all of a sudden passion suddenly

[Tzara]

I stop by with this dleserious belief that
this time you will have returned
dipping paper stars into paraffin polishing the silver beads
your promised sometimes I think I miss you
but I don't. just the feeling that words could spin
a web that saves us all

If I could light all
the alkane stars
that are your poems

would you home
on their hesitant beacon,
even if we are a dying fire?

 

[wanting2]

Many storms walked
on weakened legs, called home by wind
blown fierce and green
a devil's sigh at thoughtless sin.

So few suns rise
running for lights and lighthouses
gifting safe sight
or so hope flies through weakened legs.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

The Barfly

She presents well, designer clothes, expensive scent.
Could be a lawyer, professor or movie star but she
drinks like a fish and has the mouth of a trooper.
Her preference is malted scotch and she knows the
whiff of anything less than the best. The regulars are
reticent until they hear her swear then she fits right in
and the drink flows freely. He’s found white powder
on the counter of the Ladies’ room after closing up
and suspects she’s a junkie too. After a month as a
regular, on a slow night, she invites herself into the
back room, he takes her from behind as she leans
over a stack of crates, the bottles ringing out her orgasm.

 

[Neonurotic]

I like him like I do Spree candy. Rolling him
on my tongue, he's a smooth tang then a surprise;
he's a tart. I'm pucker-lipped, waiting for his sweet,
but I don't. I'm impatient, he takes too long.
I bite, crack him in two and chew until he's stuck
in my molars. He melts away without too much regret.

Spree is for TV movies and I don't watch reruns.

 

[4degrees]

cigarette laugh, a
smokey chortle rises
with thirty days past
taurine seems a thing
of the past
with inspections
sleeplessly stewing
dumpster dogs
and spring is coming
no snow, no jobs,
but there is something
fresh with this
heart pumping
no man or girl
the time's not yet arrived
why, why do i
do we all ask that
from time to time?
fascinations, fetishes
melt away like candy
in the rain
strangely after years
the scent remains the same.

 

[Neonurotic]

It's their soft lips, female wet, yielding
and their softer moans, submission
I like, though, I love kissing women.
However, I want foreplay with men,
their contrasting, rougher, stronger thrills,
male satisfaction and groans.
It's my dom verses his domination.
Then it's sex that goes three ways,
her and him and him again
and her on top, cherry. Her
on top of me on him, blowing
minds, then split. It's separate ways,
always me preferring to sleep alone.

 

[4degrees]

dreaming alone
like a dream
like satisfaction and
marshmallows creme
this big wide bed gets
crowded with my own
agenda, i'm no
pretender, it's like
being an explorer
finding the fossil of
my long extinct me
solidified in stone but
not tangled with
pieces that are not mine
there was once so
many bones i couldn't
tell what was what or who
my femur attached to their
pelvis, an illness
of sorts
it never fit of course
my legs are too long
and their parts too brittle
to carry the weight
of this mega ego.

 

[Tzara]

Tessie beat me to the response to Neo's five senses thread, so I'll park this here.


Death, in Several Parts

I asked for another whiskey,
but the slim girl with magenta hair
refused to serve me.

You’ve had enough, Enoch. Go home,
if you have one.
So I coddled my ice water

like it was that last shot of rum
and turned toward the stage
where some guy with a bowl-back guitar

strummed and sang Woody Guthrie,
off-key, but still
with feeling and I asked

the Junior next to me if he would drip
just a tad of his Macallan
into my glass, to blond it a bit.

The fucker bought me a Stella instead
and those hops hit
me like a Laundromat on Spin.

I bummed a Newport off
the gal sitting to my left and sucked
my lungs, my soul, my life

into that cool, menthol fog.
Guitar Boy was still singing,
and I was left there swaying on the nod.

 

[champagne1982]

A- (Seasonal) -Muse

awash on the plain backlit
with dust against a hazy
brightness, some call day,
others, brightness

a non-lunar glow
of radiance sans heat
though its name is Sol;
warmth is denied
this early in spring

of course there's no question
that trees and plants will quicken
with the seduction of bees
buzzing against blossomed sepals

So, we wait.

 

[echoes_s]

mechanic's desire

copy and paste no more

 

[greenmountaineer]

Artificial;
plastic passion
goaded by batteric buzz,
synthetic growls
singeing moans,
mechanical limbs
fluid in motion
grunt, whir, groan.

a robot feeling for the first time,
maturity of titanic
not cast iron,
nor ironic and caste,
cased.
copy and paste no more
instead a morseled taste of passion
returning,
my limbic purr;
tongue curls
pushing weights,
rebuilding muscles
teasing taste,
chaste
with haste.
I have a new arm, new hip
My lover a laptop
My lap a net book
My mind kobo’d
A robo’d storage of old files,
New words, new eyes
And whetted lip purls…
begin

There's an abundance of imagination here. "Singeing moans" almost makes the whole damn poem worthwhile no matter what followed it.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

i remember

when your hands sought me at every moment of the day
unable to get enough of my heated skin
when your touch beckoned memories of primal need
desire of ages that we tried to quench
for years.

passionless now.

i cannot remember the feel of your hands
the warmth of your skin
the heat of your breath

but i remember the need

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

when your hands sought me at every moment of the day
unable to get enough of my heated skin
when your touch beckoned memories of primal need
desire of ages that we tried to quench
for years.

passionless now.

i cannot remember the feel of your hands
the warmth of your skin
the heat of your breath

but i remember the need

Hello stranger! Welcome home.

