Long Feelers Poems
Long Feelers Poems. Below are the most popular long Feelers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Feelers poems by poem length and keyword.
A blind light crashes
through bar windows.
Since they began to talk
her breasts had moved
to a small apartment in his head.
The smoke from her cigarette
shaped words
into sensuous motes.
He imagines her lungs.
They are green-leaf not black.
Inside the bronchi and alveolar
sylph's teasingly beckon
out of a spongy foliage.
Votive clouds lather red lips.
Words flare dark clefts of desire.
Throats assume vapory feelers
inside a filtering breath.
He needs her addictively,
a blood craving
that seeks her as an inhalation.
There’s a strung-out intimacy
between them.
Eye’s smother, and blur
as they absorb each other.
Soon they will meet
upon an in-between world
where each visual breath
forms fumy erotic dreams.
A midday daze smolders
as they sightlessly
light another.
How wrong could I be
were I to assume
most Taliban leaders
in Afghanistan
have aging parents?
Especially mothers,
as it is not specifically healthy
to be a male in such a violent
raped
poverished,
nutritionally-barren place
And Taliban parents
might also have kids hungry and thirsty
and afraid to give us grandkids,
for economic and political starvation reasons.
It might occur to healthy energy democratic leaders
thinkers and feelers
that feeding
and restoring therapeutic ecosystems
could grow better polycultural Afghanistan wealth outcomes
promised by Allah
and YHWH alike.
Restorative, rather than more extractive, retributive justice
could work more WinWin effectively,
than continuing bad karma retributive violent goals
of assured mutual environmental destruction
and inhumane death and dying and terrorizing
paranoid children,
and other forms of almost incalculable dismay
through strategies rooted in punishment
and threat
and counter-terrorism terror,
visiting the sins of fathers
upon Yang soldiers
and Yin sacred daughters and aging mothers alike.
Just an ecopolitical thought
to feed the obvious restorative resolution
rather than first trying to starve out surviving problems
of marginal multigenerationally terrified families
and EarthSoul Tribes of nature
Nature-spirits sown
in TooYang Dominant
retributional stress disorders,
terror,
mental illness,
paranoia,
sleep deprivation,
xenophobia,
depression,
suicide,
rabidity,
hate for outsiders,
fear of strangers,
seething anger about oppressions, repressions, depressions, suppressions,
fear of death and dying and the unknown...
Nirvana is a handsome, gray writing spider. She kneels on the outside of her web. She opens up her legs and reveals a slim, female arachnid's, similar to a woman's.
"Interpret me," she coos. She takes her feelers in her womb and licks herself.
Moments later, our legs collide, and we're both moaning. The feeling was rough with a lesbian sense of bliss. Snakes and spiders would agree; the thought of the dirty voice inside my head began to rumble. It was the voice of Jiminy Cricket. Don't forget to FLOSS them gum-vipers, she screamed, swinishly...
Her jaws were now down there, licking. I, in turn, licked the lobe earnestly with precision and vanity.
Have you ever seen the l mouth of a ladybug or a transgenderbender? Yeah, I did them all, I gulped.
The vampire was feasting, feasting on the wrath of man-- the vampire known as the Antichrist and Count Dracula...
“Don’t ask how
Be here now”
~~~~~~~
Double entendres designed to cast a spell
Leave the fear-haunted audience spellbound
Hypnotic words that rings in hearts no bell
Garners huge following by sermons unsound
‘All is within’, the godman shrieks, ‘go in, go in’
Those who donate offered grace one on one
They believe he has magic to cleanse heart’s sin
Too late they realise, trauma bonding is no fun
The world is full of such fake gurus and healers
We’ve reached a stage when we now fear freedom
Time’s now to align with love by prayerful feelers
Merely ‘be here now’ won’t get us to God’s kingdom
14-January-2022
A blind light crashes
through bar windows.
Since they began to talk
her breasts had moved
to a small apartment in his head.
The smoke from her cigarette
shaped words
into sensuous motes.
He imagines her lungs.
They are green-leaf not black.
Inside the bronchi and alveolar
sylph's teasingly beckon
out of a spongy foliage.
Votive clouds lather red lips.
Words flare dark clefts of desire.
Throats assume vapory feelers
inside a filtering breath.
He needs her addictively,
a blood craving
that seeks her as an inhalation.
There’s a strung-out intimacy
between them.
Eye’s smother, and blur
as they absorb each other.
Soon they will meet
upon an in-between world
where each visual breath
forms fumy erotic dreams.
Meanwhile, a midday daze
permeates their smolder
as they sightlessly
light another.
Anatomically speaking
I would rather not let you see my brain,
yet you can imagine it the same way I imagine yours.
Poetics abound, but let’s not fall into that mind trap,
comparisons in the dark will teach us more.
