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Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4362
Nov 17, 2012
 
Her skin, I love to touch,
I love to touch her skin.

Soft, succulent, delicious skin
on legs, belly, breasts, her folds.

I love to touch her skin.

Our mouths,
with gentle suction,
pulling and drawing,
Our tongues,
entwined in rhythmical dance,
sliding, swirling,
simulated movements when united.

My long, thick erect
protrusion enters her skin,

Her skin,
I love to touch.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4363
Nov 17, 2012
 
Moving on,
Going no where.
Caring 'till dawn,
Sounds that seem to care.
Music low,
Hearts beat,
No one must know,
Panting in the street.
The two as one,
Lovers in the night.
All night long,
'Till they're done.
Coming together -
to make everything right.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4364
Nov 17, 2012
 

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Her mind screamed out "Make love to me"
Her body screamed out "Make love to me"

She did more than that

Without a word
Without a thought
She touched, licked, kissed,
nibbled, and sucked
on places that my body
thought had lost feeling

Passion, Desire, Lust
She knew just what I wanted
From the top of my head
to the tip of my toes

I shivered
Cried out
Then hardened

The rush of sensation passed through my body
It made all the tiny hairs stand up on end
Just a touch and all of my feeling
came back to me
From just her touch

I fell asleep that night - peaceful
Only to awake the next morning
and realize that she was already gone

Just a dream
I don't know;

But when she comes back
we shall start all over again
and again
and again
and again........

“Crown Of Life”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Smile and Shine..

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#4365
Nov 17, 2012
 

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I knew you were special because no matter what kind of mood I am in you always manage to make me laugh...
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4366
Nov 17, 2012
 

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How many times have I thought of you
And the many things I'd like to do with you.
I sleep at night with you on my mind,
One night with you, would be just fine.

Your white robe is what I see,
I wonder, wonder, how it would be.
If I could touch your lips with mine,
The thought of this is so Devine.

I want to see you without that robe,
Your body to touch, caress, and probe.
I'd lay you down, your body to admire,
One look at you, sets my soul on fire.

I want to feel you, touch, and kiss,
send you into .... heavenly bliss,
I want you, need you, feel my desire,
Me inside you, I would never tire.

I could make love to you all night long,
It would feel so good, it couldn't be wrong,
These are my thoughts, what I fantasize,
You're all too perfect in this man's eyes.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4367
Nov 17, 2012
 

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An Open Letter from Adrian DeVine....

"TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN."

It is strange, but nobody seems to have told us what exactly is the proper business of criticism.

There are many critics who might tell us, but for the most part they are amateurs. So have the critics nearly always been amateurs; including the best ones. They have not been trained to criticism so much as they have simply undertaken a job for which no specific qualifications were required. It is far too likely that what they call criticism when they produce it is not the real thing.

There are three sorts of trained performers who would appear to have some of the competence that the critic needs.

The first is the artist himself. He should know good art when he sees it; but his understanding is intuitive rather than dialectical—he cannot very well explain his theory of the thing. It is true that literary artists, with their command of language, are better critics of their own art than are other artists; probably the best critics of poetry we can now have are the poets. But one can well imagine that any artist's commentary on the art-work is valuable in the degree that he sticks to its technical effects, which he knows minutely, and about which he can certainly talk if he will.

The second is the philosopher, who should know all about the function of the fine arts. But the philosopher is apt to see a lot of wood and no trees, for his theory is very general and his acquaintance with the particular works of art is not persistent and intimate, especially his acquaintance with their technical effects. Or at least I suppose so, for philosophers have not proved that they can write close criticism by writing it; and I have the feeling that even their handsome generalizations are open to suspicion as being grounded more on other generalizations, those which form their prior philosophical stock, than on acute study of particulars.

The third is the university teacher of literature, who is styled professor, and who should be the very professional we need to take charge of the critical activity. He is hardly inferior as critic to the philosopher, and perhaps not on the whole to the poet, but he is a greater disappointment because we have the right to expect more of him. Professors of literature are learned but not critical men. The professional morale of this part of the university staff is evidently low. It is as if, with conscious or unconscious cunning, they had appropriated every avenue of escape from their responsibility which was decent and official; so that it is easy for one of them without public reproach to spend a lifetime in compiling the data of literature and yet rarely or never commit himself to a literary judgment.

~DeVine.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4368
Nov 17, 2012
 

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Two men walk on a path.

One has a blade in his pocket.

