Best Prurient Poems
Inspiration from Frederic Edwin Church's
painting, The Arabian Desert
~
I press along this arid wasteland
thirsting for your eyes
beneath a mirage of low stars,
my airbrushes stroked in Arabia;
the cauldroned copper dunes
and your moorish fragrance
Become an oasis for this parched mouth--
the sinous dust blowing legends
murmuring Bedouin rites unsaid;
and through embers of a gas light
my imaginings weave in hynotic threads...
Syrian desert touched by midnight
as pores recall my ancient prurient cravings,
I memorize mules roaming by
yet this grandeur leaves me
distraught... for time rushes to steal
a filament of one torrid journey
it's end I cannot defy-- the lavish
fondling on needled sandunes,
I tell you, my rabid body alights
moist in flamed tincture of moonshine,
radiant as an orange gold portrait,
fog swiveling tumbling on scattered weeds--
airy tunes wriggling this jeweled belly
with smoky flavor penetrating my camisole,
where a migrant gull whistles the grit
of an impassioned night...
Alone, as finger-strokes deepen,
the concave blast of reveries
and winds carry your breath
sweet and damp upon my neck;
while one tiny cactus pierces my skin
oiled...watercolored
with faint longing.
I've waded with you in seaside shallows
'til love led us deeper than surface shoals.
With fervid passion, I've become blind
to everything except the need for you,
emotions rivaling the holiest hallows
inside my heart to make me whole.
We've reached the pinnacle point
of avowing a promise of foreverness.
Too late to swim ashore, for I'm drowning
in the whirlpools swirling in your eyes
beseeching you to love me... forever more.
You are to me ~ a tempting tormentor
whose whispers fondle my neck and face.
Your breath caresses each exotic place
bringing seductive sensations to my spine.
In depths of desire, I flirt with my demons,
and admit the temptation is devilishly divine.
Our shadows dance and secretly swoon,
in melodic waves beneath the moon.
I'm entranced when you call me your angel
and that your heart beats with a burning desire
or you say, "I am your passionate slave."
You see, I've memorized your metaphors,
the ones that deeply delve into my core.
Each time you express your emotions
in sensual lines of prurient poetry,
your words outshine the light of dawn.
Our language of love is not always spoken
through parted lips and fingertips...
More often concealed inside of us.
It's what our amorous hearts
ask our adoring eyes to quietly reveal.
I longed for love—love pure like driven snow,
untouched and virgin—in the years to come:
but years did come and go until (O woe!)
it, like the fall, decayed in my autumn.
Heartbroken, never I a princess met
or maiden girl with whom to spend long nights
of ardent love. (Alas! best to forget
my heart's too foolish hopes of its delights.)
Unstained by sin, naïve and innocent;
unspoil'd by life and vice in the very least:
I cast'd aside my youth's prurient bent,
forswore my loins' lusts and was my own priest!
Now aged and useless, I've denied all love;
thus life's reproach abides and won't approve.
Chapter 11: The Problem with Lakes
Canoes and larger lakes don’t mix well I’m afraid,
The rough equivalent of a margarita and a toothpick.
On the Mississippi a lake means a dam somewhere,
The scenic route buried now under dam water
Its prurient writhing now veiled from prying eyes
By puritanical hedonists more interested in flood control
And water reserves, than glacial art or Sculptor’s knife of water.
The placid appearance of a lake is modern quicksand
For a loaded canoe with its low running boards,
The wake of pleasure craft the worst as dilettantanti
In power’s limits, rush to greet you, cameras flashing.
The huge commercial barges pushed by true power craft
With opposing twin screws, create almost no wake at all,
But neither can they stop on a dime, so best stay clear.
Many Mississippi lakes cannot be seen across
And though the shortest path from entrance to egress
May be obvious to you, it may not be the wisest choice.
A day’s weather can change in minutes, who’s to warn you,
And some lakes can take hours to cross, what’s Plan B?
