JUST SEX and POETRY

PESCreate

“Just a lil' humor there.....”

Since: Sep 12

OR NOT .... <[;-)

#5688 Jan 22, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
<quoted text>
Not sure of what you're talking about again Trish.....I have no idea how you know about my Sister.....because to the best of my recollection I've never mentioned her to you, or my Grandparents either......if I have, maybe you might like to refresh my memory ?
It's been a very hot Summer all along the Eastern seaboard of Australia......only last week irt hit 44c degrees in Sydney....I don't live in Brisbane anymore, I moved to Sydney almost 8 months ago........I'm still using my Pops e-mail provider....but that's about to change....so you see I don't really have anyway to send you anything....as you well know.....because I do not have your e-mail address....and unless I'm mistaken, you do not have my Pop's either.
Just thought I should tidy-up that little bit of mischief, on your behalf......in case anyone here thinks that you and I correspond away from Topix.......naughty girl Trish......as much as you think you might know me...."you don't".....or anything about me, only the things you read here, some true....some not at all true.
However I'm giving you 8 out of 10 for your effort.
Warm Regards, and a Happy New Year.
Adrian.
Adrian - You didn't mention anything to me in particular, but you did somewhere put out here that you got a new Harley, you told us how many miles you had put on it in such a short time (can't remember the number) you mentioned you were hanging at the beach. You mentioned your holiday plans to go to Brisbane to be with your grandparents and your sister and that's when I realized you didn't live in Brisbane.

I'm not interested in your personal information and I thought we came to an understanding about what happened back when. I simply just wanted to say hello and put the tiny bit of personal that you had shared public and that had also included what you were wearing.
You are a facinating poster, I watch you and enjoy seeing you in other threads on the occasions to spread the wealth - so to speak.
Have a nice evening.:)
a messenger

Broomall, PA

#5690 Jan 22, 2013
Hoosier Hillbilly wrote:
No Nadia that as close as i'll ever come!!!
*=* Is there an alarm (bells) ringing?*=*
WTF?!
ROTFLMAO!!
::chucks alarm bell at Terry:: Get a dress!

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#5691 Jan 22, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
Let me sit amongst the books,
and rest within their pages.
Let me stay where it is safe,
and where I can be free.
Free from the vicious stares,
and the painted faces.
Free from the deceiving words,
and the condescending tones.
I can breathe openly,
and I can think freely.
I can play without concern
and I can hope without fear.
Only the characters to talk to,
to understand and to trust.
Only the snow-covered mountai
to climb and to see.
Only the shimmering seas,
to swim in and sail on.
No one to stop me,
to keep me from joy.
No one to hurt me,
to deceive me.
Where the monsters are only monsters,
and the hero always wins.
Where the sun shines over the hi
and the moon over the water.
Where the sky isn’t the limit,
and I can touch the stars.
Where my haven is a castle,
and I am always home.
Let me stay where it is beautiful,
and everything is bright.
Let me stay amongst my books
and find solace in their pages.
Beautifully written. Genius.
Apothecary Rose wrote it

Broomall, PA

#5692 Jan 22, 2013
Refuge is the title of that poem.

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#5693 Jan 22, 2013
Apothecary Rose wrote it wrote:
Refuge is the title of that poem.
And written by whom.

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#5695 Jan 22, 2013
Original
CYP