We do not know if the edge
is grimed with paint, or butter,
or is clean as a newborn tongue.

One has an apple in his pocket.
Put a horse at the end of the path
and he is kind to animals.

Leave the horse out, and he is hungry.

They can stop and sit together,
knife licking away the skin
in perfect, blush-red strips.

One will look over his shoulder.
One will fail an appointment
he promised to keep.

But they can have this meal,
if they choose.

Then keep walking.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4369
Nov 17, 2012
 

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We passed the baby over the bed, and later we passed tissue,
and her Bible with its onion skin pages, its highlighted lessons
and dog-eared parables she kept handy with bookmarks
whose tassels hung and swayed as her hair
might have done when she was very sweet and very young,
and when we had finished what reading we would read,
we stopped a little while to register the pleasant song
the woman on the stereo was singing, and then the baby
cried for milk, and so we passed her back across the bed,
which is when someone asked if there was any more water
and we passed the water over her lips with the swab the nurses gave us
just for this, a square pink bubblegum lollipop-looking deal
like the treats she used to give us when we were very sweet
and very young, and someone came with roses,
and though we smelled the flowers because we hoped for something better
than the smell that lingered all around us, hothouse flowers
look alive long after their lively smells have faded, so when someone came in
with cards, we passed the cards and flowers over the bed and stood them up
with the other cards and flowers on the little stand of white plastic and chrome
that passed for a bedside table in that place, and when a friend came in
who hadn’t met the baby, we passed the baby over the bed
and the friend said, she’s so sweet, and when a cousin came
who knew things few of us knew, we listened to stories
from when both of them were very young, and when someone cried
we passed the tissue over the bed, and when someone said, she’s so small now,
we remembered the pink square bubblegum lollipop swab,
and when the nurse said, you can tell by how she breathes,
someone got the Bible from the little chrome and plastic stand,
and when someone said, it’s okay to leave, we didn’t want to
do a thing, and though several days later someone told me
people somewhere in the Deep South pass a baby over the bed
of a dying person to say there will always be new bodies
to celebrate and mourn, that night we only knew the baby needed a change
and someone had to take her, and so we passed the baby
over the bed and decided who would stay to watch her go. 
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4370
Nov 18, 2012
 

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Sharing shards of shattered sympathy,
Marking muddled moments of misery, my
Feelings; flowing freely from
Pen to paper; printed,
sometimes published; poetry.

Not now, no, nevermore
Will whispered wishes,
wandering wants, wake
Another aimless animation;
Agitated, restless,
revelling in regretful reluctancy.

Darkness; Dying. Dead…Dawn
Brings brightness, but
I, inking in infinite iterations,
I like little light;
in little light, love lives to lift
My mood, my mind, myself, me.

Sugar sleeps softly, supplying sweet
Therapy, to this thinker,
this thankful throwaway;
to thyself; that
My madness may move to
One’s One-ness oncemore.

Reason for respite;
rest & recuperation.
Reason enough to evoke enlightenment;
Even peace, perhaps. Pacified,
Insomnia isn’t an issue.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4371
Nov 18, 2012
 

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our eyes are darkened-
a cloud hangs over us-
we are a myriad of dreamers
lost in unforgiving hopefulness

there are shadows
on the walls of the cave

they flicker;
they seem real
because we stay so still

but perspective
gives us clarity-
we see them
for what they are,
the silver dreams
enticing fantasies
comforting
unrelenting
unrealities
that others
wrote
for
us

and
we accepted
their scratching in the sand
that would always be washed
away, in the end
by the rising tide


because we believed
in an educated kind of nothing

we should write
dreams
for ourselves
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4372
Nov 18, 2012
 

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I’d like to know the curves of your body,
Like I knew the turns of the creek
That ran through the woods of my childhood.

Somewhere safe and familiar,
Yet always hiding something new
To be discovered;
Always bursting forth with life,
Begging me to come play.

I wasted hours in the sun
Swinging from vines and catching minnows,
Forgetting half constructed forts
In favor of chasing a new friend,
And I know that I could
Step into you, and get lost,
Just like I did in those woods.

I want to see your skin
through slanted blinds,
With the warmth of a new day
Rolling across our backs.

I want to hear your sighs,
And mumbled sleep-talk,
And try to decipher your dreams.

