws plenty to stream the
busy veins of her body. Fingers
and mouths open, raise to try
to reach and hold her towers.
Still others pretend to know her
though they've never
dared to visit. Hawaii our slake
is trafficked but your pacific
potion keeps you looking
young while I become tatooed
by picarists.
 
I suppose I write
simply to see myself
as words slide
from my mind
onto the keyboard
and as if some swatted fly
emerge as splattered scratches
upon a screen
which windows
opened to a world of voyeurs
who upon seeing my nakedness
realize
size really does
mean nothing
 
Six Seeds

Six of seven mornings we tangle
roots in blue cotton, then limbs as day
slips over our nakedness.

Six times we shower, shave
and pull around us interchangeable
towels from identical hooks.

Six of seven breakfasts are packed
along with notebooks spilled over the rug,
paper half spilled from three-ringed pods.

Six of seven dinners are eaten from the
same bowl to save washing. Six of seven
nights kept between our whispering lips.

Saturday is my singleness. I sweep
over curbs and search for pockets
of delight to fill you with.

You return to your duty--branches need
breaking. Oil needs changing. Long Island
pulls you to its center for 24 hours.

I am glad, one day later,
that your wife doesn't cook.
 
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Just in case anyone took poem 6 the wrong way . . . picarists wasn't a reference to any person on the forum but to taggers in NYC. I have tremendous respect for everyone here and also for graffiti artists, but taggers sometimes remind me of people who have notoriety issues. :) It seemed appropriate for the poem, but I worried that people may have thought it had other meaning. It didn't. :rose:
 
The Bee's Knees

What do you say to some Joe in a chair
whose careless caretaker wheels him into
me at The Bee's Knees in Morrisville,
built for breakfast, shined with linoleum,
and dark roast coffee with a bran muffin?

He smiles at me while she rolls him away
far from my catechism memories
when those of us, made in God's image,
believed Sister Rose because she said so,

and when I saw Joe smile at the waitress,
I thought, well, maybe she's right after all.
 
Vinyl Sins

In Bhopal the tiger of profit
crept through the streets at midnight,
aimless in the sub-continent
with a random appetite.

Those in high places or leeward
smelled but a wisp in the breath,
but what of the fangs for the blameless
of methyl isocyonate?

(In memoriam December 3, 1984)
 
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Polish Furniture for Pennies

OK. You're Polish, right?
You, like I, an Irishman,
would think it was an epithet
like Comrade Lech Walesa met
from all those smartass Soviets
in the shipyards of Gdansk.

No, it's two parts olive oil,
one part lemon,
and a clean, dry flannel cloth.
 
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The Republic of Fishes

little fish
little pond,
little fish
Big Pond,
Big Fish
Big Pond,
little fish
Big Pond,
little fish
gone.
 
Angels and Insects

Christopher Hitchens once made a decision
to believe in God or not, the latter
over the former, like his hero, Ebeneezer.

He made it with the finest precision
of a someone who chose not to look
at graveyard tombstones since Charles Dickens

who fell out of favor when Darwin's books
disproved Church, Satan, witches, and wiccans.

But Christopher Hitchens, he no longer touts
"Simpletons see life but with a crayon"

and dreams each night of Dickensian ghosts
with chains beyond flesh and bones in prison.
 
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sigh


what a feast this morning. thankyou, gm.

bhopal and vinyl sins, and polish especially. and that way you have with titles? ssssscrumptious.
 
Tzara said:
ornithology & myth

when finally we were naked
she twisted onto her belly, arced,

opened thighs soft as feathers
to my avian eye

even my fingers ached
for I wanted to drizzle her with salt

so to fix her in place
like a perfect, captured bird

who would never startle for cover
when I rose up from the blind


.
Click to expand...

Tzara said:
Entymology
after Eric Carle, sort of

i am always now a caterpillar
eating my way through the leaf of you

each chew enlarging the emptiness
of your centered hole

while i
more famished only grow

most oddly it is somehow you
who finally bursts in bloom

emerging drenched and all aglow
new butterfly


.
Click to expand...

and thankyou, tzara. till i write anything new, this thread is keeping my muse fed.
 
I agree, Chip. Tz and Greenmountaineer have some wonderful work in here. Amazing how Green's fish poem said so much with so few words. Made me grin. See? :D



Curled tight to Love,
knees bent over his limbs,
I listen; leaves whisper
sunlight to wind and wind
to sunlight. Between
them I warm and shiver
against him. I am the knot
he struggles to unfurl
even as I tighten
clenched and wound.
 
