LITEROTICA PODCAST
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

A focus on Meat

H

hmmnmm

Guest
Okay Eve, I started with:



Dinner
linen
in ruins:
marrow ooze,
gristle pebbles,
arrhythmic spittoon ping
crawler guts writhe
communal sink.
Peasants slurp chowder
knights quarter oysters
 
And

from that, this:


marrow ooze,
gristle pebbles,
arrhythmic spittoon
ping

crawlers writhe
communal sinks,
ruin linens

Peasants slurp
wench chowder
knights quarter
china oysters
 
gristle, marbles, spittoon ping
bonecrunchers marrow drool
communal crawlers ruin linens
chowder wenches spooned, writhe
china oyster hulls quartered
 
???????

jawbones chisel
gristle into marbles,
marrow drippings
stain the pink spittoon.
chowder wenches spooned,
oysters paddle
oriental bayous
 
or maybe there's two little pieces here?

one is the scene with the barbarians gobbling down a fresh kill

the other is a dinner table linen setting made into a bed of oysters. Or one large shucked oyster spread open on the dinner linen.


Or they're two scenes in one. Contrasts.

Another hunt pends the morning.
 
hmmnmm said:
from that, this:


marrow ooze,
gristle pebbles,
arrhythmic spittoon
ping

crawlers writhe
communal sinks,
ruin linens

Peasants slurp
wench chowder
knights quarter
china oysters
Click to expand...
I like that you broke it into stanzas.
I also like meat.
The last time my boyfriend made me mad, he knew not to send me flowers again. So he left meat at my door. He came back later and cooked it for me. I appreciate meat -- and meaty poetry.
 
WickedEve said:
I like that you broke it into stanzas.
I also like meat.
The last time my boyfriend made me mad, he knew not to send me flowers again. So he left meat at my door. He came back later and cooked it for me. I appreciate meat -- and meaty poetry.
Click to expand...

you Tiger
 
hmmnmm said:
you Tiger
Click to expand...
I'd eat a tiger. Tiger meatloaf. lol
Okay, we need to fill this thread with meat poems. I'll find a meaty poem or write one. Oh, wait! I have a bone poem that I need to locate. It's not meaty at all. This can be the meat and bone thread. I have bone poems! Somewhere.
 
No Meat

Bone Poetry
12-06-04

Slice to there,
write painful,
clean.

There are details displayed with horrific delicacy,
fist and flesh trimmed to black, blue poetry.
Screams in the nest, still raw.
Wedded fray speaks for splintered wood,
for skin bruised like surrender.

Less is the language
of fragile poets.
 
An Eagle Will Eat It



sleepy socket peelers
a mommy
a
daddy

cranial
polish

domed
capped

beak tips
for vessels,
bitchy
freezer breath

crag heights
airway grill
breakfast special
interstate offal
 
My great granny was a bird eater.

After The Doves
'04

Clara's boy brought turtle or roe,
simply to please her,
to be her boy.

night-eyed creatures
with delectable features
sacked and toted
fur and quiet-throated

He recalls those soft ones
most of all —
not turtle or roe.

I kiss him goodbye,
a red stone whisper
on his lips.
 
There's meat and meat.
You mean meaty like something conformable, squeezable, edible, rippled
as opposed to spare hard structure/skeletal: boniness.
Or both. There's meats served boneless, which you can cut into with utensils, and there's meats left on bones, the bones give your hands something to do, and your lips, the greasy drippings on your fingers. Speaking of greasy drippings let's not forget fat. Fat is no popularly encouraged character, but we all know it's fat what gives flavor, and makes tongues dance in delight.
 
When I requested more meat on your poems, I wasn't talking rump roast. Most of your bony poems have just enough fat for flavor. Only a few were a bit anorexic. But that's okay. I've starved a few poems in my day. :devil:
 
WickedEve said:
When I requested more meat on your poems, I wasn't talking rump roast. Most of your bony poems have just enough fat for flavor. Only a few were a bit anorexic. But that's okay. I've starved a few poems in my day. :devil:
Click to expand...

you keep them caged?:devil:

So. You're getting bones with just enough flavorful fat to frustrate you, your appetite is whetted, and you want more thick slabs of flesh you can bite into. If I work on adding meat between the bone and fat?

Am I warm?
 
meat representing muscular motion as opposed to static bones piled on a table?
 
Check out those
two runners who
exert
elliptically
neck and neck,
faces streak pain

they must have
a trainer who whips them
makes them get dirty in
turf they trample,
watches
them wrestle.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
The Golden Era actor
who also often danced
juggled sticks
over the woodsy cabin’s woodstove fire.

violet painted the window,
orange sherbet broken frays streaked its pane.

The actor doffed
a photogenic flourish,
and his slicked-back hair
vied for visual compensation.
In other words he mugged, and he could croon,
if the chance, winsome dressed, came his way.

Just then, the heroine, off-camera,
came.
She came
not in the scene or in the actor’s arms.

Came behind the cameraman
the heroine did, slightly.

She came with a cry
she muffled with her hand,
smudged semen
inadvertently across her lips
emoted the seminal drama
that came from the camera man.
 
The actor’s jealousy long simmering,
finally erupted, and crooned a curse.

The heroine
never offered to jack off the actor.
Never! Always business. No more.
No fling. No dalliance. Not one quick poke,
not one teeny tiny charitable
stroke.
Pretending to kiss for movie-goers
drunk on bathtub gin. Lickety split whore
pulled down the cameraman’s pants, jacked him
off while the silver screen actor crooner
fiddled with fake sticks for the camera

The heroine’s lips dripping semen,
verbally accosted her costar.
“We are not lovers, you and I!”

“And he is your lover?”
The actor pointed
a dramatic digit
at the cameraman,
and his blazing blue eyes
at the post-orgasmic heroine.

The cameraman
hoping to maintain cushion
furtively glanced at the cabin door,
or the thin painted board door
representation,
since they were not inside a real cabin
and they weren’t even in woods
or woody terrain.

The actor thrust his hands out outwardly.
They menaced.

The cameraman took a dash
for the fake cabin door,
but was tackled by the actor,
and they both
crashed through the painted window.
 
Meanwhile, the director was not incognizant.

Accustomed to vain actors, mousy heroines
and doped up movie camera plebes obeying
every whim he only had to speak, he yelled,
“Cut!”
and his complexion suffered sorely, stiffening,
because for the first time since he’d carried an
Oscar home nobody obeyed him. They cut not
their antics at all. The director continued
to yell “Cut!” and threw his directors chair,
his director’s megaphone, and his director’s
hat across the set, ripped off his false moustache,
and stomped it like a ranting child.

The heroine, always excited by men
losing their cool, prostrated herself, hitched up
her dress, stuck her hand into her panties,
and masturbated.

The director, seeing her masturbate,
his cock went readily stiff,
he shucked his pants down, the director did,
and did jack his cock,
riveted optically upon
the struggle in his heroine’s panties.
 
goodbye cuts both ways

you left a memo
it held munch meat to swallow
now eat your own words....
 
hate to use a horror tale cliche

but a scream really did
howl in the black valley bowl
instinct allowed nothing else
than flight haven-bent

collect sense
count bullets
 
A farmer found an antique
blue bottle, unearthed it.

The farmer’s county
was green valley country,
where legends’ arms stretch
past modernity
elbow the future
the farmer gifted the bottle
to his spouse:
an early anniversary.
He also picked her roses
and burrowed in her furrow.
 
Intrigue worked
the bottle’s cork
bottomless well
spilled forever
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top