Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia
An irrational fear of large or long words
Well, you might say that’s for the birds
And it’s your right to have your say
A hippopotamus for most of us
Is an Artiodactyla, an even toed ungulate
While monstrum in Latin means: unnatural things
A monstrosity, a warning from the gods
While as showoffs, sesquipedalians use long words
So don’t scare them with your Titan Arum
But say to those with Ithyphallophobia
Or to the megalophallian “Nostrvia!”
And don’t be calloused towards
What happens afterwards
Or averse to what happens after “words”
In the post coital spooning
Don’t let your creative inhibition
Be the condition of wrestling with tabula rasa
And don’t let coitus interruptus
Or a caudal Janus face give you writer’s block
(I’m trying to be a gentleman
by calling it a phallus and not a rooster)
So, you won’t find here this fear of
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
As we descend into our togetherness
There are her tears and whispers of "be gentle with me"
As she condescends into our passion
We hold each other firm with messages of skin and heart
We fall deeper into each other
She has hesitance to fully surrender her body
But is caught up into thoughts of his piercing blue eyes
Which can seduce her when her clothes are on
She shivers and the articulation of gentle kisses
On nape and notch (And why now am I thinking of hop scotch?)
"Hey! No!" "Kisses, focus on the kisses"
As we are warm for each others form
And the smell of mahogany in this cabin
(In which just moments ago we were both enjoying a good book)
And in each other we smother as inhibitions
Are now falling away (and the smell of French Toast)
Why French Toast when I am enjoying the interrogation
Of my lover lips? Oh sweet lover who has gently and caressingly
Wooed me into a chase of orgasmic finality
And into the afterglow of post coital spooning
Wow and whew (with a heavy sigh)
Maybe now the French Toast
You standing there looking so innocent
and sexy, biting your lip
Smiling so guile-y and your hair
Cascading around your face
Over your shoulders and styled by JBF
You standing a bit awkwardly your legs
falling from my flannel shirt
And smooth as hell, your feet up on the balls
as if in high heels
Flexing in anticipation and a devilish grin
With a "What me?" delectation
It's not a skirt it's my flannel shirt
And you with your post coital giggle
A splash of bawdy and a hint of naughty
and looking muy caliente
With my eyes I take you in as you take
my breath away
The silken curtains blowing in the wind
Two hearts turned towards each other
Gosh you smell good
And to see you from where I stand
I am thankful to be your man
Honesty from a spark
In a posthumous coital sight
I replay you in high heels
Wondering why I can’t stay longer
Yeah why can’t I stay longer?
In the dark and light from lightning flashes
Two become one, yours and my heart crashes
And talk until the dawn
And the watching of the sun
I never want us to end
And as I yawn, it must seem
This is a dream
And you’re not really here
And yes it’s sad
A love kept dimensionally unrequited
You are Shalla-Bal and I am Norrin Radd
In the alleys of mirrors, reflections stare back with faces I've yet to covet. The cacophony of screams and whispers, a post-coital slack-jawed pause, the aftermath of endless nights and getting lost in vorpal holes of unwritten rules. Where pornographers masquerade as poets, sacrificing Eros on the altar of analysis. I squirm on the auto-da-fé of your ardor, land of disco balls and dementia shops, every step a temptation to drown in this make-believe proposition — lost prostitute histrionics downslope. Where lies persons end of having no escapes— ?
In vacancy lots of mind haste, I find a faze in the scars of my past memories, ghosts of my mistakes, the lingerings of taste and lust. They're the only constant in this toxic haze, the only truth I can hold onto.
Lava stiletto lips
drips Medusa kisses
transmitting stone corpse aperitifs
she slithetrs hither on
out of night sways of
narcoleptic nuptial napkins
snake strand locks of love
conceal couquettic tenderizing
fetish fantasies of climactic
carnivorous copulations.
Leviathan legs of boa bondage
clench my every clandestine thrunch.
Gonad groundswells of deep droning
desires-immersive of Eden's ego, forgo
an all atoned, permissable persuasions,
passions primitive, albeit death defying
defamations. I thus conclude a deciduous
daunting demise driven by perennial postulates
and hormonal harassed hecticals capturing
coital consequences, feverently focused,
freely formed frailties, neatly nestled,
innately interred, individually invested
by human happenstance helpings of
hepatic herbs of mythological memories
measured in manmade miniature statuettes
cold carved into rejuvenating relics
of our own Rock of Ages intent.