My bones are cold my love

I beg thee to warm them

Wrap me in your love and energy

Take away the chill

Let me feel the heat of your kisses

The electricity of your touch

Heated breath upon my neck

Make love to me here by the fire

Slow and passionately

Tell me you love me

Over and over again

Touch me in all my most intimate places

Known only by you

Take my breast into your hands

Kiss them softly

Nuzzle yourself gently there

Tangle my hair into your hands

Tug it gently

Tell me that you want me

Tell me again

Gently glide your hands upon my skin

which indulges in the warmth of your touch

Let them find my thighs

As I ask with no shame

For you to enter me

Launch me into ecstasy with the movement of your hips

Passionately I plea for you to warm me with your liquid release

For my bones are cold my love

And I beg thee to warm them

Laura Beth

Since: Aug 09

Location hidden

#5696 Jan 22, 2013
I'm feeling slippedge

Slip in
Slip out
Of another
Fakedge profile

Rotflmao

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#5697 Jan 22, 2013
Laura Beth wrote:
I'm feeling slippedge
Slip in
Slip out
Of another
Fakedge profile
Rotflmao
Laura Beth if you are referring to me with regards to your conspiracy theory then I must tell you that you are way off with regards to your ASSumption.

I have been on Topix for eight months. If you doubt that then I suggest you look at the Huntington WV forum and you will see I have been a fixture there for sometime. Since June of 2012 in fact.

Whatever drama that is yours is yours and I wish no part of it. Think what you like, I cannot stop you. However, I think your behavior is childish and that of someone who has a vivid imagination.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5698 Jan 22, 2013
In the midst of this room
I lie still as they put the IV into the crook of my arm--- I wince.
A rolled up towel is placed beneath my neck, and
A sheet to cover my legs-
I see flies hovering about the overhead light-
As I breathe oxygen from a rubber mask-
The last thing I recall is
Drifting off into another place in time-
Moments later, so it seems
I am sitting in a chair by the window beside,
Overlooking trees dancing to the tune of
A nightingale’s song,
A late spring’s balmy and gentle wind,
Footsteps softly ambling up and down the hall behind me,
Rudely contradicted by the sound cars rushing down the boulevard outside,
The screaming of sirens and people conversing in the room next door-
These voices that could be real or emanating from my mind- although
It is too soon, after the shock that was induced to my brain
To distinguish reality from unreality-
I clearly remember the spoken words
“Right unilateral” and so it seemed that
Mistrust of the world about me and
Conversations echoing and reverberating throughout my mind as
Emanating from some other place in time-
Would tip toe away from the spirit raging war inside my mind-
Trees dancing and birds carrying on with their soprano tune,
That late spring’s breeze being a chorus of some far away lullaby –
Footsteps following closely behind,
And cars rushing down the boulevard outside-
Have now become my only reality as
I have finally awakened from a peaceful slumber,
Returning to earth from my journey to some other realm-
I have regained my sanity-
Walking away from the magnificent view from the picture window before me only to
Return to the familiarity of every day life and as dove would peacefully do,
I lift my wings, though imaginary
Only to soar above the treetops outside
Leaving my tears behind this time to vanish in that river of despair that
I have known for so long as I flee and abandon the tempest of fear this time-
Forever-
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5699 Jan 22, 2013
To start with, it is good to remember that poetry is made with language.

More than any other literary text, poetry uses the ability of language that is called connotation - the ability of language to say more than one thing at the same time, in the same line, in few words, in a condensed manner.

There is more than one and only one meaning in a poem, poetry is always searching, always hesitating (a “prolonged hesitation between sound and sense”, said Paul Valéry)– always using the connotative characteristics of language.

This is the poetical use of language; we could call it the poetical dimension of language. And it concerns not only the writing of a poem but also (and this is very important) the reading of a poem.(Or listening to a poem.)

And the poetical dimension of language must be kept alive and defended.

Why is that important? I think it is important because it fights all kinds of one-sidedness, all kinds of unilateral thinking. Language and the use of language is a battle-field. All kinds of powers, financial, ideological and political powers are trying all the time to impose their one-dimensional meaning to words, chosen once and for all.

A poetical text, a poem, opens up this unilateral use of language, it is an important act of resistance to those powers that try to abuse language, try to impose their view, their meaning to the words, to the language.

And a poem is also very important because it helps the reader (or the listener) to become a creative user of language.

