Best Slaking Poems
Lean into me Luv,
abandon the logic of romance,
be naked in the nature of my need,
pant openly as weightlessness prickles your pink parts,
Tonight I do not want your love,
I don't deserve it anyway, a villian in exhuberance,
I just want the secrets of your sex, without plead,
to suck the salt of your secretion, feed on the spray of your darts,
Slaking my savagery with the skin of your submission,
unlocking the vault with nimble pick, to teach with a spanking stick,
having that naughty nook spilling a confession of capitulation, dizzy dilation,
an Angel of excess, I place your safety on a shelf of disarray, caution on delay,
I want to ravage the basement of your beauty, finding hot boxes of remission,
rummaging the attic of your aggressions with the precision of a magic trick,
I don't need you to be my nurse, a Nightengale of negligent rehabilitation,
I don't want the chill of charity, just the alarm of your domination in dismay,
Melt upon the mercy of my meat,
let me take the wet wisdom of your woman's weapon
smear it along the dagger of my undiagnosed demolition,
under a Blood Moon your body will flex without rest, hesitation does retreat,
I gently grip your throat, as I feel your moan in the soft palm of my hand's vindication -
J.A.B.
Categories:
slaking, lust,
Form:
Free verse
The Passing of the Lord, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s La Mort du Seigneur by T. Wignesan
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
I count the flogging blows I rain upon you
And despair at being exhausted trying
I re-open and again open the mortal wound
In order that I become the wound inflicted upon you
Here’s the opening where all mankind is bound
On their God who died to be reborn
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
I do repent me who in a while am going
To nail my brother on the same gallows
I’m going to let spill his blood right up to his heart
At the point where his suffering stifles my cruelty
Both of us slaking our thirst from the source of pains
Your saintly face and our identity
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
Yet I speak not the truth like water seeping through sand
I am nothing I have neither features nor substance
All the mud in me mounts up to my face
My blurred eyes bog down your pardon
Thus every man when he fathoms your grace
Avoids it to return to his silt
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
At such a moment when every man all of Man
Falls into mud you alone are reborn
At such a moment when God ceases to be man
Which leaves you bloodless and the Verb hollow
At such a moment the void overcomes you
And both man and God having abandoned you
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
You are my thirst me the mud which sucks
The bitter universe pressing upon your lips
Your cross in vain elevates my nature
It’s on my mud your lever finds a fulcrum
And when your body falls like a ripe fruit
My mud doesn’t change when everything’s accomplished
Lord ! I’m unable to think of your passing without crying
Your perfect affirmation underwrites all of history
Suffering to death without in any way being bothered
Yes, to the mud which mocks your victory
Where Man’s reborn though not having been changed
Yes, to this God who extends not his hands to receive
His only Son and total stranger
(from Les Jours de la Passion, pub. July 2011)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Categories:
slaking, jesus, spiritual, universe,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Forgetting is a vain refugee camp,
Madonna, for still these walls get
breached, amidst the daily, frenzied
barter of honed art for bread,
While slaking arid, thirsty hours with
bits of loving, or even in deep sleep's
opiate-laced salve; your shrill wail
ricochets on palisades of silence,
Wrecking dreams, when your arms
thrust out, ghost-like haunt heart's
corridors to pained remembrance
of your hearth bulldozed to jagged
Rubble, grating deep your ample
loins that Gaza noon of nightmare,
hooking deeper yet the piercing
scythes of questions as regards
Your fate and of your son's. Again,
the mind turns, tosses on this bed
of dusty shards and tear-anointed
debris as you once more scream
Your picture-perfect, front-page,
silent pain, yet made more potent
than all sounds heard down old
Palestine when wailing, wreathed
The wretched walls bedaubed with blood
of innocents, when wanton death and
mayhem, too, by Herod's mighty hand
decreed, made firm, held sway.
Categories:
slaking, loss, people, sympathy, war,
Form:
Blank verse
Overnight the calm was shattered asunder
as lightning, presaging rolls of thunder,
reverberated across the darkened sky,
flashing warnings heavy rains were nigh.
