Long Phallic Poems
Long Phallic Poems. Below are the most popular long Phallic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Phallic poems by poem length and keyword.
Calamities…
assaulted by the Memorial Day tsunami
drowned victims & floating cars--
appendix detonates during the Season of Hell
haplessly hospitalized in the UT-Austin medical zoo
Delusion of progress…
recovering in the mobile home
plodding through texts of
postmodern pointlessness--
overcome with visions of nuclear annihilation
Life is a plunge…
sensory overload & self-deconstruction--
reading "One Hundred Years of Solitude"
pondering Camus’ only philosophical question
does Jung have the answer?
Re-entry into the (ir)real world…
Labor Day blues & academic angst
surrounded by yi(u)ppies--
mesmerized by Eastern philosophy
crushed by existential dread
The Being & Nothingness of Texas...
The Longhorns won/lost The Game
primal braying & primitive reveling
avoiding the orange phallic madness
evading beer bottles hurled by frat boys
Monstrous cockroaches inherit the Earth…
discombobulated by the sadistic heat
I ram my fist into a case of Lone Star
“The horror, the horror” as Kurtz opined
can I still resurrect myself?
Five packed together in one car…
a circuitous journey to South Padre Island
silent white sand & red star suspended over the Gulf
hypnotic waves & harsh words in the condo
the Odyssey is (in)complete(d)
Do you think that you can’t write a verse
Free or formed, a villanelle or song
Do you fear the end then feel accursed?
The first words are banana,gold and terse
Start from that new sentence on your tongue
Do you think that you can’t write a verse?
Bananas ,phallic symbols, unrehearsed
What you write is almost never wrong
Is you fear the end be not accursed
Golden is the joy when we’re immersed
In the company that knows our tongue
Do you think that you can’t write a verse?
My lover speaks but he is often terse
He prefers to use a gesture not a word
Is you fear the end you’re not the first
In the mind float symbols , gold, absurd
Metaphors that hunger to be heard
Do you think that you can’t write a verse?
If you fear the end , we’re here at worst
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Imagination nude
liquored and lacquered lips
ember-breathing phoenix
..lighter fluid magic
when let loose near a flame..
combustible thigh-highs
when moonshine-high is nigh—
the moon she bathes in dreams
I have you both in hand
my tongue slick and sleek seeks
to taste the fruits of fields
intoxicated snake
oh! my lust a slither
a quiver serpentine
squeeze innocence with sins
revive the withered vine
anthurium’s shield leaf
your phallic sword unsheathed
exotic frolic fire
in heart-shaped bloom I burn
fire-water-pulse untamed
grabbed by the mane restrained
—unrestrained dreams unleashed
tequila genie free
sassy-frassy lassie
a parasol in pink
frilly and unfolded
beholder beholden
to climb aboard and fly
feminine flamingo
through shaken sky uncorked—
liquid-libido rains
as thirst and thunder reigns
just drop the reins and ride
bridal sweet bridle free
yah barefoot and bareback
yes! drain the bottle dry
free way ticket three way
trifecta perfecta
primal energies spoon
la belle ‘Bianca’ blanc—
wine-skinned mademoiselle
This one’s a castle, that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Lizst, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
and then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
a Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates from long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
that goes nowhere, has never carried traffic,
bears one boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreud or Schloss:
self-portrait, this. What features might we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Well, hardly. An endearing, awful suit,
and – most revealingly of all – he has no face.
He thought that he had lost all his marbles on the crossing
The autumn tides had been huge and the currents strong
Mostly the aquamarine ones off track and abandoned
A bit like blue smarties excluded from the shiny packets
Forbidden colorants had lost their way into his life
Must have put them into one of the Nivea tins he collected
For safe keeping so well they were hidden too mindlessly
His mood though full of the blues like cyan in a capsule
As he struggled through the time warp of self-deception
No more cerulean light and Munch’s scream full of morose
Moribund insanity with the ocean’s plight darker than black
He felt sizzling hotter than blue blazes in his very own hell
Like cold death warmed up and the hobgoblin gone crazy
Women were said to bring bad luck as distraction of sailors
Strangely naked ones were welcome on board to relax the tiller
And the compass’s needle pointed nether like phallic delight
Tall and erect full of heart blood and passion he had once been
Yet living disaster had struck home and all pastels were stuck
Out of the blue an angel appeared who was poignantly wearing
A fine blue seductive dress of intricate weave and labyrinthine fabric
He undressed her in rising fantasy and she wished just the same
A super blue blood moon ready for passion and climax of harvest
Nivea turned into deep heat mixed with menthol and chocolate
With blueberry essence and grapes south of navel and nave
Finn had found huckleberries at last and she had been waiting
An eternity for a Prince to cherish her plum and gift her a peach
Dew reappeared like morning glory as they condensed into one
And christened white satin sheets for they embarked wet and wild
Fiona shone bright fair and beautiful honest open and upright
A sapphire dropped from heaven in light of a precious fine marble
She strumpets all into the nights until
around her head the build-up's like fetid, gross cheese;
her lewdness makes the earth and sun stand still:
Lord! What miracle it'd be were she just a tease!