And that is the ultimate consequence of the poetical dimension of language: It helps to build a democratic community, it helps to build a multi-dimensional society.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5700 Jan 22, 2013
There is a man who lives in my mirror,
who has profited from the moments of looking at me, and
appears to hold, for his young age, the perverse other side of my dreams.
Years ago it was different. And time has made him someone else.
He gives the impression now of having rejected a lot
and one does not see the beauty that gave him youth.
It seems that where he lives it is cold and has begun to rain.
The man I perceive in the mirror is reserved and reflective
and only sometimes repeats my words as in a deaf echo.

I am saddened that his great passions have furrowed his skin
and have darkened it with solitude, and sad thoughts,
and eyes pockmarked by chicken feet and deep rings.
I am afraid of his looks of resignation and reproach
and his profound nay-saying of being accomplice to joy and the lie.
His tone is made of thoughts and he does not hear my guitar
and each day he looks more like my late father.

He has my father’s face invaded already by sadness.
He does not agree with the dissipation of my work and my days
and he wants me to be more faithful to my house and my dreams.
He compares his world full of reflections
with mine that has no balance, not in joy or sadness,
in truth or lies, in prose or poetry,
and he sees me like a young deer loose among the crags
in a landscape of stones and thorns.

When he passes his hand like a comb through his hair it appears
he would pull out the likeness he shares with me by the roots
and that he no longer wants to have my worldly image
popping up unexpectedly to disturb the richness of
the cloistered solitude he inhabits.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5701 Jan 22, 2013
Imperceptible
but to the keenest of eyes,
a lapse in stitching lies
along border of folk art fracture:
two pheasants in a mating dance
above sunflowers and apricot seeds,
feathers spun in cinnamon gold,
terra cotta, and willow green.

The embroiderer could have
remembered how the gods
deemed perfection only
for themselves, deities who
could do no wrong, and how,
when mortals dared the absolute
they were turned into toads, or trees,
or forever silenced as mountain tarns
in the deepest of woods.

Or, lost in an exquisite world
envied by divine beings,
the artist might have been
so beguiled by the autumn
wind, so moved by the hand
that caressed her cheek, pallid
after words of endearment.

She knows that faultless things
must be hidden from prying eyes,
the heart be quiet, ensconced
in muted fire, while fingers
emblazon figures on ivory faille,
lisle shaping the sounds
of wingéd flight.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5704 Jan 22, 2013
Because the sounds
were caged within
a voiceless void,
she speaks to me
of joy this morning
with eager gesticulations,
hands darting like sparrows.

Last night, draped
in starched sterile greens,
she clutched at straining bars
under the harsh lights
of an antiseptic cubicle
eerily quiet. It woke
to her small sharp screams.

Her waters broke
as a fuzzy head slid out
with its wet waxy vernix.
Her tears were sounds
scrabbling at the hollow
of my throat, bird wings
brushing against glass panes.

Today we look at each other
across this expanse of clean sheets,
laughter tumbling out of our
quick wrists: splayed fingers,
open palms. Her fingers
touch her heart, circle the air.
I hear the burst of wings.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5705 Jan 22, 2013
"more exquisite than gold, devoid
of all becoming or passing away ....…”


Wat is invisible, yet so powerful
that no force can withstand it?

A circle of burghers gathered around master guericke and his construction: the vacuum pump
towering on three legs in the room, a perfect
piece, standing there with the obscene grace
of the mantis religiosa. polished brass,
its recipient a glass sphere:
and here too is the sparrow, now beginning to flutter like the flame on a spirit of wine – its air growing ever thinner.

Before the window the yellow plums ripen in the buzzing heat, the grass spreads on the ruins. and on the wall hangs this engraving: old magdeburg.
the unswerving progress of the pendulum clock,
diopter, pedometer, astrolabe; the globe on the table where New Zealand’s dorsal has shortly cut through the great pacific, and as if from afar
the dogged trot of a passing horse and cart....