1

Nudity

is your one state
devoutly I always wish for,

as if all clothing were evil
somehow. The odd thing

is that I'd rather some small bit
of fabric cover you,

be it ankle or neck
or crotch, so that

I could imagine
your softer parts held

tight against cotton knit
or some thread

woven of synthetics
sized perhaps a bit too tight.

Don't get me wrong—
I sure want to survey your open skin

like a Kentucky hollow
complete with its clans and stills and feuds

that I, outsider, could smooth over
at least in my own mind.

But I am no Hatfield, nor McCoy.
I just want to enjoy

your long body, more than as battlefield,
as serene and sifting dunes.
 
2

construction

I don’t know what love is. But
it’s not simply semen

caught cupped below your body
like sweet crude bleeding

out of barren Texas ground.
Though it is that too, of course,

all animal anger and need,
but also it’s that longer thing

called, ahem, discussion.
Less thrilling, perhaps, but even dulled

it is the pin that anchoring in beams
upholds the odd edifice

we call conjugal relationships.
If we talk, if we talk, if we talk,

if we enough,
they will not fail and fall.
 
3

Sideman

I was only playing lead
for it was the movie star, the politician,

the poet, the engineer she went home with
after the evening's last show

and I was left tracing that tattoo
at the base of her spine

like an afterimage
on blank hotel sheets
 
4

fellatio

it’s that you kneel
that first makes me hard

just the idea of it, almost as if worship
was your motive, inspiration

for this most carnal act
and then I remember how I buried

myself in your wet folds
listening to your cat moans and cries

oh, how I prayed for you to come
and suddenly I deliver myself to you
 
5

thank you, Steve

that I can scroll
quite here and click and know
that I blurt Helvetica


Steve Jobs (1955-2011)
 
6

Fault

I have left small trail
on these otherwise

clean sheets, as if infertility
could squirt

itself onto the fist and fire
of your opened thighs

and I am sorry
I could not engender life

in the campfire of your loins.
So I am leaving now.

You will want to bivouac
amidst his so perfected genes

and I am only tardy
biologically
 
Most of what we have
said, worn, done is only the peel
that is first punctured

with a nail or hard look or
stiletto, maybe a cork
screw. After this essential
breach, anything is possible.

There are forms but we don't wait
for sonics or repetition other
than the revolution of body against
fabric until all that is left

is air and skin and then skin and skin.
This is the immersed sigh. This
is the longed for moment

when we are bare and yet
not empty. In fact we are bare
yet so full as to spill

from our eyes every secret. From
our fingers every longing. From toes
every hope. From this slow reaching
suddenly we are aware of ache

and bones that are always too cold
suddenly unknown and unknowable
in the warm and equal press.
 
Love as cellular inevitability

Strong pull, weak pull around
around and then FREE! Busted
out of this wall and into
traffic!

Alice nibbles the cake until
no clothing can hold on
to her small

body running away and not
to, particularly: this
will not be tolerated.

Even as she loops the table leg
she knows it will not last and sure
enough, some key falls

will not stand ignoring
until she must push it in
and turn

into the weakened wall
to join a lopsided
cell that asked

without words, just by lack
for the entrance
and small yes of one

ready to slip
into the place of whatever
has passed or to slide

into a new position created
exclusively on the word of mouth
just for you just for you bow

of blue. Pink is all
around waving
your ray
in
to place.
 
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PandoraGlitters said:
Tz, I really love your 2. Some good phrasing and depth there. Thank you for that and the rest. :rose:
Click to expand...
Thank you, Dora. I always love to see you post poems, because of their elegant and graceful phrasing. They are always quite, quite lovely.

I know. Fanboy. Way it is.
 
7

Wine

I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.
—Amy Lowell, “Anticipation”

I hope I won’t stagger as I meet
you in some suavely named coffee shop,

or that you won’t cringe
when I order simple drip, no room.

I like to think that honesty
is not only a cardinal virtue, but mine

particularly, the way Cornhuskers bleed red
and Wolverines blue,

as if color was worth. I am bled
dry, like a penitent or a drunk

trading platelets for a bottle
of insecurity. Forgive me

if all I can remember is those jeans
ironed on your body.

Remember, instead, how I savored your bouquet,
rooted in your fine terroir.
 
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