You spark a deep curiosity in me,
And I feel like there is an endless wealth
Of answers to be found.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4373
Nov 18, 2012
 

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This tuft that thrives on saline nothingness,
Inverted octopus with heavenward arms
Thrust parching from a palm-bole hard by the cove⎯
A bird almost⎯of almost bird alarms,

Is pulmonary to the wind that jars
Its tentacles, horrific in their lurch.
The lizard’s throat, held bloated for a fly,
Balloons but warily from this throbbing perch.

The needles and hack-saws of cactus bleed
A milk of earth when stricken off the stalk;
But this,⎯defenseless, thornless, sheds no blood,
Almost no shadow⎯but the air’s thin talk.

Angelic Dynamo! Ventriloquist of the Blue!
While beachward creeps the shark-swept Spanish Main
By what conjunctions do the winds appoint
Its apotheosis, at last⎯the hurricane!”
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4374
Nov 18, 2012
 

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"LOVE'S BRUSH-STROKES."

Tell me which painter

inflames your soul,

and I will tell you

what our love will be…

Is it Miro, with bright

splashes of colour?

Our love will sparkle

like a clear night sky.

Perhaps it is Magritte.

painting the impossible?

We will defy the odds,

loving long and epic…

Now maybe Modigliani

makes you deeply sigh?

Our souls will twist in

tight and sad beauty.

Picasso move you then,

in ways not seen before?

People will wonder why

we love, but never understand.

Van Gogh’s thick strokes

have caught your attention?

Swirling and contentious,

full of passion is our love.

You like the precise nature

and beauty of Mondrian?

Our love will fit, in perfect

harmony and last and last.

Which of these is ours?

Perhaps all or none…

Our painting is not yet

begun, and never will be

finished.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4375
Nov 18, 2012
 

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all he wanted in life
to write hundreds of sonnets
comparing his lover’s hazel eyes
to a spectacular sunrise—
but life made him a murderer
to write little haikus
suggesting the jewels in her updo
were frozen tears of saints
the way the light danced over each piece
when she practiced pointe
blinding
magnificent
he had thousands of adjectives lined up
like cartridges nestled in the clip
to immortalize her plump lips
perfectly pursed
sipping her tea
patient & pensive on the balcony
while he typed the last verse
writing line after line
cooing over that burgundy smile
the way, after dinner, her pink tongue poked out to lick
a misplaced drop of wine off her lipline
as she scraped the last bit of red velvet cake
from her plate
devouring every crumb
satisfactory licks
a giggle

her indulgence, her leisure, once his greatest pleasure
but now

in deep regret
wielding knives for pens
shooting bullets as real time verbs
in place of written words
an odious fate an outlaw must take
when he chooses to forsake his coveted mistress
for a hit list of imaginary foes

always a mission before he could finish
a line, a verse, a rhythm
it was always them vs. him
picking fights with the electric company
over every little penny
instead of painting the poetry
of his lover’s beautiful ballet
no time for love
there are injustices to solve
he missed most desserts
spent most of his time cursing
his former bosses for letting him go
when he couldn’t produce the prose
they kept asking for
stopped watching her rehearse.
she spent hours in the mirror
primping, placing every pin so neatly
hair he used to adulate
twirling legs once mesmerizing

a vexing curse he nursed
so bitter at the world
first he lost his words
then his doting girl
fighting the world alone
them against him
sword against pen
but everyone knows –


world always wins
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4376
Nov 18, 2012
 

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It was
one twenty
in the morning
when
she
rolled around
and
he
kissed
her

one thirty
in the morning,
when the spaces
between fingers
are
filled

and
atoms
are
built
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4377
Nov 18, 2012
 

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Between us silence lies.
No canyon or chasm yawning,
But a lake, bottomless and broad.
Its shores grasping at the horizon.
Its surface placid, but underneath
Fed as it is by hidden springs
A tumult rises.

Or such is my hope.

Nevertheless, my eyes defy its depths.
Undaunted, drawn to your motion.
Your fingers dance across your braid
Swift fins flitting beneath the water.
As your eyes sparkle with laughter
Like the first stars rising
Against the sunset of your blushing skin.

Unfurl yourself unto me.
Water lily, soft petaled wallflower
Bloom out of distant, muted winters
Into laughing, vibrant spring
Where the blithe breeze exhales
Silence and warmth in the same breath
Caresses young flowers and ripples glassy waters

“Crown Of Life”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Smile and Shine..

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#4378
Nov 18, 2012
 

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I want someone who knows that I am not really perfect,yet he stares at me like I am the most perfect woman he has ever seen!!!

