O gosh here's another
The sheets.
Underneath, us.
In darkness, face-blind,
skin breathing on heated skin,
limbs arguing.
Listening to our hearts calling each other
from lonely chambers
– that joyous, beating echo
that keeps me alive
in this safe place. You, here
between
the sheets
I thought I'd lost this
Across my path last night you flew:
A cocksure, giggling, half-drunk mess
The smokescreen of a hidden you,
unstable in your awkwardness
I grimaced as you spilled your drink –
and played the slack-jawed sort of bloke
Who likes to say, but never thinks
and jabs his way through punchless jokes
I know your sort; perhaps that’s why
I’ve stuck to bookish types who read
– No. I mean that’s what I’ve tried,
but never managed to succeed.
The ones I go for wear a love
of arcane writers on their sleeve.
I'm sure we’ll fit like hand in glove.
We never do. I always leave.
The trouble is, to those who deal
in ordered words and pretty prose,
the everyday can seem unreal
– a blurry world beyond their nose.
Potential swims against the fact:
the promise of a well-read man
(no matter how that still attracts)
rarely goes the way I plan.
What virtue would I stand to lose
to value men as I do books?
Not be so shallow as to choose
them by their cover – or their looks?
Everybody looks to hide
our worst from others. It’s because
we can’t risk showing what’s inside:
the most repugnant of our flaws.
I might as well give you a chance
as drunkards might as well with me;
the gamble of a mating dance
where no-one’s as they seem to be
So send your beer-stained look my way
and watch me primly waiting here,
crafting something smart to say
to rid myself of sober fear.
I’ll fight the urge in me to ask
you as you greet me with a grin:
‘What lies behind your lager mask –
does something graceful live within?’
Who cares? Come here and kiss my lips.
Seduce me with a dirty offer.
Lick my neck and grab my hips
– then tell me of your favourite author.
Confessing of the old monk's soul
genuflecting to a harlot's trove,
as her cunt's sable bed me warm,
feeling her bowl cajole.
With a mist of green and lanterns hung
in silence the rest of my life,
with my lust in chains wrought of iron,
in fields of bones sleeping endlessly.
A twilight's infinity, carrion for worms,
o' holy night of phantom songs
as the devil's whiffler spoofs,
in the garden where I abide.
And I behind abbey of walls
as her thighs pied my loins,
now with coins on my eyes
with a mist of green and lanterns hung.
Wouldn't you rather have a nice cup of tea?
I wrote this in the shower this morning:
Testicles in a waterfall
River washing over my sweaty balls
Washing all my junk-funk away!
I’ve got some tropical nuts today.
Don't believe everything that you read.
I wrote this at Christmas:
I’m thinking of last night and this
in particular: that kiss
under thread-swinging mistletoe
just after you were the last to say you had to go.
Our lips touched and held
a second too long, I felt. Lips unpursed I could tell
this meant more. I drowned in the smell
of your mulled breath and the wet taste
of sugar-sweet on your lips. Haste
forgotten in the perfume of that embrace.
It hurts the day after. Where do we go from here
if anywhere at all? It’s less clear
if you felt the same thrill
I did when my tongue touched yours; or if you still
will soldier on as that sympathetic friend.
Too late now, in one sense. You’ve gone away, to spend
the holiday at home. But will you send
some sort of sign? Let me know
where I stand? As for last night, all I have to show
for it is the raw, primal torture of a day spent aglow.
While Miles was kissing Annabelle on the back of her neck and
placed his hands on the one pair of breasts that were so very grand,
she grabbed his crotch, looked at his sister Nikki with a big smile
and said, "I know what we should be doing but now... for a while...
we should help your brother enjoy his Christmas gift.", before all
three of them allowed themselves to take their clothes off and... then... fall
down to the floor in order for Annabelle to cup each ball
and suck his hard dick before the one who became 'The Cleveland
Hottie' had let her brother help her keep that one title
by sucking her pussy and have his cock at her beck and call.
Back When
She looked again and there he stood
Grinning and talking and looking good
And she found it hard to breathe
as she remembered
Back when he was chasing her
and couldn't get enough of her
Yeah, back when he turned her head
and she believed the things he said
She watched him as he turned her way,
felt his touch, a hug, a hey
And her heart was feeling dread
as she remembered
Back when he told her they were meant to be
Forever and always, you and me
Yeah, when he first took her to his bed
and she believed the things he said
She sees him turn and look around
His cheeky "Ciao" whispered through the sound
And she turned her cheek to his kiss
as she remembered
Back when he finally had her
He found he didn't really want her
Yeah, back when he made her feel so dead
and she quit believing anything he said
It was after I stripped off her
clothes that I had put my finger
inside her mouth and watched her suck
on it while her best friend had bound
her wrists to the bed frame with round
handcuffs and waited for a truck
sized pussy fucking like the one
I was doing and almost done
with which made me proud of that luck.