You’ve no flight plan, the lake may be deserted, who’ll miss you,
And a sudden wind’s waves on a large lake can kill you.
Brian Johnston
October 29, 2014
How I lavishly relish the outline
of an hourglass shaping curves
which unveil your ripened form--
cleavage of your silky back
fires imaginings of an enchantress
so prurient, worldly.
How sands of time glint on your mounds
tracing voluptuous bosoms
like a marvel of art --
and I will remember your silhouette
through dusk-eyes’ canvas , drying--
for my brushstrokes can never paint your essence
Brian Strand's Standard Contest 60
Titbit scars to feed emotions crimson;
In Her gloomy heart by her wet season.
As Her solstice endorses a greasing red,
She revels off a goad instead...
To each bliss cusp she gladly deflowers,
I cavort rue to each rose's hour;
As fingertips writhe in snow-white flesh
the sate of Love's cappella caress...
My emotions ascend to a God with black wings,
And soon this soul taken from pentacle rings.
But first I am descending before Her throne,
Her chest still racks that abyssal stone!
Prurient crucifixion of an annulled witch hunt.
Nascent Shangri to Her mire c*nt.
Her emotions strong enough to splendour fires,
This libertine forges Her foreplay desires.
Taken of the pulpit by a tyrant crevasse,
Splay out on an Oratory's cerise glass.
As she leers like the silver Moon...
I sprawl to Her with greatest tempt,
Only for me to feel contempt!
I scream ''You are my salvator'' as,
Blood pours where my sanguinary blade caress...
Red and juicy,
sensual shape,
sexual by nature,
they drip promiscuously
on my prurient lip!
Tastes of summer,
girls in flimsy cotton dresses
flirting shamelessly,
and sinfully suggesting
assignations in the park,
in the darkness, for a lark!
Their flavors captivate,
make me hunger
for an intimate embrace!
That eyes drown me
in a love too pestilent
fetid as a bloody gutter
Your look, so clean
yet your skin so filthy,
promiscuous, prurient, impudent
yet too innocent to know that I know
Too toxic
Perhaps, when my heart cried in white, this would’ve work
However,
now swarming my head
dreams and wishes
of tear your gruesome skin to shreds
pluck out your eyes
and boil your childish lying tongue,
with my bare hands that will stain as dries
with your pouring pain,
yet do I love you? Do you think I can?
yet do you love me? Do you think you can?
I’m lonely, stupid whore,
but not empty, still filled with perversity.
Our love are just cummed ashes.
There's A Pedophile In The House...
(ah...ah...ah...ham eye white...???)
OMG,... and he looks...
SAY WHAT??? just like me???,...
absolutely NO WAY!!!,
would this sensitive,
respectful, "FAKE" veejay
quiet-natured, mindful,
loving, kind, underplay
justice invoking, hew today
mainly, gentle, friendly, "I say"
enlightened, democratic chap redisplay
any besotted abominable,
blamable, culpable, quay
esse chin hubble
despicable, execrable prey
dot door formidable,
inhospitable...overplay
ying faux indulgent,
NOR be mistaken
to assay, betray, convey,
display, expressway more fay
writ his'm to
gainsay hearsay, inveigh
jaw dropping "FAKE"
yuge weak accusations
(by a long shot), sans
basket of conspiring deplorables
attempting to assassinate
bigly believe me tubby "stupid"
winning loser to berate,
who doth unequivocally create
mine substantial vocabulary rumor,
versus 4th grade reading level
trumpeting librettist - thee great
test Don Quixote
(as falsely sung with hate
full sotto voce), and ramped up
as ill suited mate
a minus [sic] zero moron,
which doth hapt
tubby incredibly tremendous
disservice to bona fide classy idiots
with a lot of money
(like the millions and billions
of my golfing confrères)
given bent iron golf clubs
used by crooked Hillary,
when former Secretary of State
ideal for Putin on the Ritz
by far less exciting, with
Bill Clinton's flirtatious flits
trained pudenda purse
sin null property
of intern (NO FALLACY)
topped as southern delicacy dish
consume mated with buttered grits
pricked prurient peccadilloes licks
suddenly recalling seminal kicks
starting, how with Little Rock kits
he received assistance,
sans starts and fits,
eventually then nubile
ingenue Monica Lewinsky
called time out, cuz at her wits
end once assisting helping
express his "naughty bits,"
when done completing
cum mincecd secrete mission
blue dress draped
expensively furred
(i.e. tricked out) in her
"FAKE" minx hiding
sable animal spirits,
when animal rights
activists vehemently protested
out-coming result
slapping former president
with a PETA file.