Level 8

Since: Jun 08

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#4380
Nov 18, 2012
 

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I am the sweet spooned into bitter
I am compassion flung at cruel
I am the one that they all run to
For advice and gentle fuel

But how shocked they would be
At the filth in my mind
That my dreams throw me down
And pull my hair from behind

That one look can undress me
Just one kiss becomes a lay
Yes my love falls on it softly
But my 'safe' word is gray

modernhippie

i hope she doesn't mind...... but she posted this on another thread...... i thought it was well placed here...... i will tell her of course...... and thank her ..
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4381
Nov 18, 2012
 

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Desiree Rose wrote:
<quoted text>
Perhaps Leon says it best...
http://www.youtube.com/watch...
Perhaps he does ?

The morning comes, it's time to leave the den

Where I feel no wrongs, and walk about, minus sin.

See my mask of emotions hanging upon my wall?

Place it on me, I leave without time to stall.



And into the sun, my mask does hide

The pain, hurt, frustration pent up inside.

I become the man who bore witness to better things yesterday,

Proclaiming to all the wonders of things to come today.



People relate to me as the boy with charms,

People relate to me as one approachable with open arms.

My mask does work a wonder,

Keeping all scars beneath me, under.



I try to kiss my past, leave it behind

And share with no one it's awful crime.

But it latches to me it's silent bond,

Only to my worthlessness is it more fond.



And in this day, this blessed hour,

Her thoughts I try to wash away in my tearful shower.

I speak to no one of the shame I feel,

And how my battled heart lay emotionless on the glorious field.



People relate to me as the boy with charms,

People relate to me as one approachable with open arms.

My mask does work a wonder,

Keeping all scars beneath me, under.



The mask that works itself unto me

Molds itself to live along side me.

Forget about the past? That's absurd when I only believed the lies,

I only remembered the truths that turned stale and died.



"Her beauty is indescribable, marvelous as anyone could say,

And for her to be mine, this is what I pray."

But which one, which girl do I refer?

They're all one and the same, all their lives from me do deter.



People relate to me as the boy with charms,

People relate to me as one approachable with open arms.

My mask does work a wonder,

Keeping all scars beneath me, under.



A foreign thought, they all come to be,

As something unheard of to my new mask and me.

Proudly I walk down the halls of unspoken wishes

And see the path given to me throughout many visions.



Living a life where what matters most is me,

Self-centeredness here is the thing that reigns supreme.

No need to worry about anyone else,

Of the girl who chooses to live along side someone else.



People relate to me as the boy with charms,

People relate to me as one approachable with open arms.

The new me is really nice to be

As I smile the smile of forgotten troubles I no longer see.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#4382
Nov 18, 2012
 

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Watching the rain soak and stick, your shirt form of your breast,
The slow heaving, breathing motion of your chest,
Eyes dare not glance, towards yours, and meet,
And, as a matter of fact, I'd best just look at my feet.
The rapid tempo of the rain tending,
Crashing waves of beating drums trying my heart, un-mending,
Helping me, remain free from comfort
This trial, encroaching my mind for all this to sort.
But, I, you see, said you were special ten times over,
Cared for you, you know, thousand times, even when sober.
I never though, as I recalled,
Said, "I love you",'member, always stalled.
Fair skin, soft and a bit red when blushed,
And when she would smile at me, I felt flushed.
Long, golden hair, smells delight my senses,
Felt warm when she was around, during those harsh winters.
She was the one, years past still, wish to be mine,
And you were lovely, please don't cry, you are divine.
A gift of God you no less are to me,
But, she and me, I want for us to this time be.
Dare I look within your watery eyes,
And even the rain pouring down, incessant from the skies,
Couldn't mask the tears still cascading,
And this glance at you, eroding soon, my persona, awaiting.
You move not, you remain motionless, still,
Looking, not staring, no loathing, no will.
You try to capture the essence of me, perchance,
Remember my image and how we used to romance.
I sit on the ground, soil my pants, no concern, though,
And you sit, too, gazing still in my eyes, following the flow.
Depressed, you mouth to me, "I understand,"
And I felt a bit relieved, and reached out to hold your hand.
We sat next to each other for some time after,
Head rested on my shoulder, and asked some things about her.
Rain slowed some, and you kissed my cheek, wished me the best,
And for one last time, on my shoulder, there you would rest.

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