An old one of mine:
The chance to slowly walk with you somewhere,
To sit with you and smoke and drink some wine,
To dance, my hand in yours and yours in mine -
I’ve dreamed so long that now I hardly dare
To know you. Still I wonder if you’d care
For this, my dream of us, my dream of ours.
Let me show you life in a handful of hours.
I would give you here in a room full of there.
I’d button up your coat, carress your hair,
Gently move my hand, faintly trace a line
Across your cheek. I’d need all my powers
To resist from kissing you. And laid bare
I’d be, when you kiss me - a kiss so fine
It leaves me with a taste that never sours.
In my nightly sojourns with the pen
the ghosts bring me no follies
for they fast in shallow graves
with withering flesh as my ink sins
like hemlock ambrosia
As my yard-arms like tentacles bring
thighs from my mind's nave
mounting my joust in heat waves
suspended by lust
and Jiminy smitten
Bringing scare from my chair
and my motley shrew
as the dusk succumbs to my cock
drooling with caulk from my stalk
with lips basking in the dark
So come to me with the homily
and shedding your nun's wimple
with withering flesh as my ink sins
crying me no tears
as I bend your knees
ARE THEY THERE
And after we're gone who'll remember to care
Despair waiting there for the loss all will bear
For the loss
For the loss
They show love and despair
We will never return
But remember to care
Knowing despair that is already there
When the chill sets in will they share that they care
When their fingers are numb and their heart is still bare
It's despair
It's despair
It's despair they must share
They will wipe away tears
And erase all the fears
Just prepare
For the heartache
And share the despair
That should have been posted, Larry.
I need help.
...in pastels like soft shades of hue
at times free falling into dreams...
This was ancient from blue
Pornographic Mind
Those are not dirty thoughts...
The sensual rises of the morning sun
Sensually shining down on fertile land
Those are pornographic in my mind
The erotic beams of the evening moon
Erotically enchanting on a sleepless night
Those are pornographic in my mind
The sensual blows of the soft wind
Sensually caressing my hot naked skin
Those are pornographic in my mind
The erotic sways of the cascading water
Erotically mesmerizing with my naked eyes
Those are pornographic in my mind
The sensual melts of the ice cream
Sensually arousing lick with every drop
Those are pornographic in my mind
The erotic flows of a juicy fruits
Erotically explosive inside my watering mouth
Those are pornographic in my mind
Everything around us is either sensual or erotic
Sensually appreciated the beautiful creations
Erotically interpreted by my pornographic mind
If beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
Then dirty thoughts are only in one's mind
If those are works of my pornographic mind
The night is where I wish to be for dark is my destiny
dressed in raven wings no more fears to breathe
from my eternal eyes for they have slept
grain fed by age crowing the clock
with no shivers in my bed to rock
bending my elbow with rum
But loneliness is as dark of a hollowed out shoe
like a blood red tattoo with fingers tapping
around my starched raised collar
with thorns calling and valentines dripping
memories we shared of an owl's tu-whit tu-whoo
sinking into my obscurity behind lids of cataracts
Of dark's chocolate and sins of caffeine
and the ghost of screams climbing walls of my theme
with words of everlasting stirring a demitasse
pulling at the strings of my tongue's Listerine
bittersweet and obscene like a marionette with tears
in shadows, to thee, I sing
No more tears to shed on these pale walls
as I feel your breath giving me head
kneeling on knees returning to me in dreams
on the nape of my being playing my cock's Calliope
as the tempest flees beyond the freize
of my minds philosophy
In the darkness of my demons of Coventry's rule
and toadstools with jester caps singing
love is not all craven but like a blood red tattoo
hedge-hopping weeds crossing the moats
of winged dryads in the trees
and running of the sap
At midnight with desire, it brings
suckling your breasts with lips I sing
as I lust inviting your touch
stroking my cock with a splintered strum
for the night is my eternity
in my house of petrified wood
Kissing your mound of felted fluff
among the spines of yellowed tomes
in spite of the book worms worn
no more ashes to burn
in the rafters of tu-whit tu-whoo
touching the moon with a ladder's rung
Embracing the coffers of your cunt
as my tongue licks your clit's inquiry
with a whisper of my cock's brew
playing my cards with a full house
and decked out in my walking suit
as I trump the joker
But the love we embrace on the mirror's pane
as a friar's lantern calls the charcoal's black
saying grace as the owls tu-whit tu-whoo
before the cuckoo tolls the dawn
like a blood red tattoo
shedding it's leaves
In a covenant of soul's in the blue bayou
scratching the zydeco before it goes cold
arousing my shadow before the day spawns
dressed in raven wings no more fears to breathe
before my mind begins to weave
on the ides of fifteen
For my dearest friend who is always there for me,
I am very thankful to call you my friend
He is Peter Pan, visiting at night.