Morning found me on a river bank
basking in the warmth of the sun
I thought of myself as a turtle,
believing my shell was armor
shielding my heart from everyone
I started to doze in placid tranquility
The sun's sultry breath laving my skin
Then I heard a splash and fear set in
as you swam across the lake to me
Cowardly, I ran. Deeply hidden was I
or so I mistakingly thought
beneath barren branches, I quietly lie
amongst Autumn leaves on forest floor
trying to lull the cadence of my heart
You breached the surface
body glistening in sunlight's splendor
I moved farther into the forest
shivering, not from a chill, but fear
as your treading steps drew near
I closed my eyes but could not dismiss
thoughts surging through my mind
I had no control over any of those
Your hands lifted me from cowering pose
Your lips touched mine in prurient kiss
Not a word did either care to utter
but there was need of none
Mid morning found us basking in the sun
Your sultry breath laving my skin
My heart pulsing, aflutter
In the short youth that came, I longed for love—
love pure, untouched and virgin. But for some,
love never comes to pass. Comforted of
God, I instead sought Him in my autumn.
Now agéd , I have ne’er a maiden met
or a fair lady courted for a night
of true love. (Alas! ‘tis best to forget
my lovelorn heart’s vain hopes for such delight.)
So, free from sin; naïve and innocent;
and unspoil’d by life's vices and its yeast,
I have cast aside lust’s prurient bent
and turned from my desires to be God's priest!
To serve Him and deny my heart, I've lost
the chance to love for such a great, high cost!
The Sound of Colours
http://gregoryswisdom.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/the-sound-of-colours.html
Red sounds like blood dripping out through some severed artery,
Bursting out in a gush from a severed head, or limb, spluttery.
Or the hot breath of passion in the pulsing darkness, whispery.
Orange is citrus fruit bursting, splattered on the hard ground,
Or the song of choirs bouncing off a chantry's walls all round;
Or a King coming with glorious reforms in an irresistible bound.
Yellow is cows bellowing among buttercups, chewing cud,
Or the rush of cowards, defeated, fleeing through stalling mud;
And the clang of gold beneath a smith's hammering, heavy thud.
Blue signals a k pop singer's lament when there's no Gucci bag;
The sound of birds waking up a drunken, wanton, layabout slag;
Moody jazz oozing through the dark recesses, a misery drag.
Green is the rasping rattle, of green phlegm in asthmatic lungs,
The slithering sliding of serpents in grass darting diabolic tongue;
The creep of wilderness spreading tentacles where man has sprung.
Indigo is rubber tyres flapping, punctured on the bitumen;
Ink splashing out of some wayward, penning fountain;
The slinky rustle of a siren in a dress sleek and silken.
Violet is the siren sliding off her gossamer attire of desire
The rustle of money to quench the flame of prurient fire;
Cancer cells rupturing, oozing from sores dirty and dire.
