JUST SEX and POETRY

[Princess Hey]

Never trust a guy that dont like to fish,aint ever got mud on the tires,cant shoot a gun,or wont shake your daddys hand!!!!!

[PESCreate]

SOBRIQUET DeVINE wrote:

<quoted text>
brunch has left....
it's now lunch time (her name is Dianne)

LOL
Ooooh, you are sumpin else there mister.
:))
I don't want to know what you ate.

**funny guy**

[I fish]

Dianne is such a weird name for a cow.

[Princess Hey]

Love is like life,No path is so clear,and no step is so easy....

[Anonymous]

I fish wrote:

Dianne is such a weird name for a cow.

Ah, dear sweet April, once again showing us all the quality of being magnanimous : loftiness of spirit enabling one to bear trouble calmly, to disdain meanness and pettiness, and to display a noble generosity.

Jealousy is bred in doubts. When those doubts change into certainties, then the passion either ceases or turns absolute madness.

[I fish]

SOBRIQUET DeVINE wrote:

<quoted text>
Ah, dear sweet April, once again showing us all the quality of being magnanimous : loftiness of spirit enabling one to bear trouble calmly, to disdain meanness and pettiness, and to display a noble generosity.
Jealousy is bred in doubts. When those doubts change into certainties, then the passion either ceases or turns absolute madness.

And there I was doubting that you had Dianne for lunch...unnless she was a cow. Okay fine Dianne is a woman...You're not afraid of women. How's that for faith?

[Anonymous]

I fish wrote:

<quoted text>
And there I was doubting that you had Dianne for lunch...unnless she was a cow. Okay fine Dianne is a woman...You're not afraid of women. How's that for faith?

The guiding ideological principles of some American spinsters are entropy, chaos, procrastination and lunch”

Should you ever decide to have a meal with a member of the opposite sex, I suggest you start with the "cold shoulder" followed up by the "hot tongue".......both of which are "Cow Products"

and

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.

Word of Advice: Stop treading on your lip.

[Anonymous]

Wet with you

showering
with you

nothing
between us

but bubbles
vanishing

as silently
as we touch

in wetness
together

[Anonymous]

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]

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]

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........

[Princess Hey]

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

[Anonymous]

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]

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]

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]

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.&#8195;

[Anonymous]

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]

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]

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]

This tuft that thrives on saline nothingness,
Inverted octopus with heavenward arms
Thrust parching from a palm-bole hard by the cove&#9135;
A bird almost&#9135;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,&#9135;defenseless, thornless, sheds no blood,
Almost no shadow&#9135;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&#9135;the hurricane!”