Generously sharing magical time,
Smiles with his beautiful stories,
Laughter with his naughty poems,
Tears with his soulful sonnets.
He is a multi-talented artist.
Gifted in his own chosen craft,
His powerful voice for singing,
His talented feet for dancing,
His acting prowess on stage
He is intellectual, sweet and
Kind, taking me to Neverland,
Letting me escape my nightly
Battle with migraine attacks
And when insomnia strikes.
A generous mentor, he said to
Be as nasty as fearless with
My poetry and story writings.
I'm proud to say he is my friend.
Not exactly mine, but a golf-themed parody of Jabberwocky - Lewis Carol
T'was sunday and the slicey clubs
Did swish and bobble on the tee
Negativity and flubs
All were thoughts that came to he
Beware the inside-out my son
The top, the whiff, the bending smash
Beware the snap-hook, mate, and shun
Any shot that ends in splash
"I hate this course" he glumly thought
"Its lakes and sand and trees so tall"
But bravely he, on the starting tee
Pulled out a four-buck ball
And while, defiantly, he stood
A fairway bunker, mouth agape,
Did whisper to him - "use the wood!"
"And know there's no escape!"
Practise swing - then the real thing
The driver swung the ball did cringe
A solid rap, he flew the trap
And rolled up to the fringe
"And did'st thou eagle with a chip?
Or birdie from first cut?"
"Oh no, my son. The course? It won -
I never learned to putt."
T'was Sunday and the slicey clubs
Did swish and bobble on the tee.
Long irons, short irons, woods and wedges
Silently laughed at me.
This was a poem that I wrote for Rune.
She gave me the words and asked me to create a sonnet.
I think we both thought it turned out rather well.
Meg's Sonnet
The lovely sunrise each and every day
The chirping birds that sing without a care
The echoed laughs of children as they play
The whispered words of lovers as they share
The flowers grazing by our fingertips
The bees that sip the dew without a fuss
The wind caressing both our skin and lips
Dramatic sunsets calling out to us
A poem of love that trips upon the tongue
Baroque adagios that two lovers weave
And loving lyrics begging to be sung
To feel this love is all we need achieve
The sounds of nature play a symphony
We join our lives in blissful symmetry
In a night when dreams are asleep
feeling the carnal pain of my lust
lying here in my bed long of dread
with the untouchable of my wed
My only being is my love
long of tongue long of a thread
as my fingers slowly creep
sheets of embers, now gone frigid
But who wakes you from your slumber
naked and cold as you shudder
from your peaceful rest
neath a fairs' moon of winter born
Like a fallen angel with cold arms
in the loneliness of my dreary
wearing love on the sleeve of my pen
with the untouchable of my wed
You’ve turned
the sun to ice;
the sky to snow.
I asked you twice
you still said no.
Moving Day
Through sunlit windows I watch;
the melting ice drips and falls.
They heavily bear belongings
down the stairways, through the halls.
Who denies the palpable fear;
moving day comes once again.
The U-Haul filled to the brim,
they've tried and failed in vain.
Together, they must share the burden;
together, they are still uncertain.
The snow and ice will soon disappear,
but the chill of the world will stay near.
The Daily Grind.
I crawl out of bed at 6:45,
Gritty eyed - half alive.
A nut case raves on the radio,
I breathe in deep my own B.O.
The door slams to with a crashing roar.
I'm off to bastard work once more.
The Daily Grind.
I crawl out of bed at 6:45,
Gritty eyed - half alive.
A nut case raves on the radio,
I breathe in deep my own B.O.
The door slams to with a crashing roar.
I'm off to bastard work once more.
Something it Was
Soft drops of rain on my windowsill
a million miles a million words run through my head
lost in a thought of forgotten sorrow
Forgotten memories of no tomorrow
I lay awake inside my bed with soft spoken words that she once said
My eyes are heavy My heart is sinking what must i be thinking
Under the sun and into the stars
I stare at the midnight sky
I hear thunder then rain bouncing off the street
I look for that place that i can retreat
not to think of anything at all
close my eyes and dream and not think just do it all
all alone and inside my head
It must of been something!
to make me feel this way
Whispers in a Bolgia
Loving whispers beckon,
across time and space.
I see your and his apparitions,
atop the companionway.
Fresh from memories distant past
I’m tortured when I see your locket.
Searching for your warmth
in a frozen waste.
Captain Smith is held deeply by his lover.
Would holding you again stop
the ice pick
from playing on my heart?
One staircase left to climb,
as it always is.
The half frozen beast
never lets me ascend.
The judges cast their ballots
with our cheating hearts.
"Illegitimis non carborundum." Vinger Joe Stllwell
What you learn in life is important; those you help learn are more.
hugs 