Her grinning face I loathe and never miss;
to greet her with a large and phallic pecker
delights her—but I swear to God on this:
that I felt then the extreme need to deck her
at the knowledge of her one-hundred lovers!?
Deceived by her (that wily Lolita!),
I curse then forswear her and flee for cover
vowing henceforth to shun that Medusa.
So with luck and some serendipity,
I abscond her wiles with no STD!
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Fighting God?
God is not a “fighter”,
nor is He a lover as is claimed.
He is a coward
lacking courage or compassion
for the millions He has maimed.
God sends in his “seconds”
to pander to the minions,
grand promises to sell
a little taste of pestilence
a righteous song and dance,
the overpowering promise
a lifelong trip to hell.
So I must fight His devils
God’s best chicanery
the “whipping boys” of heaven
“It was them – it wasn’t Me.”
I tossed to God the gauntlet
to meet me face to face
to discuss his purpose
for our failing human race.
I’ve been told that I’m a sinner
a blasphemer, even worse
and if I wasn’t careful
God would visit me - a curse.
I fight God in the alleyways
of winter’s frozen streets
where too many sit in hunger
with blue tinged freezing feet.
I fight Him in the corridors
where “learned” men conspire
dressed in flowing robes
beneath a phallic spire.
I repel sorties by legions
who attack us “In His name”
tar us with the brushes
of remorseful guilt and shame.
Thus do I battle God’s malaise
heaped upon mankind
and wonder at each sunrise
if God has changed his mind
left us on our own
to tend a failing garden
left us in the darkness
to watch the dead hearts - harden.
And so I fight Him, every day
for one of us has lost our way
and if at times it must be Him
I’ll teach the fishes how to swim.
2/1/2015
submitted to – Fighting God – Poetry contest
sponsor – rob Carmack
gauntlet of mirrors transparency personified
transparency personified when the curtain falls
in an arena of quick sand and impromptu judgement
the stage was well set though actually
it presented itself as rather empty
epic theatre art form at its vacant best
I placed himself at the very manifest epicentre
of concealed and subconscious intentions
would I shed the gauntlet despite sharp sordid shards
sharing poetry soul-stripping and nakedly honest
Freud would think of an electrifying Egopuss complex
Jung’s shadow play might reveal phallic saints on display
until of course Nietzsche found God in Mary Magdalene
a marriage apocalyptically consummated in Dante’s inferno
with four horsemen in G-strings frottageing lust and desire
no contest is real unless the audience may be allowed
to pervert justice or shed more than hypocritical applause
constructive critique does not forbid foul language nor rage
at times I felt deprived when my poetry in the soup’s cauldron
merely attracted kind comments or however heartfelt approval
when I put myself into the lioness’ den I expect to be ravaged
ravaged displaced exposed devoured and put to the stake
a wizard needs fire because talent and flair have to be moulded
publishing poetry is an interaction between consenting partners
otherwise it risks to become pantomime or unilateral megalomania
mirror mirror on the wall am I not the best screwball of them all
where is the podium what is my prize accolade and quilled line squall
a masked persona falls short of the truth and I am the court jester
expect my bells and whistles to jingle as tools for the eloquent fool
tomtoolery when Machiavelli meets de Beauvoir in the boudoir
oh crystal ball kaleidoscope gemstone alchemy of soul and mind
nights in white satin and shining armour pain pleasure and words
words that cannot express my conflict when the prism is smudged
footnotes:
Egopuss complex refers to Oedipus’ gender neutrality, although it could be
viewed as a misspelling for the purulent excretions of Self on autopilot
tomtoolery are male tools of trade and craft, but could I not be the feminine
version
Embarrassing moments .. oh I guess we’ve all had a few
But this is one is so memorable so I will share it with you!
My hubby had become friends with Dave through work
and we had been invited for a Chinese meal with him and his girlfriend
I had never met them before and was a little bit nervous
The restaurant we went to was very posh
Dave and Tracey had eaten there the week before
We all got on like a house on fire and laughed all night
The conversation flowed, as did the wine.
We had a delicious meal and it was then time to order dessert
Banana fritters were on the menu, my mouth watered at the thought
Oh I simply adore banana fritters drizzled with golden syrup
We all agreed to have the same dessert
Dave’s eyes lit up and he called the waiter over
he ordered ‘banana fritter specials’ …
winked at the waiter and they both laughed
We continued chatting whilst we waited for our desserts to arrive
Suddenly the other diners went quiet and then they started to laugh
I turned round to see two waiters striding across the room
Each carrying two plates with our desserts
Yes banana fritters …
but not like I had EVER witnessed before or since
The banana had been cooked with two ‘dough balls’ one on either side
and had been arranged on the plate so that the banana was ‘upright’
A blob of cream at the top of the banana fritter completed the effect
By the time this phallic pudding was placed in front of me
my face was as red as a tomato and I was crying with laughter.
I wanted the floor to open up and engulf me
I was so embarrassed as everyone was laughing at us
Somehow we all managed to eat our desserts
It was the best banana fritter I’ve ever tasted -
and definitely the most memorable!
We became great friends with Dave and Tracey
but never went back to that restaurant again
This happened in 1991 and is a 100% true story!
Most embarrassing moment Contest
Sponsor Mystic Rose
10~10~15