Long Risqué Poems
Long Risqué Poems. Below are the most popular long Risqué by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Risqué poems by poem length and keyword.
Inquisitive sorts enigmatic notions as positions--scaled left for the right-hander--behold various perceptions, thus preserving perfection as a cure for misdirection's subtle draw.
Earnest forgivingly weakens its posture as truth betrays, incredulously, amidst reality outfitted in non-traditions; Judas kisses a face, while the strummed favors oils embrace a straining revelation that pleasures the muted.
Distractions of another sort muse the ne'er-do-wells, while diligence inks the lost, ambulates ambitious quill of risqué 'Olympia' whose indecency is shaded decently.
Tryst loses in translation, forms anew in an altered view; observant exposed a chapter; a spilled review cores a novel of two; meeting of the minds formed upon a ruinous and trifle distraction, whereto whenever praise ventures, "A dull knife makes a cutting edge."
Old Lord Harry put up a good front.
He hid socks in his pants as a stunt.
But, his Lady swore
as argyle hit floor
that no organ was found to be blunt.
6/17/14
It seems some did not get this poem so a wee bit of 'splaining is above for all you Desi Arnez fans.
Definition for
FRONT - noun the side or part of an object that presents itself to view or that is normally seen or used first; the most forward part of something. [i.e. the front of his pants]
FRONT - noun in a military sense the front is the FIRING LINE
FRONT - a fake or false personality
This poetic devise is called a double entendre [a play on words]- a word or phrase open to two interpretations, one of which is usually risqué or indecent.
ORGAN - is also being used this way - The human ***** is an external male sexual organ - as well as a musical instrument made of pipe
ARGYLE - a pattern composed of diamonds of various colors on a plain background, used in knitted garments such as sweaters and socks.
or ARE GUILE - someone who is sly or cunning
even the word BLUNT has another meaning here since a BLUNT sword would be of little use
Olive was vibrant and deliberated in awe in front of her wardrobe
Should she put on that glorious fox pelt for the night’s Hunters Ball
Surely it had to be politically correct and she would claim her place
In the hearts of those killers she had to write about for the Morning Post
But she decided for something less tainted and went more en natural
The emerald dress with a shade of sage and chartreuse trimmings
Loosely woven to show off her figure and pleasing for the crowd
After all she was a woman of firm beliefs and tantamount beauty
A lime stola for the stage light and forest green to harbour her bust
Moss and pine reinforced buttocks and myrtle sap silk to cover her crotch
You can’t wear that honey it’s near translucent and far to risqué
Its my nature to reveal what is out in the open and easy to see
A statement so please now hand me that praying mantis whip
Covered in bio-degradable material the reporter put on mascara
Jade eye liner and mint lipstick made from ground clover and laurel
Front page she thought and a tad androgynous for a man’s taste
But Olive was a seductress in name and ready to dance for her cause
They will be bilious with sheer envy when they undress me tonight
Her garments were made from hemp shamrock and cyan feathers
A bit of sea weed and a shiny perlemoen belt for modesty’s sanctum
Octopus ink dotted around the little sea horse brocade ready for the kill
Let’s find out who is the wolf in sheep’s clothing and who rules the party
It is not over until this lady sings to the crude fanfares of animal cruelty
My malachite shine will torture those bigots and hypocritical beasts
And a bit of irresistible irritation has to expose their cunning bushy tails
Before I put muzzles on their hounds and phallic antics and beat my retreat
The headline in the paper read Predators in Read Coats Impaled on Spurs
And a photo showed a foxy young woman presiding over her fallen prey
05th December 2019
AI poetry and aureate prose is quite often repulsive.
Bathetic prose relying on synonyms isn’t persuasive.
Content, more important than labels, that spins on looms
deep, thought-provoking poetry that eternally blooms.
Evocative language that hankers to an idyllic past;
finishing with a flourish leaving an impression that lasts.
Grammar rules adhered to and the spelling precise;
high-energy prose that wants me to read the poem twice.
Imagery well defined transporting me on a journey
juxtaposed with tantalising realms, but never corny.
Kicking over the traces and not flinching when
language treated as an art form with an aurum pen.
Metaphor must be transparent—never an enigma or obscure;
no ambiguities of puns that we as readers have to endure.
Originality—no plagiarism—goes without saying;
poetic licence, within limits, can be quite satisfying.
Quest for illumination on issues that are often moot.
Rhythm and sound have primacy over meaning to boot.
Sensitive treatment of the subject matter will always win.
