#5978 Feb 1, 2013
Puisque j’ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe encor pleine ;
Puisque j’ai dans tes mains posé mon front pâli ;
Puisque j’ai respiré parfois la douce haleine
De ton âme, parfum dans l’ombre enseveli ;
Puisqu’il me fut donné de t’entendre me dire
Les mots où se répand le coeur mystérieux ;
Puisque j’ai vu pleurer, puisque j’ai vu sourire
Ta bouche sur ma bouche et tes yeux sur mes yeux ;
Puisque j’ai vu briller sur ma tête ravie
Un rayon de ton astre, hélas ! voilé toujours ;
Puisque j’ai vu tomber dans l’onde de ma vie
Une feuille de rose arrachée à tes jours ;
Je puis maintenant dire aux rapides années :
- Passez ! passez toujours ! je n’ai plus à vieillir !
Allez-vous-en avec vos fleurs toutes fanées ;
J’ai dans l’âme une fleur que nul ne peut cueillir !
Votre aile en le heurtant ne fera rien répandre
Du vase où je m’abreuve et que j’ai bien rempli.
Mon âme a plus de feu que vous n’avez de cendre !
Mon coeur a plus d’amour que vous n’avez d’oubli !
Since I’ve pressed my lips to your still-brimming bowl;
Since in your hands my pale brow has been laid;
Since I have drawn in the sweet breath of your soul
At times – that perfume hidden in the shade;
Since fortune allowed that I hear you say
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries;
Since I’ve seen your smiles and your dismay,
Your mouth on my mouth, your eyes on my eyes;
Since I have seen shining on my awed head,
A ray from your star, alas! still veiled to me;
Since I have seen one sole rose petal shed
From your days, fall into my life’s sea.
Now I can cry to each swift year:
-“Roll on! roll ever on! For now I age not!
Take your wilted blooms and disappear;
In my soul I’ve a rose that none may cut!”
Though your wing may strike it, you will not dash
A drop from the cup which I have filled well;
My soul has more fire than you have ash!
My heart has more love than you have oblivion’s hell!”
#5979 Feb 1, 2013
It starts as a small hint of a feeling, a slight glance of something, a whisper on the wind, a touch of a name on lips, a feeling that seems to flit and wander through you, and then in a moment it seems to reach a crescendo and then it envelops you consumes you takes everything that you are, leaving you senseless un-controlled and wanton.
Each nerve screams to be taken to be used, your mind, locked down in the depths of your own depravity aching and needing. Its like a drug you have to have it, you have to give up that control, you have to be controlled, you have to feel that lash against the skin, that burning pain of desire.
Everything calls to it, as you sit squirming, feeling those nerves sparking your pleasure, the wetness that ebbs from you, those fireworks that start, that aching burn of desire, you can’t help it its an addiction its a need and it wont go till its fulfilled.
Teeth bite into lip as you sit and think on things, trying anything to get rid of the daydreams that flit through your head, stories of leather cutting into flesh, the feeling of skin against skin. Fantasies of fallen dreams, to be taken to be hurt to be fucked so hard that tears fall from eyes, the smudge of eyeliner running down pallid cheeks as the heavy weight of a body takes you as you cry out again and again. Wanting to be pushed so hard, to that limit needing to know how it feels to beg for it to stop, but to wanting it to carry on, that blissfulness of pain and the lack of control.
To give everything and nothing to be owned to be control, to be lost in your lust, to be consumed to be hurt to be powerless….to taste tears and blood, to ache and to be aching, it is all you and you can’t deny it , so why try…..
why try indeed?
#5980 Feb 1, 2013
"Slut’. The word slips from his lips, teasingly stern intention on those
words, words that creep into my mind making me squirm with need… and
such a delightful word, yes slut, his slut…
Slut conjures up so many feelings, so many emotions, and when he calls me
that I want to be that slut, I want to perform for him, to lay with my
fingers teasing in and out of myself, squirming and needy, my mouth fixed
to his c ock, and I want to be the most wanton slut there ever was. I want
to be used and I want to be abused, I want to be forced and made to do
things no nice girl has ever done, and this all on the power of one word.
