Best Voyeuristic Poems
you read out of obligation
a tit for tat consolation
a "thank you for your visit" affirmation
it's cool, this unspoken rule
I do it too, so what’s new?
It's only being civil
community code of camaraderie
who can break free?
It needs to be done
loyalties need to be won
so do the comment hit and run
then on to another one
I appreciate that, truth be told
this give and take system should hold
on poetic pleasantries, I am sold
“Reciprocity” is gold
oh, but that's not quite same
as being sure that you came
because I'm a favorite name
in your poet hall of fame
Come goaded by greed
Needing each word for your feed
Voyeuristic as I bleed
You need my pain to be freed
Come craving my rhyme fix
The potency of this mix
My poetic party tricks
Lines that give you the kicks
I'm a poet pillaged by pain
who's been baptized by rain
holding on to the sane
let me battle your bane
Read me for you know
You need me to grow
Dip in the stream of this flow
Words above, words below
Read and blaze in the fire
word kindling of your desire
let these flames take you higher
as they make each thought perspire
Obligation is overrated
Though my words might be dated
the ideas? NOT antiquated
to existence they’re related
Come visit me
Come here so you’ll see
Passion infused poetry
let it meld you and me
Eileen Manassian
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
"Treasure Box"
The etymologist considered "themselves" singular;
like a butterfly collector they pulled the pincushion
out from the treasure box and proceeded to capture words
pinning them to every wall, they felt a certain kind release,
voodoo prayers ran through their mind subliminally,
the agony of adjectives and verbs being kept
beside ampersands conjoining objective pronouns subjectively
was a fluttering kind of let loose ecstacy
their creation connubial was escoteric, beautiful and ingenuous
and insanely free, in a voyeuristic sense, the art was in the act,
the pleasure was in the generosity of letting them all fly free
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Collected specimens can be identified to species using genitalic dissections and other internal and external anatomy that only can be studied through microscope work on a pinned specimen. The preparation of the wings spread and legs out, makes all features easily seen, including ones you will never see in a live insect.”
“Gently insert a sharp pin between the veins on the front edge of the left forewing and pull the forewing into place. Place a strip of paper over the left wing and insert pins to hold the forewing in place. Make sure you place the pins around the wing and not through it.”
I’d like to pretend that my hands aren’t dirty
from the soap of mental suppression,
that the callouses are from hard work,
and not from picking my bones back up
off the floor on a daily basis;
ragged, dry, and weary.
Every fairy tale has a root,
stapled into the hard soil of truth.
They all have a moral,
some sort of clerical error
born from life’s shadow.
We watch, hoping to learn
from the missteps of someone
else’s intrepid imagination,
some 4D revelation singing
lullabies to the young heart
of humanity.
And they bend to the fickle
will of greedy creativity,
making the yoke less bitter
so that we can tongue the purge
of denial without pouting.
I’d like to pretend that my hands are clean,
that I don’t whisper cold lies into your palms,
watch you drink from the frosted glass
of my sincerity; Hope that you don’t blink,
that you won’t notice the blood bubbling
up, and over my shiver before you finally
finish this story.
I just want you to understand.
This isn’t poison.
This is merely me bleeding out,
and hoping you’ll learn to love the
taste of fire kissed oxymoronic metaphors,
served up with juiced will and the vegan
flesh of my inhibition.
So that you can see through my eyes,
know where I have been,
and how it felt to be consumed.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
All became purview in her constant gaze ~
eyes that followed, no matter my corner,
nor settee where fleur-de-lis begged recline ~
and, no peace was found in voyeuristic laze.
Even in the vestibule - through the door
she stares
~ her beauty lingers there and captures
daydreams that share this moment in time.
I wonder ~ did the artist love her too,
he, who captured every seductive line
of wanting eyes and impatient grin?
How can one wish they'd never met a painting
without knowing ~ lost love...
You read out of obligation,
a tit for tat consolation...
a "thank you for your visit" affirmation
it's cool, this unspoken rule
I do it too, so what’s new?
It's only being civil
community code of camaraderie
who can break free?
It needs to be done
loyalties need to be won
so does the "comment hit and run"
then on to another one
I appreciate that, truth be told
this give and take system should hold
on poetic pleasantries, I am sold
“Reciprocity” is gold
Oh, but that's not quite the same
as being sure that you came
because I'm a favorite name
in your poet hall of fame
Come goaded by greed
desperate to feed
voyeuristic as I bleed
needing my pain to be freed
Come craving my rhyme fix
the potency of this mix
my poetic party tricks
Come click for the best picks
Read the poet pillaged by pain
who's been baptized by rain
holding on to the sane
let me battle your bane
Read me because you know
you need me to grow
Dip in the stream of this flow
words above, words below
Read and be set on fire
by word kindling of desire
Flames that lick passion higher
making each thought perspire
Obligation is overrated
though my words might be dated
the ideas? NOT antiquated
to existence they’re related
Come visit me
Come here so you’ll see
Passion infused poetry
that melds you and me
Eileen Manassian
A covert curtain raiser pulls a string and marvels at an epic scene
Though parsimonious in essence the stage appears rather obscene
Black cross and pitch dark raven on bold charcoal sable tapestry
Ragged clairvoyant who twiddles cross bones by Caron's decree
The program had promised naked clarity and seductive treats
But now no bodies couple on the wooden floor in satin sheets
The truth however fresh from history's and other sad cohabitation
Sours moist appetites and threatens voyeuristic contemplation
A simple box white as true innocence depicts death's surrender
Rusty nails large as serrated daggers stick out of wood and tender
For anyone's guess as to who holds the moribund mortal keys
And for what the final will and wish decides to bequeath
Maybe the dramatist shows kindness after the transmission
Once champagne flutes held council in one last rendition
For when audiences in deck chairs recline on the Titanic
But the fool's vessel succumbs even when Satan is manic
Spectators wait on fleshy bums for anything to be told and relieve
The grandstand platform from misery far too mournful to conceive
But while the actors carry on with epilogues and future insanity
There is no second act and no dress rehearsal for humanity
10th April 2020
Chet lived creepily in the back of the tavern, hidden.
