THE LOVE MACHINE

Brisbane, Australia

#6301 Mar 4, 2013
John Dryden observed in 1681 that "Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide," echoing the observation made centuries ago by the philosopher Aristotle that madness and genius seem to go hand in hand. In this cultural tradition, we often believe that the mental illnesses of great poets are simply a condition of their own artistic genius.


“ We poets in our youth begin in gladness; but thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.”~ William Wordsworth ~

Why might creative people be prone to such dementia? Perhaps it is the fact that their subject is the world of experience itself, reflected through their creations. Perhaps in some cases it is the unceasing pressure and stress that is the nature of celebrity. In their attempt to tell the truth as they see it, poets may find pain, yet their craft itself might offer one way to lend them power over that pain.


“ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact.”~ William Shakespeare ~

The interest in the controversial aspects a poet's life itself can sometimes draw attention away from their creations. There is a general tendency for the sensational and pathological to attract heightened notice by the general public. This may not always be a negative thing, however, as it can generate more interest in a poet's work.




.
“ The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer.

“ Wild, audacious, rebellious,... half mad by nature; a creature made to tempt and to be tempted, to seduce and to fall, about whom there was but one certainty, that he was irreclaimable.”~ John Murray on Devine.

Level 8

Since: Jun 08

Location hidden

#6302 Mar 7, 2013
Hard not soft.
I tried to charm
romance was not working
she liked hard
no I am not joking.
Looking in to her eyes
I was smitten
later found out
she loved to be bitten.
The way she tossed her hair
the way she looked
that voice when she said
lets f8*K.
Fore play she did not need
wanted it right there and then.
She was wet I was ready
was going to nail this bitch
she loved talking dirty.
Her breasts she loved
to be bitten
new to me but hell
I was ready to please.
Nipping her tummy
down to her cl*t
her thighs began
to twitch.
Not wasting time
I said now your mine
opened her wide
rammed inside.
Called her dirty wh*r£
as I pushed deeper
I wanted to please her.
We moved in unison
came as one
her hard heart
I had won.
Written by carletto47

Level 6

Since: Apr 12

Location hidden

#6304 Mar 17, 2013
Keep posting please.

“On The Wings Of A Dove ”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Two Hearts In Love

#6316 Mar 17, 2013
:O)
Old Days

United States

#6320 Mar 17, 2013
Nothing like some good, old fashioned SPAM on a Sunday night.
Sweetie-Pie

United States

#6326 Mar 18, 2013
stacked and proud wrote:
Lick me
lick me til I cum
you stick your tongue inside
my sweet chocolate
my fingers run through your hair
as you take me on this wild ride
i grind up against your face
you take it all in stride
and suck a little harder....
while my legs are open wide
you pause to look at the juices
running down into my ass
I pull you up and kiss your lips
our tongues dance together
I grind against you
giving your cock a bit of pleasure
back down you move
I arch my back and you lift my ass
with your hands
and get another mouth full
of this tasty love
Written by miche9901
ROTFLMBO @ You, SquirtCake

Level 8

Since: Jun 08

Location hidden

#6327 Mar 18, 2013
Sweetie-Pie wrote:
<quoted text>
ROTFLMBO @ You, SquirtCake
what?? didn't you like it pie??

to raunchy for ya.....??? this is the just sex and poetry thread...... may I suggest you read else where....
Sweetie-Pie

United States

#6328 Mar 18, 2013
LoL

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

Bronx, NY

#6331 Mar 19, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
Would you like
To come over tonight
Spend the evening
By candlelight?
I’d take you in my tub
For a gentle backrub
Liquid love and foam
And my seductive moan
No worries, no complaints
Just champagne in our veins
I’d be your candy cane
Driving you insane
By the way
I call your name
Over and over again
We could continue
In front of the mirror
Where we can see
Each other clearer
A sweet reflection
Of a lusty connection
Moving achingly slow
To enjoy the show
While breathing in
Our steaming skin
It does sound stunning
What do you think
Are you coming?
...Enzo takes center stage...
Reported!
...Enzo struts off...stage left...
Simply deVine

United States

#6333 Mar 19, 2013
SPAM!!!!!!
Sweetie-Pie

United States

#6334 Mar 19, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
SPAM!!!!!!
No, Nuts, Mean, and Racy.~

“On The Wings Of A Dove ”

Level 9

Since: Mar 12

Two Hearts In Love

#6337 Mar 19, 2013
I am a strong woman but every now and then I would like for someone to take my hand and say everything is gonna be okay...

off the net...

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

New York, NY

#6339 Mar 20, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
Into perplexity: as an itch chased round
an oxter or early man in the cave mouth
watching rain-drifts pour from beyond
his understanding.
Whether to admire the mere sensation, enough, or hold out for sweeter ornament, vessels of wonder
born with that ur-charm of symmetry;
lovely ones we ache to prize and praise,
climb into and become because they try our day-by-day significance: some of us ugly and most of us plain, walked past in the drowned streets: pearls of paste, salted butter, secondary colors.
They drift unapproached, gazed never-selves,
blunt paragons of genetic industry.
We desire them but cannot want such order.
We stand, mouths open, and cannot help
stammering our secrets, nailed to water.
...authored by Roddy Lumsden...
once again you fail miserably when giving credit where it is due...
BTW adrain...
Reported...
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazin...