And don’t words have such power, words that make you lose your breath,
make gasps slip from parted lips as someone whispers dirty filthy things
in your ear.
Words that conjure and create feelings and emotions, dirty depraved words
that spill from you as you feel your arousal grow… the fantasies that
lie in the back of your mind, given life as you breathe those words into
them, telling them every little detail of what you wish them to do to you.
How much you want to be fucked and how great their c ock feels slamming
deep into you, how you want more of it, more, harder, more deeper, more,
NOW! Hidden desires slipping out, things that you would never think you
would desire things that you need now… things that make you wetter with
excitement, more aroused, more needing.
I want to hear all those things they wish to do to me, I want them
whispered in my ear, softly spoken with threatening undertones, I want to
hear how much of a slut I am, I want to hear all the things they are going
to do to me, I want to know how hard they are going to f uck my c unt , I
want them to dig to the very depths of their depravity and spill forth
these woven tales or raw carnal lust…
And when it is all done I want to hear those soft words, that comfort and
cajole, I want to hear that I am loved and needed and I want to know, we
all want to know, what they think what they feel. I need those words,
words that keep me smiling and keep me safe. Yet those words sometimes I
keep to myself faltering before I speak them, holding on to them safe in
the knowledge they are safe in me...."
#5981 Feb 1, 2013
seek help ASAP
#5982 Feb 1, 2013
OMG! DeVine, your fingers move in my grazing agsint that cluster of nerves that lie inside me, that sensitive spot that sends me whimpering and moaning, it almost hurts the pleasure outweighs the pain though but it feels soooooo good it almost stops me from breathing….i inhale deeply, that breath seems to drag through my lungs as i inhale deeply your fingers still dancing agsint that spot, i lose my mind, i focus…must focus, must not lose myself , concentrate on that deep scratchy pain that seems now to fill my mind…..completely over take me, consume me….
I can’t help but push back into you wanting more, the sensation rides over me i am controlled now buy what i want by the lust and the need that washes through me, i know i must be whimpering and begging but i can not think, all i need is for you to carry on with your fingers in me, moving them, playing my body perfectly, you know just what this does to me, and you must be able to see the effect it has on me, the way it takes me over, this feeling this all consuming fire that pulses through me…
must breathe again……must not lose myself, must not let it push me too far too fast…
Your fingers seem to fill me completely as i squirm under them caressing every part inside of me , that feeling of full..but to the point it almost hurts….., that intense pressure on my g- spot….. shaking now….gasping for breath and i can feel the release the orgasm start to wash over me, my legs shake and my breath sticks in my throat and i try not to scream, really try not to scream and its so hard as warmth spreads over me completely, i feel myself spasm around your fingers, and my head it gone, its like being on a roller coaster with fire works firing off in every nerve in my body and i shake and tremble and moan, and i want you to stop now, its too much it feels too much yet you continue and your fingers move in me almost viscously, and then again , that soft warmness crashes over me, my mind spinning, and a scream leaves my lips as you make me orgasm again……its unlike any other orgasm I have ever had... it's so intense and painful and oh soo very good….OMG you are soooo divine, DeVine.
#5983 Feb 1, 2013
KNOW WHAT ?
I'm so horny I can hardly stand it.
But you know what ?.....I know you're hornier, and in a little while I'm going to have an orgasm, but it will still be a long time before I allow you to have one.....
Now go ahead, and thank me for being so mean to you.....as you've been to me !
GO AND GET A LIFE.
#5984 Feb 1, 2013
In the other room,
a piano, softly, plays.
I'm watching the clouds now;
with my thoughts...
...Your fingers, on the keys,
brush the elements:
a body of motion,
is this beauty,
a touch, pierces the heart.
The softness of skin, lingers,
in each subtle touch
...and, You are here,..
I'll open up myself,
We'll embrace the clouds
sharing, each stroke;
each, swept hands, brush.
as I linger here,
half-way to you
and the skies blessings;
Like some love-struck poet,
The light, at least, for now, my Love,
#5985 Feb 1, 2013
I'm being the
Truest person you . Take you poems to a shrink.... Ask a professional and be ready for extensive therapy:( no offense u sound like a very sad person going to extreme measures to feel loved or to feel anything to be honest. I do hope u the best. Please don't reproduce until u undergo treatment for your insecurities. Question were you abused sexually as a kid? Not jokes please answer honestly.