“That dead sparrow,” whispers one,
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5706 Jan 22, 2013
Weighing up my words to you –
silent couples drifting to and fro,
beds of fallen leaves, the naked trees,
the blooms of fences blue as verdigris,
the light like wax, aristocratic, pale –

I saw the greenhouse on the hill,
glass, white ribs and fin de siècle,
and recalled those skeletons of whales,
how as a child I’d crane my neck to see them
hovering, it seemed, in the museum,
hung from ceilings on transparent threads,
monstrous beasts washed up by the tides
from depths unplumbed and times remote,
suffocated under their own weight.

Now, the veterans grow out of the grass
attired in emeritus uniforms;
their heavy buttons seem so matt
in the late sunlight – the brass glinting back.
they grow from the grass as in the myths
when an army was sowed with dragon’s teeth.

Indeed the veterans bare their teeth
on photographs as brown as parched grass
in summer – more faded even than myths.
battle, said the greek, is where all forms
begin, to battle too all things lead back.


And now the veterans assault their matt-
erhorn of memories, its glow grown matt
against the light. their laughter echoes
however, long forgotten, they’ve left back
in the plain. easily overlooked in the grass
are grandchildren happy with the basest forms
of game – unlike the veterans themselves, smiths

of fate in a game surrounded with myths,
where king meets king and knights give mate.
(small wonder then the craftsman who forms
the pieces uses ivory and walrus teeth).
in the veterans’ garden grows the grass.
the snail with one foot out slides back.

The veterans’ thoughts often take them back
but rarely forward. what transpires are myths.
their grandchildren play on the very grass
on which their comrades fell, whose eyes were matt
in death. survival means to clench your teeth
and master fate in all its manifold forms.

Their nurses wear white uniforms
and still feel warm. they roll them back
inside when first stars flash their teeth,
and then a mighty army of myths
follows them up to their rooms. once matt,
their imprints soon dissolve in the grass.

The dark forms drift across the grass –
some might think of teeth. or myths.
but the king stays back:

Checkmate !!
Poet

United States

#5707 Jan 22, 2013
Indiscreet Southern Trash Diary

Ya see, I don't like
too much attention
Let me dump my purse
All over the table
These are my prescription drugs
A picture of my family
Members all more successful than me
Ya see, this is a band-aid
I'm like a midget kid
With scabbed knees
And snot running down my nose
My growth can not even be charted
I'm treading water in a sea
Of retardation
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5708 Jan 22, 2013
Here I am once again letting myself fall down the sloping bank
To go toward the marches and the primitive forests
When time decides and shadows do not menace the rigor of days.

I am here to receive your stubbornness and your lack of fear
To stay where I am surviving your life
When insidious memory leads you to a much far-off exile
Where you can only embrace the Summers of your childhood.

But I don’t know who are you if you have lived so long
Your world is of iron and its trees do not make me go forward
Your mother elected a river for your honorable death
But the river is completely oblique and I forget how to go there.

You think in silence. You write in silence.
You reach the curve taught by the ancient homicides of La Roche
And you kill guilt and kill words
And talk like strong men shedding tears.



You advance with the lightning and fall with the absence of sound
You look like a repentant heretic his eyes lost in the mire
Searching for a deity like one more adventurer without the urgency of God.........

Your life overflows you, and you embrace the dawn, and I embrace your voice, and I embrace you.

Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5709 Jan 22, 2013
Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Original
CYP
My bones are cold my love
I beg thee to warm them
Wrap me in your love and energy
Take away the chill
Let me feel the heat of your kisses
The electricity of your touch
Heated breath upon my neck
Make love to me here by the fire
Slow and passionately
Tell me you love me
Over and over again
Touch me in all my most intimate places
Known only by you
Take my breast into your hands
Kiss them softly
Nuzzle yourself gently there
Tangle my hair into your hands
Tug it gently
Tell me that you want me
Tell me again
Gently glide your hands upon my skin
which indulges in the warmth of your touch
Let them find my thighs
As I ask with no shame
For you to enter me
Launch me into ecstasy with the movement of your hips
Passionately I plea for you to warm me with your liquid release
For my bones are cold my love
And I beg thee to warm them
I want a kingdom of words
a river of words
to wash away human misery
and plant roots in my soul
so that it might be an Argonaut,
a Quixotic Knight in fantastic seas
a valiant dreamer of liberty.

