Long In the gutter Poems
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Hot, sweaty, intense, full body ******
When you feel the connection
When you feel the chemistry
You know the sex would be amazing
Sometimes no words are needed
Holding eye contact and their body language
Lust pumps through my vein
Mouth waters and muscles tighten
Your whisper make it hard to not be throbbing
Beautiful bodies twisting and tongues swirling
Naughty thoughts fill my head
Blood rushing to the tip
Explosion of brain function
Lost in all of a beautiful woman features
My hands gliding slowly over her soft skin
Unaware my mind pays taxes to live in the gutter
My eyes slide up and down her body
Grinding in sync with eachother
Shivers as we release
How about multiple?
Lust is my motivation, respectfully!
Spaciously high
Each peak risin mighty high
I see not the shallows form
mountain rise climb rise high
Heaven in awe
Worlds eyes on self
Lucifer soiled the garden
New heaven new earth
Spaciously high
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
rests beak quivering regret underneath
its and
and swan Where
Where soft more yellow floats
dying the crest
outspreads underneath
Spaciously high
swan's rests lily drifts
purple uncurls flecked fluttering
sun coral thick yellow where
the the meet
golden dark warm gold where underneath
red low
has rests beak quivering regret underneath
Spaciously high
no deep down
dark warm lifts
Where meets
among breast the
and flags lily
Spaciously high
How small we were sitting in the backseat of that mammoth car. We were dwarfed on the giant sofa-like bench waiting like a great amusement ride about to start. While we waited we explored our new surroundings. The lining inside the cavernous car was short-hair and smooth and as we ran our small hands across the surface, it felt like a young boy’s scalp after his first summer haircut. It was grey, the color of an elephant toy that had been won by our uncle last year at the fourth of july carnival. We explored the shiny chrome ashtrays. You could see your reflection in them like a mirror and we wondered if the owner used them to shave in the mornings as his chauffeur drove him to work. They were spring-loaded and snapped viciously at our little fingers. They smelled of foul ash and stale gum. There were large cranks with polished brown knobs, handles that controlled the windows. Turning them took all our strength like cranking the hand pump for water in the kitchen at Grandmas house on the farm. There were baby windows beside the big ones and they closed with little widget clips, swiveling inward so you could control the direction and amount of air that rushed in when the car was in motion. Too small to see outside, we sat dwarfed in the backseat watching the tops of trees go by and playing with a doll and a green plastic soldier. The doll was homemade from an old sock. The soldier, alone, separated from an army of plastic soldiers that came in a bag we could not afford. He was found, as most toys were, in the gutter or on the schoolyard, abandoned by the more affluent children. Small, simple toys that would not be missed from a rich kids over-stuffed closet. We knew we had to be quiet, for to make noise would be to draw attention that would come in the form of punishment. A slap on the bare thigh of a young boy in shorts or a young girl in a dress would leave a red welt for hours. The ride always seemed so very long that soon our patience would give out and a bump in the road would trigger a tidal wave of emotions; a push escalating to a shove, a pinch and then a shout. The crested wave would end in a crashing roar with a parents’ curse, a stinging slap, and a whimpering cry. Only puddles remaining, tide pools composed of wet pants and tears.
"How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?"
—Carson McCullers, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
Which moron invented the term joy-riding
tell me... where is the pleasure?
An innocent cyclist
mown down by a stolen car
my only son ...
left dying in the gutter -
he didn’t stand a chance
Six months later...
I sit in silence in the juvenile court
to observe four mealy mouthed little toe rags
with sneering sniveling faces
No one will admit to being the driver
They stand in a line
in front of the judge
He orders they are sent to
a young offenders institution
They will be out after a short time...
Yet my precious child has a life sentence ...
in a cedar casket on my mantelpiece
My life will never be the same
but I take small comfort
knowing that my son
carried a donor card
life support turned off
organs to be harvested
in death he gives life
FICTION POEM
Writing Challenge 2, July 2019 Melancholy- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
7/21/19
No tellin' how long coronavirus will keep me confined at home,
Since the guv'ner insists that I wash my hands and I'm not to roam!
It has upset my routine since its genesis in a place called Wuhan,
But it'll give me time to do things around here that need doin'!
I really need to remove last fall's leaves that accrued in the gutter,
And 'twould be the perfect time to clear the attic of its clutter.
There are piles of books in my library that I've put off readin',
And the flower beds and garden need a thorough weedin'.
The windows need washin' to clear them of winter's grime,
And I need to repair the clock that is gradually losin' time.
