JUST SEX and POETRY

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Anonymous

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#5267
Dec 28, 2012
 

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I have of late, for reasons I shall explain, lost all my mirth,
Forgone all custom of optimism; and indeed, it goes so heavily in my prognosis
That this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a doomed promontory;
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,
Once a brave o'erhanging firmament, a majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
Why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is man!
How devoid of reason!
How limited in faculties!
In taste and wisdom, ignorant and infantile!
In action how like a bully!
In apprehension, how like a slug!
The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
And yet to him what are they compared to hard cash?
Most humans delight not me; wrecking the planet for their short term gain,
And then smiling, as though 'twere not their fault.

NB:- Here is the original from Shakespeare, for all you pedants out there.

I have of late, but wherefore I know not,
lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises;
and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition
that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory;
this most excellent canopy, the air, look you,
this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is man!
How noble in reason!
how infinite in faculties!
in form and moving, how express and admirable!
in action how like an angel!
in apprehension, how like a god!
the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither,
though by your smiling you seem to say so.

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#5270
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Colorado Chick wrote:
<quoted text> Adrian..once more you have a captivated audience.. YOU are an asset to Topix..thank you..
How correctly you have summed up. Thank you.

Since: Dec 12

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#5271
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Original
CYP

Standing here before you in all my nakedness my lover

Without shame or blush

I offer up my swollen breasts and the heat of my womanhood

Treat me not the missionary

Scoop me up in your arms and throw me to the bed

Give to me your animalistic energy and I will give you mine

May your teeth break my soft delicate skin while my nails mark your body

Bury your face in my Tulip

As I Moan in my raspy voice do not stop

Until I feel the throbbing

There between my legs

The waves coming over me

Again

And

Again

Until I have released my sweet passion

Straddle yourself over me my love

So that I may kiss you passionately and with wild abandonment

Run my hands across your chest and then your abdomen

Searching madly for your manhood

I find it

Warm

Stiff

Erect

In your playful aggression

Throw me a top you

So I may see your face

Looking into your eyes as you penetrate my womanhood

Still wet and silken

Your fingers closed around my wrists

We begin our rhythmic dance

Giving rise to the urges of our primal needs

Again

And

Again

Dare I say scopare me now

As my lips explore yours

Biting softly then just a bit harder

Movements in unison

Breathe hot and wet

My womanhood screaming

For more

More I say

Screaming all the while scopare me now

Now

I Say

Now

Then I am utterly breathless

Your manhood throbbing

Your seed bursting forth

As I soak you in my sweet passion
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5273
Dec 30, 2012
 

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I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.

This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.

This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.

I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5274
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5275
Dec 30, 2012
 

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I love your nakedness

because naked you absorb me with your pores
like the water when I sink between its walls.

Your nakedness destroys limits with its heat,
it opens every entrance so that I may know you
it takes me by hand like a lost child
who in you lets his age and his questions come to rest.

I breathe your skin and absorb it, salty and sweet,
until it becomes my universe, credo that feeds me,
the aromatic lamp I raised blinded
when my desires bark at me in the dark

When you strip for me with your eyes closed
you fit into a glass that rests on my tongue,
you fit into my hands like bread I’m hungry for,
you fit beneath my body more exactly than its shadow.

The day you die I will bury you naked
so that your entrance into the earth may be clean,
so I miss kiss your skin on the roads
and braid your loose hair in every river.

The day you die I’ll bury you naked
just as you were born again between my thighs.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5276
Dec 30, 2012
 

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There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing little clothing or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.....

The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love-
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
dependable, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the darkening sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.

There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.

We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.

Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.

Verse. Chorus. Verse.......

I’m sorry. We know how it works.

The world is no longer mysterious.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5277
Dec 30, 2012
 

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I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in the rushing wind.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5278
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Going to a party where I knew you’d be,
dudes bobbing for girlfriends, eyes shining
like candy apples.

I want to be a lamp-post,
or the history of plumbing.
I am tired of being mysterious.

You are drinking rum next to
the laughing skullheads and I am unhappy
because I am dead and I miss you. Once
a year, day of the dead, you think you’d think
of me more often.