Pull up a chair, be beautiful, I’m not old
In your brain, you are not young in mine. We are
sea creatures floating just under the surface
of the oily film of our affectations;
there in that saline soup
our brains swim, meet and assimilate.
Thoughts grow feelers long enough to find
our furthest reaches, no matter how far awareness
submerges, surfaces, or emerges,
these sensors don’t end where the skin stops breathing.
Show me your feet, and I will show you my hands,
we will paint them with a naked green and blue dye,
then print out our dreams on the air between us.
What I wish to say is:
brains need this kind of image-making,
otherwise two luminous jellyfish such as we
will never find each other
in this deep dark ocean.
years have past since I felt loves spark
Dancing through the park
Trying to kick start my lonely heart
Getting my feelings out there among the visual arts
Hoping to find a place to out smart
What makes love disappear into the dark
Keeping a safety chain around all the best parts
Looking for a woman willing to give all her heart
Realizing when love starts your way
You must have all your feelers on display
Igniting emotions that have come into play
Trusting God has brought fourth that special day
Igniting my spirit like a shooting dart
Seeking to find a loving heart
That captures loves spark
Leaping through all the top charts
Finding a woman who is ready to depart
One that is beautiful, cunning and smart
Real cutie that is full of internal beauty
Who is proud of her outstanding booty
Woman whose love is on full duty
She is done eluding the past
Someone who lives in the moment having a blast
Who is ready for true love that will surpass
Creating everlasting feelings that will surly last
When all the parts of my heart are unmast
Revealing an amazing sweetheart
Who wants forever love from the very start
Iconoclastic lots of marshiest beauty
Clenched sublime altruistic nature bore –
Morals indefatigably humbled, reasoning in bondage –
Bondage of the highest periphery
Blessings encountered in watered chaos.
Blocked nuts with scanty feelers,
Inducing mere bouts of euphoric impasses
Rarely a gift of fatherly nature.
Hay filled tubs called but heads
Preferably a misfortune
To their worthless masses.
Maevius a reader’s delight be
In the fumbling fold
Of this rowdy rendezvous.
More ore less classy oddities
On deferred pedestals
As lovely Mannequins
To display for sale.
Now Hyperion his burning sword behold
None to hear Triton’s call to arms.
~Marionette Master~
All my dreams evolve around my wooden floor
Candles and clowns the show must go on
~~~~
The Moon slowly moves its way into my room
Dust pushes through my window making shadow puppets on my walls
The talent on my walls dance, scaring my sweet dreams away
No cradle-songs tonight
Dangling artisans’ fingertips scratching down my core
Exquisite observation, an alley down “Death Street.”
Panic rattles my bone,
Stuttering a taste of ma' ma' ma' mama' off my lips
Grandfather clock ticks with every pull of the string
Invisible jellyfish puppets swaying their feelers that sting my site
A superior skill eating away at my fear
I can’t breathe,
I can’t move,
It dangles!
What can I do?
Carved Marionette figures locked in my head
A game in which trickery and deception are the main events
Staged with an evil sinister mask, sanctioning my nightmares.
No one to rescue me from the danger of this bedside playground.
The puppeteer engages to provoke me with my own dolls.
A dramatic performance throttles my mind …….
I cannot come out from under my blanket,
I cannot run,
My hands cannot reach the circus print lampshades!
A shadow show played in slow motion!!!
Realizing the moon can pull a world of strings with its own light
***
Suddenly, boney fingers from the sunrise show me the way…
I look down until my toes touch the cold wooden floor
I creep and creep,
Then I flick on my lamp.
The purple walls swallowed the orgy drawing inspired by the mooned night
A huge diversity of graphic illusions of puppetry in my room vanishes in one click
Mother please no more Pinocchio in my lullabies! ;-)
We have come a long way —
you and I —
sauntering along paths of tales,
narrow, slippery, serpentine, endless.
We crouch at spider-ways,
through the fustiness of late-rising dawn,
feeling the rapid beats of a stolen heart and the
entanglement by an unending network of
webs and encroaching thorns.
Cockroach feelers we rely on to guide us
through the length of seaside lichgates.
Life is one Hell of a place, we agree.
It’s a cup of cliché we drink on daily basis—
like hastily brewed coffee at the city’s rush hour.
But, like the radio, it has a tuning fork —
and with it, one operates on frequencies
mute and clear, wavy, far and distant.
It’s a challenge.
Remember Michelangelo
lying supine on ramshackle 16th century scaffolds
and painting the Sistine Chapel for four long years,
his fragile back hurting, his paint brush screaming,
his pots of paint on tilt . . .
Now, that’s some labour!
And with restive paints of stress dripping,
Dripping, and streaming and sweating down on the
broad canvas several feet below, staining
the usefulness of enchanting woods . . . !
Oh, I hate the putrefaction of desolate souls.