Tautograms and alliteration mastered … overuse won’t win.
Unusual perspective on a topic, but not a lot of baloney.
Voice of the poet that clearly shines through cacophony—
winged inspiration that soars without fear or favour.
X-rated and risqué offerings would definitely not be devoured.
Yammering critics like an ostentation* of peacocks, while
zealotry that rankles leaves a bad taste—it’s no one’s style.
Mercy Mercy Mercy
You’re the most beautiful being I’ve seen,
A glance of your face nourishes me within
The sound of your voice
Accelerates the beat of my heart
The freckles beneath your round eyes
Weakens every limb in my body
It pains me to not compliment
On your curved body
Your dolly face
Your risqué walk
Thus I complain
While am locked in my room
On how life is so unfair
Why wouldn’t I just have even that least?
Of what Lincoln, Martin, Mandela, Rosa had
Just a bit of that courage
To stand and face you
And tell you how much
I adore you, like you and love you
Tell you how much I would give to have you
Tell you how big a world you mean to me
Just a bit of that courage I’d wish
For my life to give
And certainly not this grieve
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,
It’s the song, the feeling and the name
That I call out silently on your presence
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy
I have become an old woman,
Who is plump and grey
Like us all, as we get old
I have much that I could say
I like adventure
I have had an exciting life
I do have to leave my desk
To remove a dagger or a knife
From an Innocent Victim
Who has come to harm
Bells start to ring inside my head
Causing me alarm.
Is this another murder?
One I have to solve
Where do I start?
And how can I resolve
This crime,
I don't have a clue.
Don't be ridiculous,
You have solved many murders before,
You found the latest one
Laying on the floor
If I stop talking to myself,
I might get some ideas
From the books on my shelf
Books that I have written
And enjoyed doing so very much,
I feel entirely smitten,
To write crime novels and such.
A woman born before the time
Sometimes, my words were risqué
Have you guessed who I am?
I am the famous Agatha Christie.
A budding comedian didn’t expect folk
to exit the room when he told a rude joke
But the air turned blue when he was on stage
and his risqué humour caused total outrage
Go home ignoramus, jeered Kenny Lopper -
he meant what he said, he’s the local copper
Alas the comedian ignored big Kenny’s request
and soon his time on stage would be suppressed
Listen moron, never ostracise policemen, quick
gather your belongings, unless you’re really thick
Don’t show your face again, yeah sling your hook
or I’ll take down your particulars in my notebook!
Alpha Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
08/02/21
Motionless you lay, not moving an inch,
Unable to move, shift or stir,
As the rope ties you down, tight to the base,
Tied by me …… and I’m no amateur.
All the knots are locked fast, no break, bolt, escape,
No getting away today,
And you know you’ll stay there for as long as I want,
As my defiled, my work, my risqué.
Bound, you can’t say a word, you can’t tell a soul,
Of the thoughts you might want to share.
Deep down in your belly you know people ignore,
You know I’m the only one to show care.
But soon this game of duty will finish,
When we arrive I’ll stop being your jailer.
I’ll untie each knot and carry you off,
My cardboard box that’s tied to my trailer.
Naked Truth
N~ascent truth resides at the heart of wisdom thus
A~story conjects still naked waits for refutation
T~he emperor’s clothes devoid of the latest chique
I~ntimately risqué when average normality beckons
V~ie for veracity rescued from the scrap heaps of time
I~n candour modesty disentangles sexy sound bites
T~o be naked or not for whom where how and when
Y-aup those who lie in winning words instead of reason
11th November 2016
Written for contest ‘Naked’ judged 16th November
Still Naked
Naked with no laurels for my glory could I yawp in
Awe of other poets’ winning well versed script though
Kinder to myself and fellow soupers do I give merit
Eject my sulking disappointment from the scene and
Defuse what was as to denude again the naked truth
Expanded on 26th November 2016 for the contest
‘Take The Dagger From My Heart Please - 3
the other women are askance
a flapper has moved into the neighborhood
not on her own, but with parents
they cannot control her
she wears short dresses
this is 1921
her skirts are no longer than her knees!
She is flippant, reckless, risqué,
she has bobbed her hair
the other woman gasp their disapproval
she listen to jazz
smokes cigarettes in public
she flaunts brash behavior
I heard she drinks alcohol! some whispered
the rest of the women are shocked
most had no idea that she is also having casual sex
none of them knew about that
they were jealous of her confidence
her misbehaviors stoking their rumor fire
as she stoked their husbands