Next Nature’s pyrotechnics, in awesome display,
turned the black sky of night, into day!
As the deluge began with a barrage of hail,
so we had concerns, for it never seems to fail
that rain, though it is desperately needed
often arrives without restraint. Never heeded
are the cries of such as gardeners, who fear
for damage done to what they hold dear!
Came the day after the night before,
eerie silence displaced thunder’s roar,
whilst dank fog rising everywhere,
was a sign of cooling summer air.
Although the storm was soon away,
the rain continued, until break of day,
then as the dawn arrived, so the skies
lightened, and it came as no surprise
to see our world was washed clean.
The countryside possessed a sheen,
that sparkled in dawn’s brilliant rays.
A sight not seen for many hot, dusty days.
North winds had brought about this change,
and many folks were grateful. To exchange
the heavy, humid ozone laden air overnight,
with a cool breeze, was a refreshing delight.
To breathe air washed by a cooling rain
is a summer delight, and we need not explain
the joy that had been desired, for many days,
and was awarded us by Her cleansing ways.
Such are the benefits of summer rains,
despite inconveniences, there are also gains
to enjoy, and these were found most pleasing,
for the smog was gone, and heat was easing.
Nature often spawns summer extremes:
from parched soil, to flooded streams,
whilst erratic winds with tremendous force,
arriving from a distant southern source,
cause chaos! Replacing the summer breeze,
they damage and uproot ancient trees!
When she unleashes such fury upon the land,
Nature’s motives are hard for us to understand.
But when we consider the weather we have had?
often the good of a storm, outweighs the bad,
so we, being thankful for her drought slaking rain,
hope her needed blessings, will return again.
Rhymer. August 19th, 2016.
Categories:
slaking, nature,
Form:
Narrative
Twas a dark knight,
whence there came a pawn the hushed crowded movie house
A phantom of horror sprung out of the rookery that wrought deadly havoc
Renting asunder innocent audience members
Anticipating Batman annihilate evil within Manichean eternal duel
Extant within imaginary world of Gotham portrayed on the silver screen
When out of the black curtained theater tear gas canisters got hurled pell mell
Accompanied by a fusillade of heavy machine gun fire
Sheering many lives
Many in the prime ascent sans parabola of adulthood
The youngest, a six-year-old girl transformed into an ashen colored corpse
Which death yet revealed to her young mother
Critically wounded, and clamoring for said daughter
While teetering on the brink of mortality
Oblivious to stricken offspring
While family, friends, relatives and anonymous prayers
And this heartfelt genuine communiqué
From me – a self styled nonestablishmentarian
Gung-ho to invoke a mandate that high powered fire-arms
Must be much less accessible
I.e. bulletproof laws need implementation pronto
So inhabitants of these United States do not fear for their lives
Nor feel akin to a potential prey sighted in the crosshairs
Wantonly gunned down from some grinning joker
Slaking glee from mass killing as to appease unquenchable thirst
To avenge some psychotic nemesis gloating to slay
With a vengeance and contrived vendetta
Promulgating pandemonium and grisly bloody aftermath
Yet despite such horrific heinous atrocity
Bravery and sacrifice witnessed and extolled
From heroic instinctual motive to offer themselves as human shield
So that carnage less devastating than toll on madman’s hit list
Now in solitary confinement and even if executed
Would be a Pyrrhic salve to those forever deprived of loved ones
Burning with an eternal sorrow no matter
Generosity of cyber sympathizers across World Wide Web
Plus the president of these United States
Reach out showering kindness analogous to Borealis raiment!
Categories:
slaking, anger, bereavement, conflict, crazy,
Form:
Blot out the whole emerging gesture
To demonstrate leading astray thy pace;
Don't rebound to toil and wrestle,
Be temperate tilt not at any rate!