No one bothered him. He lived vicariously through the others.
The pretty barflies who flitted in chatting too loudly.
Flipping their hair. He had a salacious appetite, saw them all naked.
They sometimes waved to his corner when they were drunk.
He did not think they knew he was perpetually eyeballing them.
Unclothing them one piece of clothing at a time in his mind.
Uncovering their secrets was easy; they shared way too much.
His voyeuristic tendencies got him ostracized and secluded from family.
His mixoscopia and scoptolagnia confusing the prissy Baptists he knew.
He might go Catholic, he had heard they were more open. Nah!
Religion was not for him. His religion was this bar and those bar flies.
One of them was throwing her head back now, laughing loudly.
He would dream of her tonight. He smirked at the eroticism she brought him.
She turned and waved. If he was forty years younger, he would be over there.
But he knew better so he stayed put, swigging back his beer.
I dreamt your illusion
{In voyeuristic colours.}
Bedded down the rust
of wizen memories
{sun dried.}
Laid harvest moon
upon devils night;
drank vacuous images
it produced.
In the saw-teeth bracelet,
I read another epitaph
{and learned your name.}
A bible, sewn to your heart,
Kerouac’s roman candle
burned bright,
{not a tiger in sight.}
Yet you always purred,
so loud.
I watched as you
overflowed,
drenching the thirst
of arid admirers.
{Laughing at drunken egos.}
That frown you dropped,
landed upside down.
I watched as you picked
up a smile,
then wonder who the madman was.
{It was always you.}
Macadam was missing
(in)sanity that you threw
at empty spaces,
while trying to hide,
{in between raindrops.}
At least in tomorrow’s birth
we can douse explanations.
An off-day for the quill: I’m channel surfing
from a carpeted beach beneath beveled
canopy. My legs haplessly dangle flung
overboard crossing a comfortable
black leather partition provided by Sears.
On CNN there’s a bow legged French horn
wearing white face apologizing for American
abundance above the ticking measures
of Cold War success. Spare me, Christiane.
Thirsty, I have the maid fetch me a fresh Coke
and resume my voyeuristic voyage downstream
through high-definition static and spoken
saturation. Eddie Cummings flips a knowing wink
then sweeps the tulips from a chimney’s dream.
4/27/17
(a response to a provocative post)
Your voyeuristic **** post
Has got me choking on my toast
I should have better things to do
Than commenting on sex and poo
Whilst everybody likes a joke
‘Tis somewhat niche, the **** poke
Night up the alley, hard to see
For those without a front door key
What people do behind closed doors
With wives or husbands, friends or whores
Is up to them when with consent
I question, sir, your post’s intent
We English hide within our castles
No comment when it comes to assholes
Trolling really gets my goat
Fie, sir, flounder in my moat
I hope your banal gasket’s blown
Write what you know and get your own
by Gail
Intimate moments were shared – his fingers sweep her lovely neck, tickling her frets.
Releasing sweet rhythms from the depths of her maple wood heart,
her vocal cords sing the blues as they kiss the hands that unleash her voice!
Distortions of life reverberate through the land where cotton is still king.
Lucille & B.B. a lifetime affair; making love on stage, creating a voyeuristic experience.
Educating the world on southern living; through music that transcends all generations,
his diary of songs speak his heart through notes that rain from his Gibson guitar
Every mistress’s code name - Lucille …
Everything has a fee,
Nothing on Earth's for free,
There is no relation,
Without compensation,
Unless it's just me versus me.
Something always involves cost,
From breathing to auto exhaust,
Imagine, people mating,
Without use of call waiting,
Millions of yen would be lost.
Even intangibles hold value,
A smile from the wind, a song on the bayou,
If you yell at your spouse,
Well, there goes the house,
The true meaning of "I do, I do".
Life is a pay-per-view event,
Due to our voyeuristic intent,
We can't cross the street,
To keep matters discrete,
All we have is fiscal repent.
(3/8/90)
From some place high and far away.
Not too far away.
A concrete habitat gilded with glass, steel and twinkling electric light.
I like to watch the city from afar.
Like a voyeuristic deity I eat it up greedily with my eyes.
My minds' eye cannot grasp it all, the complexity, the multitudes of people.
This is how I, above all else, humble myself.
Because I am but one drop of water in a fathoms upon fathoms deep ocean.
Like everyone else, I must go with the force of the tides now and forever more.
We are all powerful when our droplets come together into a single massive wave.
We erode, steadily but surely, the obstinate rocks on the shore.
This is love.
Perhaps someone can see me.
A tiny silhouette of a man, holding a railing somewhere.
I will wave hello just in case.
open
spaces
made me brighten with possibility;
always I'd climb toward a further view;
the fence, the apple tree,
the garage and even a church belfry
or two
I'd read comic-books,
magazines and short-stories;
ripened fruit of a higher tree;
raising me up from these low
places where I still wait and see...
as if a writers voice is heard
from some great place beyond,
voicing a worldly view from up above
these places inside I never knew...
later, weary with looking someone other than,
janus-faced without but within,
I'd write poems reaching past
my little life of
constant yearning
burning with voyeuristic words
watching as stars
loving the breech of night
wishing they were too,
looking from a further place
that sees from a deeper, from a farther
immaterial view; where nothing means anything,
out of sight,
beyond this gravity we're always falling to...