A kingdom of words
to rearrange the movement
of birds in branches
to feel the color of a star
the aroma of wind
the spirituality of your passion.

A kingdom of words to help me know
human being, seas and stars
to join my soul and my body
and please my flesh.

I want a kingdom of words for my soul
as much as I want a vast country for my heart
a free country like we’ve all imagined.
A kingdom of words to seduce me
and roll out from my tongue
like a string of pearls
at dusk in my country,

A kingdom of words or a river of words
overflowing, carrying everything it finds in its path
a will-o-’the-wisp in my mouth
a passion devouring my dreams.

To burn my lips
and grant me the keys of the imagination
the islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda, Ternate and Tidore
with their trunks and tragedies and adventures
in the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan

To have it come to a halt before me
all I need is the light of your eyes
the trembling at the threshold of dreams,
splashing on the white page on this screen......

~DeVine.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5710 Jan 22, 2013
THE SELF-DEFEATING POEM



They will never come, neither from here, nor from there
They will never come, neither from here, nor from
They will never come, neither from here, nor
They will never come, neither from here
They will never come, neither from
They will never come, neither
They will never come
They will never
They will
They
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5711 Jan 22, 2013
"THE UNSUCCESFUL FILM."



In the movie house of my bleeding soul, lying back on my dream – couch, I see myself in a film running daily in eternity.

It is snowing. This is Petersburg, glorious in its rags singing alone in the dark. Carriages with sleepy horses trot past leisurely, and along the sidewalksdrunks are hunting prostitutes.

I am in a tavern, on the table a bottle of vodka. From my corner I see Raskolnikov, a German cap on his head, wrapped in his tattered overcoat, shuffle along, followed by his greedy widows, to pawn his bloody hatchet with me.

Near a bus stop in a public square crowded with tourists Hamlet suddenly appears. He grabs my hand:“I pray thee, poet, write my story anew, I am a man, take me for all in all and let me be happy again.”

Opening his heart, confessing his foolish scruples that croak in his head like a crow in his castle in Denmark:“I am thy father’s spirit; doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,” he asks me to free him from his father’s ghost.

At the gateway of forgotten Ur-zaqura I hear the cry of Enkido, carried by the dead in a boat crossing seas of firebrand and burning water on their way to the underworld. I see Gilgamesh emerge out of a crack in the wall of my cold house like a friend, lost for centuries, now coming back:
“Let us go together! Be my guide!”

So we go deep into the forest looking for the deceiver serpent
that stole his magic plant.

Figures in tales and epics told to the children.
Figures of wars that had been won and others lost.
Figures made of tin to be sold in the brass market.
Figures of straw (all they need is a matchstick).
Figures for decoration in festivals.
Figures to be remembered,
Figures to be forgotten.

Vagabonds, villains, philosophers and kings,
generals, wise men and poets,
all come to me as shadows, escaped from their time-traps
to enter my heart.
They come one by one and knock at my door.
Confused, I open and welcome them.

Oh, damn, how I did myself in this valley of the dead?
Who led these souls to my gloomy house?
Oh, this is not my story, Oh I am not God
to carry the sins of mankind on my shoulders.

But as often happens, I get up, harrowed with fear and wonder,
I grope blindly at the light switch and see myself in the world again.

Outside in the street, I hear the trees
singing for me in the wind.

Thank God!, I say to myself, now I can sleep in peace,
and forget this unsuccessful film.

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