Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5276 Dec 30, 2012
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

#5277 Dec 30, 2012
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

#5278 Dec 30, 2012
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

#5279 Dec 30, 2012
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.

“On The Wings Of A Dove ”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Two Hearts In Love

#5280 Dec 30, 2012
Sometimes you have to forget what's gone,
appreciate whats still remains,and look forward to whats coming next..
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5281 Dec 30, 2012
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

Location hidden

#5282 Dec 30, 2012
What a bunch of clueless chicks @ Adrian's stolen poems . Rotflmao
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5283 Dec 30, 2012
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

#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.

“On The Wings Of A Dove ”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Two Hearts In Love

#5285 Dec 30, 2012
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

#5286 Dec 30, 2012
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.

“On The Wings Of A Dove ”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Two Hearts In Love

#5287 Dec 30, 2012
not the one that got away only the one you fail to keep..:O)..
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5288 Dec 30, 2012
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

Brisbane, Australia

#5289 Dec 31, 2012
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.

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

New York, NY

#5290 Dec 31, 2012
There once was a vampyress named Mabel
Whose menstrual cycle was stable
But one week in four
She'd sit on the floor
And drink herself under the table
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5291 Dec 31, 2012
Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
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
When I uncovered your body
I thought shadows fell deceptively,
urging memories of perfect rhyme.
I thought I could bestow beauty
like a benediction
and that your half-pale flesh
would answer to the prayer.

I thought I understood your face
because I had seen it painted twice
or a hundred times, or kissed it
when it was carved in stone.

With only a breath, a vague turning,
you uncovered shadows
more deftly than I had flesh,
and the real and
violent proportions of your body
made obsolete old treaties of excellence,
measures and poems,
and clamoured with a single challenge
of personal beauty
which cannot be interpreted or praised:
it must be met.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5292 Dec 31, 2012
Her smiling eyes in the glass
Glimmer as she undresses
But what is so amusing
He neither cares nor guesses

As, centered on one elbow,
He stares at her glowing breast.
She calculates, she reckons
How fierce his interest.

Her luminous eyes mirror
What her shrew thoughts assess
Before his arms encompass
The sweet comptometress.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5293 Dec 31, 2012
She has a dream and she has the same dream.

She says moon and she says moon and both put their she-phones
to their breasts.

She says in my dream I slept between your mattress and box spring
and she nods and she hears her nod.

She says I was in the blue dress before you put it on
and after you put it on, like a soft paper flower she says
and she says yes, like a soft paper flower.

She nestles the phone in her crotch and she nestles the phone
in her crotch and the pubic hairs say it was warm in the dream.

She puts her face against the cool window and they play
where’s my face and she guesses against the cool window.

She says I hung up the phone an hour ago and she says
I hung up the phone last year and we still go on talking.........

she says and she says we go on talking even while I am dead
and even while I am coming back to life.

She is two places at once and she is two places at once
which is four places at once.

She has to go back to sleep now and she has to go back to sleep now.

She says are you asleep now and she says yes and she says are you asleep now and she says yes and they go on talking about being asleep now.

She has a dream and she has the same dream and in the dream....
she is dreaming what she dreams and she is dreaming what she dreams.

Then it rains.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5294 Dec 31, 2012
Baby, like the essence of a song,
I understand you.....
I understood your language
right from the beginning.

Someone writes
your words in your eyes
I understand as soon as
your glance flies towards me.

I read you in every verse
of the book of emotions
I feel you, I understand you
more than I can express.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

#5295 Dec 31, 2012
"SELECTING A READER."

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it.

She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.

She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf.

She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.”

And she will.

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