Long Brothel Poems
Long Brothel Poems. Below are the most popular long Brothel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brothel poems by poem length and keyword.
WHEN THE FROG GROWS HAIRS
To her, my sister Santa Pe
Slim and pretty
Our mother wanted to marry
As soon as possible
But she didn't want to do.
Forced, she met a boy
That he loved her
But she didn't even want
Nor in photography.
As he invited her to Cinema España
To see the movie Salon Kitty
A luxurious Berlin brothel
That the Nazis used as a cover
Of espionage and sexual misdeeds
In which Helmut Berger works
That she loves and adores
She accepted the invitation.
At midnight they went to the cinema
And the very naughty
As soon as they sit in the seats
Lights out
Starting the movie
The rogue was going to the chestnut
His sword out and outstretched
With the intention of penetrating
Or that she rubbed it.
-Stop right there, stay still, wimpy
Santa Pe told him.
I know what you want
I know where you're going
I know what you've come for
Do you want to charge the entrance
Sticking your sword up my thighs.
Go dig chives
Or to your mother, fool.
I will give you my love
When the frog grows hair.
He put the sword in his fly
Grumpy, sad and heartbroken
Left the cinema
ting on the mother
That Santa Pe gave birth.
She was happy, very happy
Watching how Helmut Berger
ed good girls
And, once ed
He offered them to German officers.
She also saw how
Some dwarfs with swastikas on their es
ed Jewish prisoners
Trying to make them
Prostitute agents.
Her mother was on the balcony
She was on the balcony
To see if her daughter came.
When she saw her approach the balcony
Her mother asked:
- How about daughter?
How did it go?
She happily replied:
-Mother, he is the third one that I send for a walk.
Nobody is telling me:
"Open your clam, Margarita
That I want to charge the entrance”.
With my clam, mother
I don't intend to earn a living.
.CORLEO the robot inspired our venture
the robot with navigation control
seeking cactus fruit and rare stones
the brittlebush and desert lilies patterns
embordered in to silks and cottons
from the looms of yarners the warmth of a poncho
a tent and rv for staying
CORLEO for exploration
"the area known as desert Tulips."
The vibrant blooms of the Adenium Obesum
they sought to find the treasures in
a complicated environment.
peyote, a cactus with a button-like crowns
she spoke again in a much noticeable tone
her voice a soothing distinctive tone
a songlike chant a melonic flow
Banda the brasses and woodwinds
could her melonic tone as she spoke
nearly singing, she soothed me into her words
we came upon an outcrop of assorted rocks
one to include agate, amethyst, beryl, fluorite,
garnet, opal, barite, calcite, chalcedony,
jasper, quartz, lapis lazuli, and malachite.
walking barefoot on the concrete slab of the trailer
makes her feet as black as tar
Yeshu"a bin Yusef she spoke
of her troubles and in trouble
I will speak this name she said
then I shall seek remedy
and seek solution to our needs
all while not telling what
the crown of the desert
really meant
I felt used and foolish.
My company to her nothing special
as her next friend shall be the same.
Nothing specail, just a mere person
A polarizing perception of a weak man.
The Myth of belonging
just woman exploiting men.
A Brothel in 1800's is belived to be a myth
until a truck of gold is found
and a book with the names of many
people discovered
"Mujer tribal puta" was the cover-up
and now we know why.
they hasd discovered how to use
wires to communicate
and wished to keep
it a secret.
the Joshua Trees rattle from
Quakes.
Her bony fingers stroked my hair,
I shuddered at the icy touch,
And when I turned no one was there.
I felt the hatred of her stare,
My heart was frozen in its clutch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair.
I’d walked into the open snare,
My curiosity too much,
And when I turned no one was there.
I stood alone inside her lair,
The murdered prostitute was Dutch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair.
The room was full of such despair,
I tried to flee but dropped my crutch,
And when I turned no one was there.
How stupid was the double dare,
I’d suffer now for playing butch,
Her bony fingers stroked my hair,
And when I turned no one was there.
For Paula's Unease contest
O children how beautiful the sea
with its white foam clouds,
its turquoise blooms,
its kiddish push’n pull,
its whirlpool, its briny drink…
salt like liquor — be careful of
where the sun beats you red.
…the brothel of the sea
don’t look for its meaning
…just mind me - stay away from
sirens and ethereal rocks.
O children take your pails
build your fairy castles,
fill your moats, until
it gets dark…when crabs
cut loose from the sand
and gigantic jaws comb the surf.
take your boats in hand,
wear your orange vest
in daylight, where the blue
kicks your boat playfully,
and like a friend, the waves shake
the hands of your oars.
be wary of shadows prevailing
upon the tendril waves, creeping,
daring to persuade you out
…just a little further…turns you about -
stows away the bread and buttery sun.
Sleep soundly in your cave,
under your sea-scented quilt.
remember mama always told you
…don’t turn your back on the deep.
3/4/2022
the fire of lust
consuming our soul
enslaved by carnal desire
testosterone driven lowly ghoul
desire birthing raging obsession
our mind dwelling in a brothel
addicted like an alcoholic
to sexual cravings feral
animal in human form
in this game of domination
finally discerning love from lust
in stillness of prayerful meditation
recognising senses have two aspects
we attempted polarity rotation
between outer and inner
in void of cessation
our primal instinct
a tsunami overpowering
burning us from deep within
yet recedes whilst we are praying
allowing ego urges to arise like bubbles
we view them with childlike curiosity
in wonder and astonishment
marvelling their tenacity
thus viewing mind body
as but an earth life interface
we shut down our lower ego mind
embracing love and light by Gods grace
15-February-2021
Lively little Linda, lost love of long ago,
Willingly wandered west with wild Wanda Wilson
Traipsing twice from Tennessee to Tyler Texas
Then to Tucumcari, Tucson, and Tonopah.
