Posts Tagged ‘Inspirational Upbeat Uplifting Poetry’


CYNTHIA
When our chops roar
she seems reticent.
She has witnessed
so many.
Why is she coy
observing our osculation?
Does she know we’re
for other lips?

 


My Heart is Not My Own

My hearts beats in my chest
But it is not my own
It was here one day
Then gone the next
When his eyes caught mine
And set me on fire
A longing desire
My heart now to him it belongs
My soul has also drifted along

 

 


death by Poet(ry)

 

when you woke up this morning

the dust in the acidic

draft-less air

had already settled upon your face

thus ruining

those past-apocalypse seasons we spent together;

it is a reminiscent of these

when I find myself at a morality loss

rousing up in cheap motel rooms

where the continental breakfasts

don’t seem “continental” anymore.

why do we keep on running?

where do you think we are going?

why can’t we just stake our claim

on some little dingy foreign country (side) dive

and trade treason for reason?

instead of bathing today, you bathe in perfume

and sit upon my dormant cock

the heat within your woman’s womb

doesn’t placate me anymore

but it’s the slow wind of those acidic elements

that waft through your monotonous hair

that which stirs my black key stroke erections.

and each strand that rakes through my hand

reminds me of earth –

pigmen born of mud

air, where contagion spreads –

fire, hell-lelujah in the sky –

water, a grave integrity of baptisms –

you lay your naked face against my cottoned chest

feeling for my last breath, you whisper:

 

you don’t know this

 

but you have a black picket fence

staked around your heart

a grave marker

sitting on your soul

 

and, you’re wearing a suit.

 

no self-proclaimed poet wears suits,

anymore.

so-stop-pretending-to-be-dead.

 

 


lovely day

 

it’s sunny outside

76+ degree weather

birds soar high

the rivers look serene

Bill Withers sings

 

i’ve packed

everything

in a tiny

little box;

 

i couldn’t have planned

a better day

to leave you

 


Tom Hardy you’re my Hero

your cream colored tattered flesh

my milky white tattooed breasts

you are as delusional

as you are prostitutional.

if I zip down your mancunt

and spread your iron ego lips wide

will that inglorious slit clit

squirt fortunes of cum juice?

will it tell me my future

and all the brutal things

that are yet to come, not cum

with you or in you?

Yes, I’m feeling peculiar.

Yes, I’m feeling inferior.

Yes, I’m feeling extra-curricular.

your “ooh” and “ah” and “yes” and “yum’s”

mangle me in the dark

pulling me to the bottom

of post-lesbianism-nymphomatic-barrel-psychosis

and I ask what do I do

with all this inhumane addiction?

I bet Tom Hardy

never had to go through this shit!

You hand me a current issue of Esquire

and tell me to shut the fuck up

and grow some balls!


 

An Old City

 

An old city

Actually is not a city

It’s a banana tree

It’s every nook and corner

Like a banana tree

With unique taste and flavor

Since thousands of years.

 

It has igneous memories

Of old lava

Buried here and there

In metamorphic creations,

Inadequately ejaculated;

And in footprints rocky

Soft dew could sleep blithely

Still with modernity.

 

An old city

Is like an eternal journey

Amidst webbed rings

Worn, torn, entangled intricate

As if fibers of time.


 

THINKING ABOUT FUCKING

Naturally, for decades, I’ve thought more about

fucking than actually fucking;

and over the decades the gap between

thinking and fucking

has grown but the thought of fucking

hasn’t slowed any but the acting on the

thought and making it real has slowed,

although the thoughts burn fiercely as ever

and the spirit surges violently and the touch,

the sensation, the visual

the audio pleasures are all very much alive

and the obsessive

mysterious desires continues

but the energy and physical lust

has slowed

like a ticking clock-hand

getting ready

for a forever

midnight.