Outrun ne'er surpass in celebrity quartan,
Submission ties settle better productive gain;
Prepare to ignite flame of fixed canon
Must evade excruciate feeble in vain;
Riches give delight yet defend not,
Slaking thirst aqua less attract rabies;
Pride of sagacity weak riot crazy spot,
Mere contentment if alive relay miseries;
Deny not troth behave alike recuperation
Spurt what ambition turn amative thee;
Man! thou hold energy to alter cultivation
Please the almighty by culminating blemish free;
Only provident would give certain dexterity
With vigour, venture, assume design marvelous;
Where its sacred light confirm privity:
Personality seems observing rare not fabulous.
Categories:
slaking, inspirational,
Form:
Didactic
She walks like a traveller in her home
a once familiar thing, lost to her
And bright-eyed watches the same night sky
that demonstrates new things to her,
orchestrating new patterns for her in the stars to find
and paving beams of light across leaves
that were strewn for her
by the dawn wind slaking the limbs of her own trees
for whatever thing lost that still is,
She searches the dust from her own feet
that she's brought from another land in a dream
Categories:
slaking, loss, travel, lost, lost,
Form:
Rhyme
Here I am, captive to your charms,
Dreaming of embracing in your arms
Enslaved by sweet addiction,
Gazing at a ceiling of satiation,
Slaking our thirsts of timeless fire,
of each other we never seem to tire,
Captured by the love light in your eyes,
Laughs together, no sad sighs,
Is this compatibility? I ask,
Is loving you a futile task,
or is it our mutual delight,
Like years of endless nights,
I reflect on a man and romance,
I share in your endless dance,
Dreaming of embracing in your arms,
So, here I am, captive to your charms........
Categories:
slaking, beautiful, feelings, longing, love,
Form:
Free verse
IT’S GOOD TO DO GOOD
There is freshness and an echoing of joy and peace in doing good.
The rewards are beyond any earthly values. If you could and would, I suggest you daily do some good.
Birth it, teach it, and even preach it. The world is slaking, and participating in too much relaxing. Restore its name and fame. We must let good reign.
There is a drum call for us to heed. Listen, can you see what’s missing. Look around. Avoid other sounds. Good should not be silenced. It’s time to start a revolution. Enlist, resist and persist.
Let good flow, worldly people. I know that you know. Sorry bad! We can’t take you anymore. Sign up today, don’t delay. Pledge to do good daily. Life depends on this trend.
Make Mother Good happy, allow her to live long, as life goes on. Shine on good, shine on long. Your day has come. Celebrate the four letter word “good” as you refresh in its goodness.
Dr. “G”
Categories:
slaking, hope, uplifting, life,
Form:
Joe Licon
1904-1920
Who was that coughing at my side?
Which of my manly pallbearers
Leaned upon my casket
On that distant funeral day?
Who was it that yawned,
Loudly, sleepily, lazily,
On the day they covered my bones with dry dirt,
Here in the comfortable darkness,
Of shadowy Mt. Olive Cemetery?
Who was it that said: “I will miss him,”
Even when he began tapping his restless fingers,
One after the other,
Upon the wonderful mohogany finish,
Of my well-made polished coffin?
To whom do I credit for
The distilled drops of sated tears,
Which fell noisily upon the buttercups,
Dotting my newly-made grave?
My friends, don’t ever imagine that we,
the dead are dead,
When you, the living, bury us.
For we can hear your plaintive cries of “O,” moaning;
We can feel your grieving hearts, breaking;
We can taste your “tempest-tossed” tears, slaking.
So, my friends,
Who was that coughing at my side?
Kindly lend him a handkerchief, if you please.
Categories:
slaking, death,
Form:
Epitaph
Roiling,simmering,boiling while quivering.This toiling ,this Maddening Lust;Gifted Hard;this thing in Me.Til dawns light first breaks,feel a Rage,Pure so Freely.Bended knee;drink deeply.Fill the Cup:Satiaite me.With Glistened Lips ,lick them sweetly.A ton of Ash.Burned Hot ,Completely.When looking up ,so sweetly .Naming My Sangreal;Whom I just FELT:My Soul and Self was the Quested Completion;Of a Daemons True Nature.Fulfilled in The Grail,The One Cup That Cups Me.So Comely,I LOVE THEE. James Patrick Kail Saturday October 20 2012.