#5986 Feb 1, 2013
For three years now, she has been my erotic ideal.
She, alone, has symbolized the aim of my erotic intent. The intended high-fashion of my pen. The slow grooming of every sophistication around the hearts of love and lust that I have ever won for my self.
She was untouchable. She was not something I was supposed to have, or even kiss. She was merely something I was supposed to want and ache painfully, silently – invisibly for.
But now, we are laying in the still of shattering night, on her bed. My fingers are drawing lines of conviction on her back, up and down her tiny spine. I am kneading her thighs. Her calves.
I am touching her skin. Proof that the disappearing girl has reappeared from the darkest of night. Proof that my heart of eroticism is beating, alive.
Truth is: She was here all along, only mythically beyond my grasp. And now, I am touching her skin.
Every now and then my noise machine goes silent and I can hear her breathing. I stop my trace upon her body only to stand in the wind – to force the memory of anything else back into me, including breath.
“My sexual choice is the sum of my fundamental convictions… The man who is proudly certain of his own value will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest… because only the possession of a heroine will give him a sense of achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to gain his value, but to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body.”
#5987 Feb 1, 2013
She is sitting before me. A jean skirt, tiny and riding up on her thighs.
The tattoo on her hip is peeking out.
She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Puts her foot up and on my thigh.
I can see the dark triangle between her legs. But it is her head and her heart that are magnets for my eyes.
Cars in the night wash light around her head like a halo. She smiles at me and I am stricken. We are sitting with others and so I don’t say:
Somewhere between all this sex and love is power.
And in every small thing I do and say with her throughout the night, I will make certain that she feels this power, at least once. Thing is: the power may not be anywhere outside of her and maybe she has known it her whole life.
A couple of weeks ago, when I thought her heart was smiling only at me:
She was lying next to me and I kissed her spine as morning peered in through the windows. I told her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will tell me, hours later, that she thought I was talking in my sleep.
We haven’t slept much together in all the beds we inhabit. Typically, we go from ravaging to comatose. However, I have heard her childish breathing turn to an eloquent snore. And I know that we have slept, invisible hours upon others because I have heard our alarms shrilling because responsibility is always standing before us. Calling our names as that tail end of our time together.
Always, always, we rise early early early in the morning. She is always off to something, or someone and breakfast is just not something we do.
Right now I am thinking of all the ways that I want to devour her.
Right now I am thinking of how I will not take our next moment for granted. How I don’t know how to, because she is quick. Here. Then, gone.
Right now I know that this is all I have: these thoughts of her…
The last time I tasted her, weeks and lifetimes ago now:
She was sitting on my face while I stroked my self in front of her. I was lapping at her citrus juices. I nibbled, sucked and tasted all that I could. In that sober morning moment, I took every sensation with me and stuffed it into my memory’s pocket for future use.
When I exploded all over my stomach, she slowly crawled off me and sighed.
I grinned, knowing that this is how we begin our days together.
It is said that if you don’t have any disasters to endure, you may need to create some. To be complete. To become whole.
I am nervous and naked, crawling from her bed because it’s too hot to sleep. Because I can’t sleep. Because I just want to watch her, even though I know that she needs this rest. This sleep.
She is exhausted, like my heart.
I put on my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes. I am stricken. The sadness wells in my sternum and I am too nervous to tell her that I love her with all of my heart. Instead I kiss her on the shoulder. Musically she says, call me later please…
I lock her door, open my car door and drive into the night, alone and under the pale of all love’s stoplights.
#5988 Feb 1, 2013
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance:“The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
I did not meet her standing on the ground. No, instead we met over a thousand feet up, far above the city lights. Standing, and we were looking down.
As the clown in my circus of will and ambition, I have fought the fight of attrition.
I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade, but I have believed in love as apathy’s raid.
If you want to see the saddest boy tonight, pull your mirror and see me, sitting across from thee.
If you have never seen love unfulfilled, stare across this table as though your trembling made you able.
I am not a poet, nor sorcerer by trade – but if you wish toward the sea’s winds to see the sun fade – from this life I am born.