Likely larks lured to Lilly’s Lovely Ladies’ Lounge
Hardly having hazards hover their honest heads,
Both babes badly beaten on broken brothel beds
Rescued by rowdy, robust, roving Romeos.
Fleeing, flush-faced, from flashy, fickle first page fame
Heading for home, heartily hoping for healing
Daily devoted to drive Denver to Dover
Wayne waited for Wanda; Louie longed for Linda.
Passionate peaceful pals purposed no purpled past,
Welcoming Wanda and Linda to love at last.
O brother, they closed the brothel!
Beer and barmaid breath is closed.
Banter with corsets and silk stockings
withheld - the downy frown of ‘stache.
The itch of a cattle drive — the rawhide
chaffed and fettered,
all the while driven by unholy sex.
O brother, a frightful fight broke out
like measles planted from head to toe.
when you fantasized her soft skin,
her tongue lash —all those miles and miles -
the special one you call Maisy,
but boards like bandaids hammered
into place. No neon sign to contemplate.
You bring yourself back home, poor soul,
to your hot and bothered bride. There
you find the ride you’d forgotten.
You smile surprised. Only problem is
she makes you bathe and shave,
won’t allow you that chew or that beer.
O brother, they closed the brothel!
2/23/2021
Contest: They Closed the Brothel
Sponsor: Kai Neumann
To say I have less lived...
and more written is not being entirely
fair. Poets breathe soul life into every
lyric statement.
Not merely metaphorically
speaking. Word-painted-skies, on closer
analysis are precisely inked examples of intensely
hyperbolic, ethereal-like possessed oxidation! (Try
to say that 10x’s fast!)
A writer’s penned pictures meant to float above
common trite integers of merely surface showy delight --
All my canvases their nature by
design are birthed to be never-settling (deathless)
evolving metaphysical transcending primers (talk about elevated ego!) --
While sub-strait substances are
compounded impenetrable dark also evident are
silvery streaks of transversal light --
My feeling contributions remain
and have always been creative world enough for me…
Though often contrary and border-less defined
for that same reason have kept me duty free from man
only subject to God! --
Therefore, when I die,
please hang my works on some moving wall --
No matter, museum or brothel:
A novel idea, perhaps throw them to the foot
of a purging water fall:
To be rushingly transported off to more saturating sea,
My suggestion not a mere medium of briny salt for addicted fishes
but moved on to fondly wished adventure residing aloft flow,
reunited with the many dearly departed extended composing
family of sometimes overly spicy, but always Creatively tasty
forever loved poetic Soupy Dishers now contributing to Heaven’s
pot of Party Soupy Literary Favors~ never-ending, never canned, organic
original Soupy Flavors. Buon Appetito!
Back on the river, forward into the howl of the unknown,
for three days Sergeant Floyd has been crippled by excruciating pain in his abdomen,
as the only man here trained in internal medical matters it is incumbent on me to treat him,
Doctor Rush's "Thunderbolt" pills are failing to alleviate the malady
and the ground Peruvian bark hardly sedates Flyod, his agony is bleeding into the eyes,
for 48 hours the rains have been rampant making the river sizzle in cool agitation
the mosquitos are swarming like whispers in a brothel
they are the devil's needles, we resort to spreading lard on ourselves as a repellent,
ironically, despite the downpours the wind is high at our backs
so the sails are up and we are moving swift as a curse off a witch's lips,
Sergeant Pryor woke on the boat this morning with news of death
his voice didn't wait for breath, the steps of his boots broke open my irritation
after informing me that Charles had recently died,
I believe he expired from a ruptured appendix which we had no remedy for,
he had the soul of a lion, Godspeed to him,
while I slept my spittle smeared the ink in my journal
forming a pictorial omen of a tombstone on the page,
the only question is whom be it for,
Clark has identified a suitable burial place for Flyod on a large hill,
no one speaks, its just the slurp of the paddled water
and a handful of gold finch birds that seem determined to skip on the wind
reminding us that there is always a place for a soul to go,
coming up on the riverbend we are accosted by an armada of geese
so plenty that the trees wish they had that number in leaves,
my Lord, the ruckus these creatures are generating in honking indignance
as they lift into flight is nerve pinching,
its like an army of imbecilic people shouting in panic all at once
yet these geese are noble in their beauty and militant nature
and I see this moment as a sign that no Indians will interdict our passage,
J.A.B.
They close the brothe
This is good it be not awful
Those single and married men
Misbehaving
What, what on their knees preying
utmost wedding night delaying
Does a single man need a marriage bed l
No no way fornication adulteration
Women for pleasure elongated legs
The church mother's got'cha
They closed the brothel
Women who are spurned utmost does
Does the single man need a marriage bed
No not all that lust no trust
It's been said you ought to find flesh in a brothel
Nowhere to lazy hading backs
Sneaky hanging on the verdagos, brewery house, cat fights
Such a sporting house day and night
Good politicians and church goers prey
All this fornication adultery hey
Vice patrol and citybuilding must be torn down
Stop hanging around the building with prostitutes
Coffee high minded today women who have a intercourse with many
The city toward the building down they closed the brothel the local government say haha we got you
Distributes destitutes distributes flesh favors elicit misbehavior
Still nothing to gain but lust and flesh men and women
You are above this keep the marriage bed for the marriage
it's said they closed the brothel today
2/16/21
FOR THEY CLOSED THE BROTHEL CONTEST
SPONSORED BY KAI MICHAEL NEUMANN