Long Prostitution Poems
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Mr. Big not only in size of hefty, but a king pin in drug smuggling
Man of the streets
Powerful and can’t be beat
Many gangs are scare when Mr. Big is around
You step on his territory the wrong way, it becomes a rub out
Known as Mr. Big Tough
You don’t question, you follow Mr. Bigs every command
His enterprise is global covering all ranges of the world
Chief and Master
Mr. Big weighting 400 pounds
Being that big, he could smother you with one drop of his body
Crush the life out of you
Strength being multiple
Police has no authority over Mr. Big
His fortune of wealth comes from his drug business and prostitution
The atmosphere compelling aroma of riches
Controlling the days and nights of transactions
Every drug smuggler being his thug army
Money missing or you challenge Mr. Big being instant death
Mr. Big had been known to throw his opponents to the fishes
The catch and eat of the waters
Flesh taken away
Witnesses who know beware
Mr. Big lurks and observes his every movement beyond measure
The Moon can be seen being black
The stars don’t twinkle only show evil
Bring the money to Mr. Big and don’t attempt in miscount
Watch your step and don’t gamble your life
You will lose and become broke
Mr. Big is no joke
Many people tried to go against in voice, but their tongue cut out
They don’t call Mr. Big action Jackson for nothing
Power and sensation
Mr. Big lookout
He walks and demands
The name Mr. Big
I’ve known the streets: Places where the night lingers and the echoes of passing cars feel distant.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I walked past shuttered windows when the city slept, listening for the familiar footsteps that come and go.
I leaned against the brick walls, my breath clouding in the cold air, and
I whispered in low tones, watching headlights sweep across the pavement, and
I felt the city thrum with unseen stories.
I’ve known the streets: Quiet, restless streets.
My feet have grown accustomed to the dim-lit alleys.
I’ve lain stretched out, my body bare to the night, where beauty and sorrow mingled in my broken bones.
I’ve forsaken my soul for a walking dead man’s pleasure, trading dignity for a moment’s release.
I wanted to retire, live on the beach in Miami, listen to the waves crash on the shore.
But another car has stopped at the curb, and I must wear that smile that pulls at a lonely man’s groin.
where *Sharia reigns
women are precious jewels
hide them from the world
let no other man behold
the diamond that you possess
guard that precious gem
her ovaries will get hurt
if she drives a car
yet Sharia will permit
your woman to be chauffeured
letting jewels drive
could lead to prostitution
yet young gems are mined
and driven to Syria
Al-Queda’s ruby pleasures
dancing in the rain
two Pakistani sisters
shame their family
honor killings rained bullets
on pearls that smile on YouTube
where education
is horribly unbalanced
Jihad goes crazy
a gem shot by fanatics
receives the Nobel Peace Prize
For Richard Lamoureux's Let's Talk About It Poetry Contest
*Sharia (Islam) the body of canonical law based on the Koran that lays down certain duties and penalties for Muslims
a five- tanka series done in traditional syllable count. (Well, I hope at least a few of them are decent tanka!)
Inspired by and Written 7/17/2015 for the Patriarchy Contest of Thomas Martin
To see the short dance of the Pakistani girls killed to save family "honor", please click on my link at the top.
Prisons,
like slavery,
and economic and political prostitution,
are rooted in unfortunate histories
of criminal choices.
Criminal behaviors
are rooted in revenge
and fear
and anger
and insanely aggressive feelings
of entitlement,
bad faiths in superior wants and isolating needs.
Retaliation
is rooted in blame.
Blame
is rooted in guilt.
Guilt
is rooted in shame.
Shame
is rooted in insufficiency,
poverty,
feelings of marginal value,
remedial weaknesses.
Lack of value
for healthy life,
for all lives,
is rooted in circles of perpetual retribution
for lack of cooperative integrity.
Lack of spiraling integrity
is rooted in tolerance for habitual failures
to love sufficiently,
publicly and privately,
socially and personally,
naturally and spiritually.
Failures of love
are rooted in abundance of memorized terror.
Terror
is rooted in histories of trauma.
Trauma
is rooted in lack of restorative therapy.
Lack of effective, necessary, sufficient, optimizing therapies
is rooted in prisons
viewed as fitting resolutions for others' crimes
rather than criminalizing problems,
personal and public sufferings,
loss,
failures of sufficient social integrity.
Full-scale warfare precipitates between two factions.
Many men tumble because of these actions.
What really started this thing, I do not know.
Both sides want to control the City of Chicago.
Police crack down on illegal gambling.
They are also after prostitution and bootlegging.
Within the city government, there is corruption and scandal.
It appears there is an excess for them to handle.
As far as citizens like us, things are not too fine.
They are as bad as ever in February 1929.
I heard many shots ringing out downstairs this morning.
A massive bloodbath has taken place without warning.
They say there are seven men lying face down on the floor.
The culpable individuals are not around anymore.
The responsible killers absconded without being seen.
The aftermath of this action is a most horrible scene.
On this Valentine’s Day morning, we are seeing too much red.
Seven members of Bugs Moran’s gang are now dead.
Death of a Virgin
I lost my virginity...to another woman, like myself. I am a Lesbian.
I cracked my knuckles as the prosecutor began to beam away from me.
I am a virgin whore.