Post-coital Tristesse:
Are you feeling violated, like you’ve repeatedly been the victim of some heinous, perverted molestation too gruesome to detail? Does the term gang rape fill you with a new-found sense of disgust? Do you feel as though you’ve been tossed out of Eden, your innocence lost, virtue corrupted, soul shattered? Do you feel empty despite the abundance of consumer goods that fill your shelves, stock your pantries, furnish your chambers, and entertain your senses? If so, there may be hope for you. If not, you’re a sl*t. If you feel like you’ve come away with a bad case of the clap, don’t be surprised. You did it to yourself. Now go home and put on your big boy pants or your big girl panties. There’s work to be done and you’re not helping. Let’s face it, most people are sheep. You can be like that, or you can take responsibility for ennobling the human condition by seeing through the bull! It’s your choice to make. Bon soir, mon ami.
When singers meet
and singing greet
we soon begin to dance
or even take a walk
to sacred journey prance
While listening,
often lusting,
for coital confluence
in previously unexplored
mysterious places
Seeking resonance
fulfilling urgently resilient,
often intimate,
spaces
Times timing
for all who have sung 4/4 before
to dance among these holy
what for faces
Ringing new symphonies
of warm,
and growing wet,
heart strung constellations
(concerto consummations).
Boastful billows flirt
Cloudy coital embraces
Midnight tango flight
I seem never far flung from thoughts supreme and a my/their/your/importance to things at/of a conscious cramped mind. If thinking is Activity,
Thoughts, action streams that flow from equal amounts of
"Spirits" aplenty-a necessary catalyst and music, yes
Music the ****** of word birth, unknown, exacting, pure,
coital corporeal, clean corded from an ancient womb world,
then I am a premiere primary post partum poet,
pious and plentiful, panoramic and primal----
least of which I follow the noneany standards of
prose polished rule constraints of useless
ninny-nanny nonsense frivolity of any/all nil/nothing of
menial meanderings of less viable word wit-tent.
Everything id intended by therefore their "crowd" creators,
lest us/we behold that soulless saturated
stingy sick mass raptures of wordly whiny wimp
wis-dumbectomies, courtesy of ignorant intenders
that soils its rhymes via elementary elusive exaggerations
for the masses of asses with
vocabularies of molasses
when they read-listen-write-wrong rewrite
a pontious plight in that life Ass-ignment ignorant driven
illicit class of uncreative writings of Life. Tragedy 101
There once was a poor man from Kent
So many "ladies" used his coin when He spent
Though not in the way of a true mans intent
more like the speed of the seed that He sent
So quickly He came to a concluding dismay
it was barely a coital event
kissing
the Bellodgia sheen
between your breasts
i nestle my head there
and drift,
wondering ...
is it your heartbeat
or our futures
i feel resonating
inside of me
After the rain wets the ground,
a damp, naked silence,
floats in air
on the wrong side of the moon.
A strange mist, like a post coital whiff
envelops you savagely.
The testa breaks.
A forest heaves beneath your nails.
History moves through the layers
of family. You become a forgotten saint,
an archaic reminder of half-solid
truth. Green mirrors reflect a fading sun.
Wasps are climbing on a presence,
for a kill. A lake drifts in the yes
to stun the departure. You breathe
death dreaming a blue flower.
SATISH VERMA
Oh the places we won't go,
like post dated postcards
with fictional photographs of you and I
laughing lovers caught up in this
moment
now mourn this trysts annulment
The fading hue of I to you
crashing closer to memory
are the full blown passion ploys
and blissful near misses
...the only places I may recall you fondly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once upon a never
you gazed dreamy
laughed freely
kissed deeply
and made love sweetly
...no not sweetly, but dirty discreetly
the pure erotic world all yours
behind closed doors
engrossed in post-coital
pillow reminiscing
Moving past the altitude
of fickle courting, began the rouse
singing blandly rehearsed tunes
to retreating corners licking wounds
For confrontation is where you thrive
while in misplaced ire my interest dies
beauty morphs horrid in this beholders eyes
as your idiocyncrasies I now despise
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I may think this time was lost
but I say it's worth noting,
my pen has always moved the most
between the loving and the loathing...
**Inspired by John Heck's "Gauntlet" contest!!
Between the gasp and the laugh and the getting of it,
Between the smile and the twinkle in the eyes,
In the cracks between the seconds
And the gulf between the days,
Between the climax and the post-coital sighs.
Between the pain and the passion and the longing,
Between the dusk and the embers of the morn,
In the breath before the words
And the wake before the sleep,
Between the night and the breaking of the dawn.
Between the touch and the kiss and the breaking away,
Between the kitchen and the bedroom and the stair,
In the pause before the tears
And the lull before the storm,
I remember when I fitted in somewhere.
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