Oh...and hello
to you, some hours past, I
returned from counseling,
(hence this boy yent -
albeit beastie boy
figuratively basking
in fading afterglow)
great kickstarter session,
countless moments ago,
sans treatment plan,
she facilitated emotional airflow
i.e. Stephanie Dodds,
(sat straight as an arrow)
whereat this client purged, avow
hid lee, his psycho
logical reflux backflow
(Matthew Scott Harris) did crow
as said professionally trained
medicine woman actively listened,
(no doubt other male patients
similar to yours truly entertained
(alignment with see
thing hormonal concurrence,
where ego super vies iz
Id dee hot - hook line, and sinker
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
who sired, midwifed, and fathered
psychoanalytic theories)
sexual kindled fantasies,
viz being bedfellow
this soul, hood doth not bellow,
but keeps mum
(during my allotted time),
yet willingly shares
with utter strangers
intimate gal olive
hunt ting fantasy,
that doth beshadow
obviously no intent to breach
such prurient thoughts, bestow
foolscap upon mine noggin,
and most definitely blow
future appointments
with aesthetically pleasing
(tomb maa cryptic) bowwow
wing hot diggity
dog inner primate, perhaps,
and not surprisingly get brow
beaten, where dire
erect tor of facility
wilt hell me
"go take a hike to
penile solitary bungalow,"
where all manner of
libidinous desires wanna burrow
(where warren peace
can thrive hare and now),
on par with rabbit - burr reader,
which confinement would
not principally peter out
till dawning transgression vetted,
and avered final cockrow
trumpeted, norte - til last cornrow
reaped, hence unable
to thwart counterblow
permanently, doth nada
different she hate
lustful zeal from eye
dims sum – genital fateful dayglow,
thence high lee
grant ting deathblow
to testosterone laden satiety,
randy proclivity, and
concupiscent adoration from
combine nation of #endow
ments to ghost of - Grant
yule leases eyebrow
raising candy cane upon fallow
da weeder foreshadow
wing sowing field of poetically
wet dreams plying fecund,
feminine, and fertile ground
godaddy on his gangplow.
only by a fluke did I manage
to worm winning trust
among Christmas elves and reindeer
confident this generic guy,
would never breach scandalous
tidbits, into a an underground impregnable
air-raid shelter, the motley crue
tied blindfold over my eyes, didst steer
me hermetically sealed
sound (cloud) proof bunker
while ensconced (security detail munchkins,
who just so happened tubby *****
minded entrance portal)
only after getting the thumb up signal,
whereat nose pies planted
espionage surveillance devices
the chief head honcho and attendents,
Smoky and the bandits respectively,
magically, andhandily did ap pear
and despite one hundred percent bug free,
a whispered stance opted just to make sure
no unwanted eavesdropper could overhear
plus every participant swore an oath, cuz
any leaked real or “FAKE” information,
would spell imminent demise to be near
the upshot, sans grave emergency
d escribingclandestine arraignment
involving some rogue elf
(most likely at least two),
and a misbehaving reindeer
(names withheld to avoid any spoiler alert,
plus this entire kit and caboodle
necessary to help Saint Nick
got wind, (and subsequently reined in)
a rave party with orgiastic
sex, drugs and rock and roll
that a band aided elf(ves)
laced with Pepper Minstix
(anonymously hashtagged Sodom and Gomorrah)
sullied pure as the driven snow repute,
when alias Sugarplum Mary (“FAKE NAME”)
detected snorting cocaine
code named Alabaster Snowball,
while additionally
besmirching her virginity
via coital cavorting
amidst a Bushy Evergreen
shaking as if frenzied
with feverish boogie woogie flu
which seductive, prurient,
and master baiter friend zeed
(spunky gangnum style) Shinny Upatree
which could slay Wunorse Openslae reputation
as substance abusers,
and sex offenders if not worse.
I longed for a love pure as driven snow
and fresh as spring 'ere Youth's brief joys succumb;
but a love never transpired; and, although
denied, I carried on to life's autumn.
A maid, princess, or queen have I never
loved or with an ardent nymph passion-proved
lust's all-consuming fire; deprived forever,
I disavowed former hopes for a beloved.
So, thenceforth unblemished and innocent,
without sin and virtuous from west to east,
I surrendered my youth's prurient bent
and forswore my lusts to dwell as a priest.
Now old and bootless, I ne'er knew desire;
or pierced the flower of a maid on fire.