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

New York, NY

#6341 Mar 20, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea.
That the clown---faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk of that black birch is, by his presence, some tragic falling off from a first world of undivided light.
Or the other notion that, because there is in this world no one thing to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds, a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone almost querulous.
After a while I understood that, talking this way, everything dissolves: justice, pine, hair, woman, you and I.
There was a woman I made love to and I remembered how, holding her small shoulders in my hands sometimes, I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat, muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish called pumpkin-seed.
It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances.
I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread, the thing her father said that hurt her, what she dreamed.
There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
"MEDITATIONS AT LAGUNITAS" authored by Robert Hass and plagiarized by adrain devine...
Reported.
Poetry Critic

United States

#6352 Mar 21, 2013
This here's some racyass SPAM for sure!

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

Bronx, NY

#6357 Mar 22, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
Middle aged now, she folds up the edges of her body; tidies herself away into the space around her.
Each day she touches the fingers of one hand against the fingers of the other and is astounded by the exactness of the match.
Eyes down she watches over her creation, this child of unreliable beauty.
She sits in fear, square-jawed against the retraction of this miracle: news she knows she must expect but cannot reconcile.
When the sea comes looking for the Black Madonna it throws up a shoal of nausea: a cornucopia of sand and shells that takes her back - back to a place where once a flood of light became a river.
That night she takes a white whale as a lover and dreams of giving birth to a school of splintered silverfish, each one an elision of nectarine and ochre.
Next morning at the altar her hands fold around a bouquet of cockle buds and seaweed bloom, as inappropriate as a fish-wife in a chapel.
The Legend of the Black Madonna authored by Jacqueline Haskell, plagiarized by adrain...
Reported.
Reportd

United States

#6366 Mar 22, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
Do whispers of c unt or
f uck or w hore or slut
shrink you, pretty violet,
or coil you, like a snake?
What about
p ussy beaver coochie—
or crack slit bush—
what do they
do to your belly?
Would you rather it be
a muffin, or a cookie,
something sweet—
a honey pot?
Or the clinical vagina?
Can you show him your breasts,
your tits, your hooters,
your boobs, or melons?
Will you tell him
with your mouth full
about his penis?
Or will you worship
his c ock
his p rick
his rod
his dick
cut or uncut
the root
the meat
the shaft
his stiffening tool
his loaded basket?
Do you make love?
Or do you f uck—
hump, grind, screw
shag, bang, rut?
Does he drive it home,
grind into your crack
and c um all over
that peach fuzz
pink
with all the love
in the world?
Reported

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

Bronx, NY

#6377 Mar 28, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
The spring is scented
with anonymous headlessness
time has become the sky
that haunts in a scarred dream
sick with an age-long hat
red poets
like ants
have crept all over the earth
in sane pursuit of madness
the poetical space
has once more filled with
a post-poetry echo
of irrelevance
the more
becomes
the less
reduced then
to invisibility
we are confronted
with the question
of how post is post really
how can we be pre again
numerous academics
have carved their names
on the instantly forget/table
anonymity of word-induced things
magazines
of bullets
of films
aimed at their own
self-referentiality;
the question is
how can a name
exist
among non-existentiabilities
of names ?
By Yu Ouyang
http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/ouyang-...
Reported

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

Bronx, NY

#6387 Mar 28, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
"THIS VERSION of LOVE."
I have seen her, wonderful!
A waterfall of hair, body like glass,
Wading through the goldfish pools in winter,
Her white shark-skin dress dark-wet above her thighs,
The very shape and effigy of love:
Or turbanned, earringed, lying on the lawn
Among the clover burrs, her bangles clacking,
reading Ern Malley.
Oh! her nipples under her black lace bras
And flimsy blouses, her gold hair pins
Strewn in the car upholstery.
In the bar of the O.B.H. the creme de menthe
Slopped in the green squid bottles on the shelf,
The rain beat in great waves, running down
the plate glass windows.
On V.E. day a Yank gob somersaulted through
A jagged icy cut-out in the air,
Crusted with drops of blood.
“Shall I marry?
Who shall I marry?
Shall I die now
Swallowing lysol one glittering afternoon
Before my breasts fall and my womb tilts?”
Salt and water, the stomach pump
Coils like an evil creeper, wraps her round,
Choking and arching in the public ward.
In the queues outside the abortionist's
The white statues of cupids tumble at her feet.
The police-woman stands righteous beside her bed.
“Next time you try it you won't get away with it.”
Obliterate me, save me, I go down
Hanging by my hair into the great avenues
of dust and leaves.”
Fugitive as morning light she moves
In a thin rain out and across the river
leaving no footprints.
Beautifully written by Dorothy Hewett
http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/hewett-...

Reported

Level 9

Since: Feb 12

Bronx, NY

#6388 Mar 28, 2013
Simply deVine wrote:
"ELEGY."
Contempt is the luxury of a future,
resentment the past locked in a safe.
When I'm lost I pray to myself
for the lack of anyone else to pray to,
Lord don't let me be less than I am:
although I often am and am sorry for it —
the pettiness where a generosity
might have mattered or the small
angers against another's weakness —
And you were often spiteful, though perhaps
you just assumed it didn't hurt me.
It's too late to speak and all the pointless
gestures dissolve in the real drama
that finishes mid-sentence.
Whatever you did, living was inescapable
and you weren't hard enough to hobble
those suicides of deliberate blindness,
despite your darker knowings. But it's harsh
to judge a man's defences.
I know better than to look for different endings
but I remember when you rang at 4am
precisely at the time I was in trouble.
My instinct was stubborn and well placed
and I often didn't know what to do about it
being less than I wanted to be, as I said,
and sometimes as evasive as you.
I read your obituary today and wished
that you had been more like the man it described
instead of the failure you knew you were.
Alison Croggon wrote this one and deserves the credit not you...
http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/croggon...
Reported!

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