Since spring has arrived the lawn sure needs fertilizin',
And to get rid of winter's flab, I need to do more exercisin'!
But hold on! This list of chores sounds too much like work!
Some day I'll tackle these jobs, but for now, them I opt to shirk!
So I think I'll just take it easy and compose a poem today,
But for the life of me I cannot think of a thing to say!
The naked walls of my shower room
Keep the stories that have never been told
Keep my crying and all my attempts to find myself
You can hear my scream in the water
You can feel my pain in the gutter
I can't breathe, I'm unable to weather the storm
The naked walls of my tiny bedroom
Keep the image of ideal humble girl
Who took every punch and never talked back
You can see heart's parts in the corner
You can touch soul's pool of its owner
I can't breathe, I'm unable to weather the storm
The naked walls of my music room
Keep a secret of my fails and triumphs
still remember how I came short of hopes
Every string is a headline of my story
Every note is my way of saying sorry
I'm alive, but still unable to weather the storm
It's prime time for the new Raj
Facts & acts must just sabotage
All baloney with no camouflage
Racist fascist pacts back in charge
De facto crypto crony arbitrage
With an aristo phony entourage
Ipso facto know who's the sarge
Nige does show pony dressage
Truth and proof will just massage
Aloof uncouth ranter going large
Just pub banter a bit of badinage
Trump leader of hit populist collage
All aboard greedier tech T-Rex barge
Seedier far right sh*t media montage
Vent at the establishment's espionage
Decent and democratic only a mirage
Bet just cover for yet another barrage
To other bigots & despots pay homage
An abhorrent torrent he does sparge
Hilarious no it is nefarious persiflage
Nutter's not butter but cheap marge
Spread thin in the gutter Nige Farage
Over and over there's evidence of the same old story
People giving up their honor when tempted by greed
Seeking fame, fortune and their perception of glory
when they already have much more than they need.
It's a tale of skullduggery about those who are blind
to how they take advantage of those who are weak.
It tells of what it can do to mess with a man's mind,
when it's a lofty position he or she chooses to seek.
Those who are unscrupulous will wallow in the gutter
promising anything, if it's what people want to hear.
They spew lies with every egotistical word they utter,
masked with a smile to make them seem to be sincere.
I know this sounds like another jab at maligned politics,
but this same scenario applies to many walks of life.
Many dupe, misleading others, using a bag of tricks,
but their hypocrisy often results in conflicts and strife.
They fool gullible folks with hope of unreachable dreams
Preying on their concerns, making them believe it's true
but all the while their only goals are dishonest schemes
to take control, no matter who it is they have to screw.
They never shoulder blame for the mistakes they make
always have an excuse for empty promises they've broken.
The naïve will sadly believe them, but it ends in heartache.
Beware knaves who seldom tell the truth with words spoken.
October 14, 2021
Pick-A-Title, Vol 26 Contest Title Chosen: Skullduggery
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
I don’t know
If I like
The mood
I am currently in
I want to write
The urge
Is trembling
At the top
Of my pen
But what
I don’t know
Should it be
Those many days
That life
Presented me
A fork
Or how I missed
Those opportunities
By walking
The wrong tine
Be it fate
To lay down
With wife
Work
Sedentarism
Or
Many a day
When death
Was just before me
Would have been
So easy
To brush his hand
Drop that mic
And walk
Do I grasp
That urge
To break out
And write
In a new style
Punk
Would be it
With outrageous hair
An F U to fashion
And a finger
To the Queen
(Not Kate)
Am sure
I hear
London calling
But Punk
Is not that poetic
More brutal
Would end up
In the Gutter poets
Class
Bless his honesty
Or do I write
Mournfully
That unattainable
Vision
Where I know
Life will last
Or write about
A porcelain throne
That’s accompanied by
A porcelain Flute
As sometimes
That’s
How I feel
What I write
Jack and Jill sped to the pub to fetch a pail of ale,
To quench papa's unquenchable thirst without fail!
Alas, they tripped spilling the bucket of brew in the gutter!
"What am I to do without my daily tot?", papa was heard to mutter.
Rub-A-Dub-Dub, three politicians soaked in a jacuzzi,
Each sippin' a Manhattan, all feelin' quite boozy!
The republican said, "Ah, this is the life for me!"
The democrats said, "Yes, this once we will agree!"
Jack you'd best be agile - Jack you'd best be fleet!
Jumpin' over that candlestick could scorch yer feet!
And so as not to singe your rump,
'Tis best that you make one humongous jump!