From this life, I am torn.
I am Wednesday.
I am heartbroken.
I am me, unable to dress. Unable to eat.
The simplest of duties, stricken by fate in the circus of this life.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
Thank you for giving me this. This is much and more and the score of my days.
For when I have been empty, broken and struck by the light of eve, you crawled from beneath me to leave.
I want simple. And settle down. I want the sun to rise and fall over our heads. I want no pomp or pretense, instead I crave your intense,
Potential that only I can see.
Power that soars over me.
The drive and pistons burning free.
I am nothing more than thee.
(and I want nothing more for me)
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
From “I Can Write”
by Pablo Neruda
#5989 Feb 1, 2013
(1) Mature audiences only.
(2) Not suitable for people with narrow minds.
(3) The capacity to acquire and apply knowledge required.
(4) Void where prohibited.
Only nyarlathotep, the crawling chaos, you seem to possess
is given a human semblance of intelligence......
In an instant I seemed to see this unnatural contest between a dead intelligence and a breathing mechanism, but only as a spectator--
Such fancies are in dreams; then you've regained your pathetic identity almost as if by a leap forward into a sick mind, and the straining automaton had a directing will as alert and fierce as that of its hideous antagonist.
FYI, My childhood was free of any of the sexual innuendo, you seem to make indirect or subtle, derogatory implications by your sick expression here, therefore I'm unequivocally and positivity. refuting every part of your grubby question in all its malicious overtones ;.
Your attack on me, would lead me to question your own childhood, and the lack of moral convictions.......Just because your Mother and Father were Brother and Sister, there is no need to try to justify you uneducated, misinformed hostility and animosity toward me here.
#5990 Feb 2, 2013
Whirligigs of piety.
Her feet bending like reeds
billowing in the fragrant wind.
Her mermaid-like hips!
Crazy, I love her so much that
I’ll let her french kiss me
while I watch the scythe-like moon.
I’m a satyr eager to give
up grazing so that the romantic wind
can blow my taut body
into her silky arms.
There my hungry eyes will read
the pages in her quiet, silver bosom.
This half empty bottle on
the table tells me that
my life is half full.
The key next to the dormant guitar
says a few doubts
have to be unlocked.
The patient explorer I am may go
all the way. The angry fox
in me may start
to bite after half a half mile.
Hope her cartoon-like father will
stop hammering my fingers, or else—
When it rains I still take my
umbrella to water my lawn;
I want it green for my princess.
People’s blablabla in my ears.
Like giving grass to a hungry tiger.
I’m now a hardworking guy.
An honest Scar.
It’s just time to fill the half
full bottle even if I have to use
blue teardrops instead of water.
Since: Apr 12
#5991 Feb 2, 2013
#5992 Feb 2, 2013
Walk down Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross. Sydney through
the conduit of condoms and ratty pigeons
smashed phone booths
and smears of hooker nylon
the distillation of ammonia and traffic
of the pilfered shopping cart
home to the less and the free
as above the windows painted
with replication of the Gods and
above the gods the edifice of cloud
imbroglio transfixed by the heat and screams
a seagull gleams by the El Alamein Fountain at the (un)Civic Center
the crack fiend lists and careens brandishing
moronic exclamations of bliss like fists
thrust into root fissures of spent dreams
the city is fiendish and weird and
walking through is carnival ride
no Hades ever knew.....
#5993 Feb 2, 2013
I woke up yesterday morning
with some misgivings,
as a cascade of piss hit my hotel window.
I shrugged it off.
that can’t be piss, I thought, no pigeon is that fucking big –
Palmer and Leichhardt being a refugee zone, the fact is
when there is little money, less hope, and few prospects,
one might occasion God for answers.
I noticed one of His representatives near the entrance
to the liquor store, reading
from a dog-eared New Testament,
a pint bottle poking out from his ragged jacket pocket.
he didn’t seem all that thrilled,
street preaching amidst
the filth and degradation and howling sirens, the garish
pantomime of painted streetwalkers, the rowdy fury
of thugs in training –
And myself, nearing the mirror image
of long deceased relatives.
