Long Lechery Poems
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A FINE LINE BETWEEN DEVIANCE & PASSION
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders love and lechery
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not etched in sand, as that can be dissolved with the tide
The line is bold, but the boldness dissipates in darkness
This line is horizontal and vertical at the same time
Not a cross
Although a cross is sometimes used to measure the thickness of the line
There is a fine line between dipsomania and moderation
The same line separates the happy revelers from the sad sots
The gate should be kept closed at all times
It is not locked, as combinations can be forgotten with time
The line is electrified, but insulation forms in acceptance
The line is angled and curved at the same time
Not a circle
Although a circle is the trap for the poor soul who strays across the line
There is a fine line between life and death
The same line forms the edge of sin’s cold knife
The blade unsheathed reflects the disappearing line
It is a sharp and distinct line one moment and then in the next it is blurred
The line bends when we want it to bend in our weakness
The line is not infinite
Not a universe
Although the universe is too small to hold the line
There is a fine line between forgiveness and grudge
The lines of our words cross over and then return
The damage is done and then the line is broken
It is too slippery to allow us to hold on for a lifetime
The line intertwines with other lines
The line is only as strong as its weakest fiber
Not invincible
Although destruction is often the only solution to crossing the line
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders the moral and immoral
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not given to us, but is self-created in our prayers
The line enters our head and divides the mind
The line is in a book, a song or a poem
Not fiction
Although the line between fiction and truth is often hard to discern
- - - -
To the gardens. . . of celebration!
- - - -
As the birds chirped,
the sunlit golden,
the merry cries of
glee, for upon this
day a proclamation
of love ever-after. Though
ne'er yet had the
splendor been sighted,
jestered by many a perchance
of foolish folly,
a fellowship to the King.
Unbeknownst, a
yield to the forbiddance
of Hecate's personification
and a dire love of
familiar waft.
"For thee, upon the
hour of striking,
our quartet, profound,
still-born, the
forfeiture lag, our
gentile courtship,"
a voice of princely charm
did vesper.
"Taken aback, my
blossoming serenity,
tears of burden and
crying shame, the
kingdom and its
dungeon," Geinere's
essence declared.
"What'st thou speak of?"
The sentiments of a
conceited King.
Geinere, her mind
ailing, fever and
nausea coarsened
her. Sorrowful
thoughts of arrogance
and its unquenching
tale. Tragedies and
the grievances there
upon, for whom so
yet to embark.
Tears began to
stream down poor
Geinere's flush cheeks.
Her soul tarnished
amidst the excitement
of triumph and the
beckoning woes of
peasant parry royalty.
This dreadful day
lacking of divinity.
For there no poorer
game of betrayal
and scarred virtue,
than this sorrowful eve. . .
of bitter scorn,
and hateful deceit.
For a night
of beggar's delight,
the handsome prince
Alarumdives, maiden
Geinere, and a celebration
aye the more kisses
pricked ne'er a secret
scurvy. Hence,
a hidden barbaso,
royalty betaking an
ensigns way of lechery
to those of lower
chaste, welcoming a
jarrago of arousal,
silence. . . mischievous
silence, hastened only
by a King made bitter.
For his son's charm
and admiration, he
would pronounce his
demand for respect.
For surest upkeep his
pride and majesty,
an undertaking of
bane, as the waves
of splendor, owe.
"For the mighty woes
of our desperation,
our much need'd embark,
an appraisal of
valor. I must
lead this army
to uphold virtue."
Prince Alarumdives
strode upon, seeking
the contempt of his
desires. The King and
his bastard portrayal,
left feelings of emptiness,
though closed.
Upon awaiting the
outcome of this
mighty showing, he
did bring forth
the maiden, Geinere.
"Your blasphemies supposed,
confuse me woman.
Conjurer of elementals,
this sudden mise of
war. How you? How
you Geinere?"
"A dove's cry, a
looming hawk, nowhere
to be found, this
bit of fear, for your
filth and dishonor,
I will concede.
I am at no mercy
for you, this meditation
of murder and failing
innocence. . . ."
II.
For the tempest
and its accusal.
The portrayal at
no delay. Be it
sorrowful, melancholic,
poor Geinere, her
burgeoning grave,
the king's declaration.
"Poorest dear, the
gleeful glances you will,
appreach'd of lechery,
this wise King fallen
upon."
""These battles brought
upon this kingdom
from afar. . . the Gods,
surely their vengeance
for this decadence
and disgrace!" Geinere
spoke with Venusian
flame.
"You, oh glorious
you Geinere,
debauched, acts
of such mindful
lusts, betrayal, a
moment's freedom
no more, imprisonment,
mischievous!"
To no delay,
Geinere, under way.