 

[Blonde_Angeleyez]

when your hands sought me at every moment of the day
unable to get enough of my heated skin
when your touch beckoned memories of primal need
desire of ages that we tried to quench
for years.

passionless now.

i cannot remember the feel of your hands
the warmth of your skin
the heat of your breath

but i remember the need

This is really good

 

[Maria2394]

Vacancy

There is, among those clouds
that take their time, meandering
like some lost herd of cows.

I lay upon a blanket and see
a cowboy, a dolphin, a three-legged
dog and me.

The wind is bare as a whisper
caught in the background
of Pop's old cassette recorder

I used to play my guitar and sing
record my sheepish talents
to be critiqued, some other day

and then I see it, that hole
that comes and goes, that hole
from which sun-showers flow

and assume it's a place for me
though now I have nothing
to say,

so I lay my shell upon that
blanket because there's no place
I'd rather be

 

[echoes_s]

I like him like I do Spree candy. Rolling him
on my tongue, he's a smooth tang then a surprise;
he's a tart. I'm pucker-lipped, waiting for his sweet,
but I don't. I'm impatient, he takes too long.
I bite, crack him in two and chew until he's stuck
in my molars. He melts away without too much regret.

Spree is for TV movies and I don't watch reruns.

give me chocolate..

copulating taste

 

[echoes_s]

There's an abundance of imagination here. "Singeing moans" almost makes the whole damn poem worthwhile no matter what followed it.

Thank you greenmountaineer..

that should have been titanium not titanic although in water both tend to sink

 

[echoes_s]

when your hands sought me at every moment of the day
unable to get enough of my heated skin
when your touch beckoned memories of primal need
desire of ages that we tried to quench
for years.

passionless now.

i cannot remember the feel of your hands
the warmth of your skin
the heat of your breath

but i remember the need

hi Synn

the need to speak guttural

 

[echoes_s]

Vacancy

There is, among those clouds
that take their time, meandering
like some lost herd of cows.

I lay upon a blanket and see
a cowboy, a dolphin, a three-legged
dog and me.

The wind is bare as a whisper
caught in the background
of Pop's old cassette recorder

I used to play my guitar and sing
record my sheepish talents
to be critiqued, some other day

and then I see it, that hole
that comes and goes, that hole
from which sun-showers flow

and assume it's a place for me
though now I have nothing
to say,

so I lay my shell upon that
blanket because there's no place
I'd rather be

hugs

you are love
you are you.

 

[Tzara]

Firefly

I chase the flick and shimmer
of her little swoons
each night

trying to capture
even to predict her next right
pirouette

next sigh-like dip
so I may there place my lips as net
and gather her soft light in





Metaphor swiped from a post by RBS.

 

[rumple4skin]

her tongue
bequeaths
what I cannot
ice
and fever
bane
and touch

beneath
this moon
the summer stars
her words
our whispers
near and far
in silence
make me
lips
embrace me
blood cold
my shattered
heart

 

[butters]

he lights her mind
electric lights chasing
chasing
like the lights that dance atop tsunamis
a matter of matter
in motion
or a mind
mindful of electronic fields
till it rides her - a surfer -
hair standing on end
waiting for her wave to break

 

[Tzara]

Avatar

That one photograph
makes me want to soothe your neck

with a lacey fingertip
or tongue, I guess, because

you are so perfectly sculpted
it as if you posed for Praxiteles.

But I know your body
is flesh, not marble, and not

so always cold and impermeable.
At least. At least, I hope to me.

 

[Tzara]

Las Vegas Las Vegas Las Vegas

It sounds almost like thunder, but when I look
out across Flamingo Road

I see it’s just water jets going off—
ho-hum—at Bellagio and then I’m back to typing

an e-mail to someone new I’ve met
who wants to know should I use Python

or Ruby for such and so and I wonder
whether I should earlier have dropped a C-note

on the bar at Spago, jumped the rail,
and trailed the young women in the shrink wrap gowns

who wandered past, looking for La Perla lingerie
to build a more romantic life,

as if enough strategic lace would cure
the loutish grunts of Leonard, Ralf, or Paul.

Thank God I can call you
and ground myself in the earth of that mulch

you spread today in the bed we weeded last weekend,
sigh with how the algae on the brickwork cleared

when you figured out how to assemble
the pressure washer we borrowed from your boss.

I won’t sleep happily tonight in this wide
and empty and unfamiliar bed, but because we’ve talked

my work will get done and I will sleep.
Because. Because after one more long night, I will be home.

 

[corndog_]

Underwear Bomb


Not a place I’d hide
hard tubes and wires, a temperamental
trigger. Too much junk
amidst the coiled nest
of me. Leave the fever
of religious fervor in vests
and markets of the middle
east, dusty baskets
of snakes that sway
to a fakir’s siren song.
No, our midnight flight
never leaves the ground, the backseat
on a quiet street, fingers
on our fuses as we swear
oaths into each other’s ears.

::