I woke up this morning with
that the world still revolves while forests burn, water cranks
in the piping and there’s still
glorious vice galore to
keep a man from doing the dirty work himself.
I paid the rent today, but eventually someone will take my place
when I’m out of here –
they will stare at the dirty flowered
sheet that serves as a curtain,
they may brave
a medical emergency to wash their feet
in the sink, as the bathroom down the hall is
owned by a colony of roaches,
#5994 Feb 2, 2013
I'm shooting snooker with smoke
the Coach in a fuddle, spills
half a pitcher blaming
it on God, and
the part of a mis-begotten character
loafing in the cortex
of hummingbird logic
Deonie and Raine giggling on the pew under
a portrait study of the Shroud of Urine.
It's just a towel, from when
we beat the boys from Bogey’s, back
in the summer of ‘08
for the ‘ship,
drones the Coach,
looking over his cue sight shiftily –
he of the bleach gray hair and
bleached white undershirts and
sunken cocaine eyes.
This place is chock full of studies
in default and mother-fuckin'
stupidity, he goes on, pouring
from an onion hamburger cheese gut
as Raine presses against
Deonie, finger floating blue
pansies of delicate
a couple white trash floozies
so becoming in their
lack of media gestalt
Now enchanting this glorious
landscape of panache bewitchery.
get me some pink
glory girl, roll me in sunshine daily,
sings out Raine, fumbling
with the blurred lyrical
turquoise green expanse, pitch of dreams,
the snooker table beckons
I hit with the Coach for a couple racks,
he takes me down to the black number 7 ball
on fouls, so
masterful is bone
powder and line of entropic deity
potentate to the brain
half smiles for the sluts.
I wouldn’t fuck that
with a crutch, the Coach nods
After a bout with leukemia removed one of
You win again, Coach, you old
pour me a golden from that there decanter
of filthy modernity.
#5995 Feb 2, 2013
hers is a golden gulch of sweet, beefy pussy
mooing a love ditty of milk choked wood pails
a loud honk sneaks from her fist neatly clenching on
the meaty knot of her crotch that likes high pressure
there will be enough quiet to hear a sigh escape her lips
when the husks betray the ear to the big polished scythes
checking the no box and the yes box at the same time
feels good while her fluid turns juice colors in the sun
now laid out in the beauty of the dirt, she holds a lantern
at arm’s length trying to decipher the writing on her walls
within her an old librarian sees everything from a swivel chair
she reads where pleasures have been chipped away by fingernail
there is no one outside to tell her she goes too far inside herself
only she winces when the lantern bumps the edge of her fleshes
no hand rests on her back when the glassy swath of light strikes gold
the shuddering is long as a dark shaft digesting a few screaming men
no one ever checked out any books from the librarian
the boredom left her plenty of time to sit with her hands clasped
politely inside of herself like Lovely arcing into the bristly grass
where the shitty cows stand around
chewing up fold after fold of earth
#5996 Feb 2, 2013
f uck the snails cruising along
on the lube of their ooze.
f uck the deck chair branding
its leather thongs into a
f uck each ray of light
making fizzy suds beneath
the fatty bacon parts of her body.
f uck both corners of the red mouth
of the umbrella that dozed close
in the coddling blankie of air.
f uck the blue pool water calling out in currents
to her skin lifting now like female thoughts
about a man’s strong, cement mixer arms.
f uck how her throat burbles to urge another snore
up to the clouds where it will give thickness
to the contours of their grey face paint.
f uck the world for rotating her
so the heat slides smoothly
into the sweat hatching
on her sealed lips.
f uck all the lotion looping
in frosting layer shapes
on the cakes of her
f uck her sudden waking
for being violent as star after star
after star pretending to look the other way.
f uck the nick of blood spilling onto the green field
of the too crushed snail shell where she stood up.
f uck her hands clasped on her foot
for pressuring the timid mollusk bits
into something they did not want to do.
#5997 Feb 2, 2013
The special hurry
of the edges of testicles
into the chins
of bears ain't nothing
to be worried about honey
semen will flee before you
when you do come to life
so do not go overboard until
spring thaw when the bears
are out foraging off
a season’s hunger
just hold that teddy tight
so dreams of the real
thing will be
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