For the mournful
maiden, the deceitful
treachery, so falsely
accused, this bitter
resolution, patience
her virtue.
Geinere, speaking
sharply as her pride
erupted, questioning
the royalty she was
to respect and admire.
"Why, why this unfathomable
beast, and its deafening
capture, the hypocrisy
and its right, falling
from grace, may there
be victory, for my
Prince and his love.
The Gods, I do ask,
betaking repentance,
this kingdom of Martyr!"
I don got nothing but terrible
reviews bruited about
dip pressing field day
me (Lothario wannabe)
trumpeted execrable lout,
a garden variety baby
boomer father without doubt,
his own shameful paternal
shenanigans cavalierly he did flout
dwarfed teapot dome scandal,
thus one look no further,
or send out a scout
herewith infractions distilled,
though personally, I strongly advise
ye to go trout
fishing in America,
with a master bait
tour and/or subsist
on circa 1521 a.d. vintage date
diet of worms, well preserved
nearly five centuries
since team did excavate
cuz his narcissistic
propensity, brought fate
fool downfall wool find you
fist pumping imaginary pugilist great
reflexively recoil, at the ingrate
asper adultery, terrible
black barbs caused psyche dial late
bacchanalian debauchery,
marriage did mutilate
philandering prurient lechery,
et cetera (albeit kinky),
he did participate
heatedly enough to generate
electricity to induce perms
in every man, woman,
and child, or make poker straight
tightly coiled locks, whose weight,
sans comb bind
terms oven destined
with hot sizzling endeavor to find
my inner Elvis a vis with curled lip,
and daily pelvic grind
tryst ting mounting with hind
quarters sighting derriere
rearing to groove while inclined
at a sixty nine degree angle hull lined
for maximum fair moan to get mined
licentious behavior spurred from celibate
marriage, hence call of the wild pined
tubby satiated, and
subsequently huss signed,
thus within web of treachery
"FAKE" Casanova did wind
up gaining independence as
a Norwegian bachelor farmer.
I did not plan to be a single cell amoeba
or this me, a conglomerate jigsaw of a being
a million times removed from primordial goo.
I was peacefully inanimate at times
endowed only with a little foggy awareness and contentment.
At one time I was George Washington’s commode,
Shortly before that, King Georges Whoopi cushion,
yet there was never any great blueprint
for my random appearances on this fat round globe.
No design, only once in a while,
an accidental hominine arrival
panting from a million journeys, a similitude
of what a human could be - given very much more time.
Reincarnation is a flawed theoretical conundrum.
No one ever claims to have been something made
by a bored passing tinkerer, yet creation is creation
after all.
Hundreds of times has Cleopatra
been lived-in like an old recliner in a nursing home,
is it any wonder that her image now
sags like a broken concertina?
I once (maybe several times) was a dog,
once a dogs dinner dish.
animation is often overrated; being stoically stiff
has its own rewards.
Dogs on the other hand,
are pretty good prototypes of a model human being.
Many ladies have been inhabited
by my wolfish lechery,
alas only I do not recall those pleasantries.
It’s not easy being a multicellular organism
I long for simpler times,
however I can do this, I may even devise a plan
to jump a generation or two of aspiring exemplars,
but I must wait for my brain to stop swelling
then shrinking like a bullfrogs throat
which recalls to mind a time
spent wallowing in Mississippi mud -
passionate nights I remember all too well.
It’s unfortunate that we are living past the age of romanticism. It’s as if in our busy lives we don’t have time to make time to let moments intertwine. We are workaholics and hedonist who forgot to appreciate that love exists.
We are a couple decades over the time where the hearts use to frequently blossom and more than passion was the outcome. Instead we pay more attention to Hollywood heartbreaks and gossip. Stories of lust and mistrust that give love a bad name. Soap-opera clichés where to apply the word 'cliché' would be cliché.
When it comes to affection our conscience are unconscious. The mind's treachery leading to heart's lechery are the components of nonsense that leave the soul no longer autonomous .
Then there’s the other side of the story of those who look for glory, trying to find congruent atriums and ventricles.
Those lonely individuals whose only finds happen to be asymmetrical.
Those that live for love, those that lust love and can’t ignore it, also those who die for it.
It’s that common misconception that their next lover will be their last.
It’s the repetitive mistakes that made their next lover the same as their last.
It’s the entangled bonds between two roses that are divine. We comprehend not that we are diatoms in Diotima’s explanation of a love story.
There’s no acknowledgement of platonic love.
No demonstration of admiration for the family unit, friends and all the experiences we undergo.
It’s out of resource and need that Eros grows.
A gardener should be there to watch their seed grow.
It’s out of love that we should plant our rose.
Flood is a very common occurrence in Bangladesh
Due to its position and altitude.