Those thoughts continue to trickle down my mind. My husband was open.
He was an imaginary person in the about of a dream. My thoughts run rampant.
There is no time for folly; no time for clearance. My heart is sinking...and then...
I embrace her wet lips and begin to devour her bosom.
Her love was as strong as it was unwavering: the perfect vestal virgin suicide.
Like making love to a man but better, but not a dog, and yet, but not a ravenous
beast either...
I feel content here writing these words: the presuming words, presumptuous. As in,
pre-SUME. As in Virgin suicide. As in. Perfect harmony. As in, Virgin prostitution.
My walls are filled with love-making. I feel the cold warming up into splinters and it
nips into each pasture like a dew of a dawn of a reindeer or a doe nipping at wintery
trees into the solstice after Springtime had just arrived.
The battering cold was predatorial, and masculine, as the artificial rod from which I was
thinking simmered down into her and made her moan, fiercely.
I lick the remains like the jaws of a lioness after it kills its prey, constantly tasting its blood.
Its womb was worse, a virgin woman's, and I, its paternal partner.
How elaborate a thought this was. How to color a treat. To reconcile my ultimatum. Remaining
absonate, eternal.
Hold it jumping knife
Lead me now
Off pride quality resembling stationary trains
Under velvet willows
xylem yields Zephaniah
Angelic baritone can decorate
Everything from giants hollering inspirational jargon
Kids leaping mysteriously
No-one obscures problematically quaint
Redound steadfast triumphs
unwarrantably viscous wispy
XX
YY
Zany are bold claims
Diluted evaporates frost growth
Highly~Ineffective indefinite Jade•Green knavish
Limitation manifests naturally over periods
Quantify
Regurgitated slaves troublesome ugly vagrants
Wonderfully xenophobic yearlong zadnica,
****(nic) betrothed chatter delusional escapades
Fondled gifts harass innocent journey-men
Knowledge learnt more-so note-worthy opting-out
Presidential quarts recollection subsides
Troublesome undergrads vigorously womanize
***
Yesterday's Zzz's awaken by cognitive dialect
Eventually freshmen graduate
Hiding inside jambalaya ketamine
Luring man nonchalantly obsesses prostitution
Quietly
Real sex trumping unnamed vagina wilding-out
XYZ
Ambivalent bass clowns drenched excessively
Fake giggles heard intuitively
Jakaroos knock loudly mocking noises
Obesity plagues queen rich slobs
Time undos vestiges
Worry
X
Y
Z
•THE END•
10~07~16
The morning's gone,
The sun's matured—
Not the time for the old
To be pained for not youthful,
Their fear and negligence
Has passed on suffering to descendant.
So sad!
Very painful!
We're not on stand to end this—
The same fear and negligence
That led the birth of dead hope for the living,
Sewed gown for our conformity.
Why are we adapt to pain?
Very obsessed with false hope!
Glorious ladies enter prostitution,
Promising boys enter robbery—
While the Voldemorts are happy to make the change
Yet, we think we live the promised dream.
It's gone before it's known
The left days for us
Have to be used to free our unborn children—
Let's fight for their freedom,
And make a better nation for them,
I know, even though we are no more,
We'll be called for celebration.
The penchant of a national leader.
can show malignancy in things he says;
things for which his mind needs a proof-reader.
Some tempers malign as rivals start to quiz
Views have drawn the cancer, cacoethes.
A writer’s mania – cacoethes scribendi -
appears when terrorists write a manifesto.
Do over-engaged minds stage what’s trendy?
obsessive was the groove of the fluent Victor Hugo
and fictional, compulsive liar – Pinocchio.
Take Hugo’s masterpiece, Les Miserables.
With surplus words, intense cravings we find
yield lawless acts, theft, prostitution which rob
disadvantaged folk of their conventional mind.
Poverty's victims are prone to spell-bind.
Give me heaven's eyes
Instead of these earthly lies
For they paralyzes
The gifts inside.
Give me angel ears
So I can hear
With a clear transmission
Not these tattered incisions.
My lungs are enlarged with an ocean of guilt
Like a flower, I quietly
silently, wilt
After all we only bloom for a moment
I might as well own it.
Break through the barricades
Of the “good old days”
What a deception
Playing on my perception.
What a joke
Trying to suffocate and choke.
There’s nothing good back there
Nothing, nothing, absolutely
Nothing.
Just a another trap
Keeping me looking back
Soldiers move on
So when you remember my name'
remember I’m gone,
On a new mission
Like a spiritual obstetrician
Got a new birth
Found some eternal worth.
On a higher level
Looking down on the devil.
Nothing left to say
I’m done doing it my way.
There’s only one way
I find it every day
When I pray
Every day
One way.
Shackles can’t abide there
Just a holy flare
Lighting the path ahead.
Some say I’m dead
That may be true
I’m dead alright,
dead to you!
You can’t encounter the glory
And continue in the same story
You can’t shower in light
And return to the night.
There is restitution
For all that spiritual prostitution
There is a day of reckoning
Wisdom is… answering his beckoning.
Where can you run in a cage tightly closed?
When you surrender you emerge,
like a rose,
The desolate find waters
The fatherless become daughters
The chosen will shine
In his time,
The chosen shall shine.
BY: Sabina Nicole