These people shoulda
dressed up as their best selves to mix and
mingle in the couryard garden.

If everything is green then why do I feel so blue? I would like to be a plain-faced man, living with you quietly.

Leave the party but you can’t hear me you can
no longer hear me. The dead are boring.
Enlightenment is boring. We can read the minds
of dogs.

We make the black cats scatter across
the grass. There is a better party where I am not
a ghost and you are not Wonderwoman.

I am like a pornstar,
we are all of us pornstars aching
to get back into our terrycloth robes. Gives me
a headache, all this intellectual stimulation.

It’s cold out tonight. I am here by the back wall,
in the museum of the afterlife. I would like to
be a flickering cowboy. I like the live music—
we only get the recorded stuff here.

I would like to be alive again.

I would like to say something about grace.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5279
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your suprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but agaist you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.

Permit me the present tense.

“Put Some"Love"In Your Heart”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Sorry I Have Offended Anybody!

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#5280
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Sometimes you have to forget what's gone,
appreciate whats still remains,and look forward to whats coming next..
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5281
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Good God, what a night that was,

The bed so soft, and how we clung,

Burning together, lying this way and that,

Our uncontrollable passions

Flowing through our mouths.

If I could only die that way,

I’d say goodbye to the business of living.

Since: Aug 09

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#5282
Dec 30, 2012
 

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What a bunch of clueless chicks @ Adrian's stolen poems . Rotflmao
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5283
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,’The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

— Pablo Neruda

(submitted by DeVine.)
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5284
Dec 30, 2012
 
Lying here quietly beside you,
My check against your firm, quiet thighs,
The calm music of Boccherini
Wahing over us in the quiet,
As the sun leaves the housetops and goes
Out over the South Pacific, quiet—-

So quiet the sun moves beyond us,
So quiet as the sun always goes,
So quiet, our bodies, worn with the
Times and the penances of love, our
Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,
Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable

In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse......

In your thigh caressing my cheek.

Quiet.

“Put Some"Love"In Your Heart”

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Since: Mar 12

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#5285
Dec 30, 2012
 

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noone knows what they have untill its gone..then they wished for things different but too late then its over and she has gone forward alone....
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#5286
Dec 30, 2012
 

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You are not beautiful, exactly.

You are beautiful, inexactly.

You let a weed grow by the mulberry
And a mulberry grow by the house.

So close, in the personal quiet
Of a windy night, it brushes the wall
And sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:
“Things that are lost are all equal.”

But it isn’t true. If I lost you,
The air wouldn’t move, nor the tree grow.

Someone would pull the weed, my flower.

The quiet wouldn’t be yours. If I lost you,
I’d have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

“Put Some"Love"In Your Heart”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Sorry I Have Offended Anybody!

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#5287
Dec 30, 2012
 

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not the one that got away only the one you fail to keep..:O)..
Anonymous

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#5288
Dec 30, 2012
 

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Blizzards of paper
in slow motion
sift through her.
In nightmares she suddenly recalls
a class she signed up for
but forgot to attend.
Now it is too late.
Now it is time for finals:
losers will be shot.
Phrases of men who lectured her
drift and rustle in piles:
Why don’t you speak up?
Why are you shouting?
You have the wrong answer,
wrong line, wrong face.
They tell her she is womb-man,
babymachine, mirror image, toy,
earth mother and penis-poor,
a dish of synthetic strawberry icecream
She grunts to a halt.
She must learn again to speak
starting with I
starting with We
starting as the infant does
with her own true hunger
and pleasure
and rage.
Anonymous

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#5289
Dec 31, 2012
 

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You live like this,
sheltered, in a delicate world,
and you believe you are living.
Then you read a book… or you take a trip…
and you discover that you are not living,
that you are hibernating.

The symptoms of hibernating are easily
detectable: first, restlessness.
The second symptom (when hibernating
becomes dangerous and might degenerate
into death): absence of pleasure.

That is all.
It appears like an innocuous illness.
Monotony, boredom, death.
Millions live like this (or die like this)
without knowing it.
They work in offices.
They drive a car.
They picnic with their families.
They raise children.

And then some shock treatment takes place,
a person, a book, a song, and it awakens
them and saves them from death.
Some never awaken.

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