Categories:
slaking, allegory, love, passion, romance,
Form:
so, this is what life is about
no use to scream
no use to shout
this is what life is about
the cream floats to the top
the top to taste
first
slaking the thirst
of what life is about
but the cream
is but a whisper
the thinnest layer
the body yet good
is mere staple food
and if not used
quickly, quickly
it curdles and splits
knowledge and wits
yet curdled life
is not spoiled
it is an acquired taste
nothing to waste
so don’t pinch your face
at this thickened grace
enjoy every bit
not knowledge but wit
for wisdom lies
where milk spiller cries
Categories:
slaking, allegory, blessing, life,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Ahhh to these new beginnings on the horizon,
Bridging so sweetly into something new to dive in,
I look upon the next chapter in life,
Does it involve a job? Car? Maybe a wife?
All these things can bring joy and excitement,
While at the same time bring up anxious frightment,
Its ok because i like to relish in the fact,
That these emotions are what bring me back,
Back to the man on this life long adventure,
Slaking my thirst for exploration, my quencher,
The next chapter is something i cant wait to pursue,
Its something a man of adventure must do!
-Downed Jester
Categories:
slaking, absence, adventure, anxiety, car,
Form:
Rhyme
The mossy green lump juts invitingly
An overhanging face of vertical formation
Moist rocks often kissed by hovering clouds
The steep trek is overwhelmingly dangerous
Fearlessly she set out for the daunting climb
A pull that attracts goal-driven people like her
Precariously hanging on its edge is the spur
The most sought after accolade of excellence
Ascending, she saw the ruthless scramble
The zealously ambitious trampling the weak
The ravenously cold-hearted crushing the strong
The wickedly nefarious slaking their thirst for blood
She saw it all, unscathed, undeterred by the milieus
She even fought to save the others, take them with her
That slowed her down, pulling everyone she can
Saving their necks from the gallows awaiting below
Quenching their thirst with the water she should drink
Feeding their hunger from her lone piece of bread
Treating their wounds despite her bleeding hands
Genuinely exultant that they all reached the summit
In the stillness at the zenith, the view is dazzling
The whispering wind, willing the tired body to sleep
Yet the cape must be worn, the ruler must be crowned
The frantic scuttle resumed as all dived for the goal
At the cliff’s edge, from the wet grass she slipped
Catching a protruding rock in time before the smash
Gripped by intense fear, not of losing but of dying
Beneath awaits the jagged valley of certain death
Looking up from the haze, she saw familiar faces
Gazing down at her; the then grateful, now unfeeling
Conspiring to ruin a rival just to reach their dream
The thankless lot twice deceitful than the enemy
Offering to reach seemingly to pull her from safety
Only to let go, fearful to equally perish from her grasp
Turning their pull into shove and into a mocking push
As she hangs for dear life, she realized her worth
She deserve to be alive more than these people
She should preserve herself for her own good
She now understands the world of the brutes
As gravity pulls, she falls, but she floats…
Categories:
slaking, betrayal, feelings, wisdom,
Form:
Free verse
Byte size food begets best bedeviled egg head benefits
re: visited today April 12th, 2023
Way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
family and friends even
Smetana's bartered bride
would (tongue in cheek) chide
tummy uncommonly
(recherché) atypical dyed
ded if the letter “y” one did elide
in the wool feeding
and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
(me not named Peter)
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitzkrieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
to enable safe passage for sturdy brigs
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which indeed kickstarted and syncopated,
oft times espying Bobby Riggs
who years gone back whiz Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trumpetting molecules
that via tiff Fanny doth zags and zigs.
Categories:
slaking, 12th grade, adventure, april,
Form:
Rhyme