In-spite of its all experience and forecast,
The country always falls in awkward situation,
When flood comes with all its loud and lechery.
1966, 1970, 1987, 1988, 1998 ?and 2007 in 20th century
Deadly flood barred Bangladesh beastly.
Flood situation-2017 in Bangladesh
Is much ravenous, catastrophic all over the country,
More starving in the north Bengal.
Already left few hundreds people dead.
Many people are suffering with their
Cattle, children and old member of the family.
Food crisis is acute there, cooking is impossible,
As their huts already got swamped and liquidated.
Lakdi by which they cook have been soaked,
Dry food and emergency medicine they now need
Are being made available in a slow pace by the organizations.
And no place now spared there inundated
To stay in, let alone sleep or associate.
To come out from the saddening situation
We need collective efforts,
But lack of political concomitance
And for religious selfishness it is very difficult to
Let all assets and hands to be functional at a time.
We feel our world is a village, so, any disaster happen
In any corner of the world is all’s responsibility.
We are living now in a very connected world,
Anybody’s grievance is everybody’s concern,
So, we can hope no calamity is stronger than
Our collective efforts, our collective emotion and responsibility.
The teeth are dry.
It is Silken Thomas
muffling for promises
among the rats in his straw,
jostling for a hand,
once wielding but now
scratching the toes of power.
The tongue leather bitten,
studded with the supplication to You.
A lament of request,
where a crumpled
cluster of bones saddens.
We can’t only touch the fingers,
it is the dust that we pray to.
Skellig harbours the aping of Him,
the attempt to elbow and impress,
to crack a languid smirk somewhere, somehow.
Bless us with crusts and drinking water,
a hard bed and no doubt,
for these thy gifts.
Tertullian calm in Tibet,
Cork bet and the hay saved,
a good death for the Blackfoot Shamen:
all the islands of possibility
chipped in Easter heads.
There are nebuli in half breaths
and in the vacant thoughts of man
we spawn vaticanus, Giza, Picchu.
A rattle of stones stacked by bones,
their names will sometime hurt us.
Poor half naked Thomas,
breathing on the kindness of strangers,
with his five uncles shivering
on the whim of one.
We are drenched in his fear,
in his fall, in his beauty cracked to stink,
in his soiled fashion.
Our guts rejoice like a pleasure sickness,
vomiting lechery. 10th Earl of Kildare,
loved by the wrong ones and too young,
your prayer is heard,
though it throbs at your heart like a wound.
Our school story is brief,
your prayer echoes still.
Many just live meaningless lives...
not caring a bit for others,
and devine goodness
is not found in them; and when they''die:
nobody will remember them...mourn or cry!
While I'm living,I'll make sure:
I will love and be loved by others,
and my kindness will flow like a rich river...
until it finds the widest ocean!
I will resist to be tempted by iniquity,
and put a stronghold between me and lechery,
because it caused me much grief before...
and tried to destroy me along with my mission!
Many just live meaningless lives...
wasting them away, worrying about the world's cares;
retaining old habits...treading a path:
trampling, instead of walking upright!
Many just live meaningless lives,
living in fear...daunted by perils,
because they don't live by faith,
but by any means of contempt and unrighteousness!
If thoughts and greedy ways
are meant to please others,
not giving you perfect choices,
take them out of your actions...
look up and believe you can change everything
for the sake of salvation,which is free and fulfilling!
Many just live meaningless lives,
and wait for good luck to bring them riches;
what's missing in their worthless lives
can't be replaced by them,
but by a spiritual transformation...
as shrewd as intuition!
Daughters of the moon
Ride the inner waves
Dizzying heights of possibilities
Crash against the stonewalled shoreline
Sand-banked against change.
It will take a tsunami to shift this stubborn treachery
Undo the lechery of lost souls entrapped
In the barbaric misery of war.
The gentle moon is not enough.
To move these ones.
Depths shaking and quaking in outrage
Tremble with the cries of broken hearts.
Enough blood spilt to replenish the pumped out oil wells.
New blood for old.
It’s all carbon based either way.
Tidal waters
Gentle rocking in eternity
Sing us into another way to be
Rhythmic forgetting,
hold the pain at bay
rock us still
In her motion.
War continues and the death march quickens the hearts of the Mothers,
And daughters of the moon.
Re-arranging of current events changes history
In the viewing of those who see
From the dark side of the moon.
The shadows give up the ghosts left haunting
The battlefields of despair
False glory and patriotic pride
Gift the sons and daughters
Promising future
Delivering death.
Mothers birth warriors
For the corporate machines
Of true anarchy.
Wash us in your waves.
Hold us in this place of forever
Long enough to catch our breath
As we learn to walk on water
And forgive them their sins.
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