Long Voyeuristic Poems
Long Voyeuristic Poems. Below are the most popular long Voyeuristic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Voyeuristic poems by poem length and keyword.
He guards the perimeter of
my newly built life,
An unappointed warden to
his long- departed wife.
His surveillance is a shadow,
heavy and profound,
As his relentless, predatory
footsteps trace my ground.
He orchestrates a calculated,
unconcerned chase,
Inserting his fixation into
every public space.
My mailbox is violated,
stripped of its defense,
By his intrusive fingers and
his desperate, dark suspense.
He intercepts my letters with
a convert, hungry gaze,
To map the secret geography
of my escaping days.
Invisible tripwires hum with
electronic sight,
As hidden lenses pierce the
sanctuary of my night.
Those cold, robotic apertures
are blinking from the trees,
Recording every movement
on his digital decrees.
He is a phantom archivist,
compiling what I do,
An omnipresent voyeur of a
life he can't renew.
This suffocating vigilance,
this voyeuristic thrall,
Has turned my independence
to an exhibition hall.
He hovers like a specter in
an inescapable grid,
Unraveling the safety where
my fragile freedom hid.
A microscopic tyranny that
never lets me be.
Everything has a fee,
Nothing on Earth's for free,
There is no relation,
Without compensation,
Unless it's just me versus me.
Something always involves cost,
From breathing to auto exhaust,
Imagine, people mating,
Without use of call waiting,
Millions of yen would be lost.
Even intangibles hold value,
A smile from the wind, a song on the bayou,
If you yell at your spouse,
Well, there goes the house,
The true meaning of "I do, I do".
Life is a pay-per-view event,
Due to our voyeuristic intent,
We can't cross the street,
To keep matters discrete,
All we have is fiscal repent.
(3/8/90)
Why is it so interesting when someone else falls in love?
Is our fascination purely voyeuristic, like the you-are-there of reality-TV?
Is it jealousy or some unwavering belief in lovers as heroes?
What is this relationship? We ask ourselves - and them - let’s take it apart and find out.
Like those YouTube videos where you’re shown how to do French-tip nails.
Is love an impulse, a one-time hookup or even a summer fling, or is it about finding ‘the one’ in the face of our own obligations and ineptitudes?
Love’s ‘high concept’ - it’s many things at once - it’s physical, emotional, intimate - maybe even sexual.
Part of our interest has to be our affection (or dislike) of the characters involved.
A relationship isn’t a ‘performance,’ of course, but as friends we might be considered an ‘audience’.
Love is drama. There’s a cast - with their chemistry. There’s a plot - shot through with compelling incidents, difficult situations, tear-jerking agonies, and shocking twists.
The sweet moments, between the actual ‘wow, this is happening’ and everyone finding out. The time the secret belongs to the lovers - that’s their chance to privately define their ungainly new reality - but soon enough, the world finds out, and there’s interest.
At its best, love is the gentle handling of consciousness itself, to evoke the effective resonance of pleasure.
But has it ever truly been a private experience?
.
.
Songs for this:
Me and Mrs. Jones by Michael Bublé (maybe the sexiest song ever)
Me and Mr. Jones by Amy Winehouse
you read out of obligation
a tit for tat consolation
a "thank you for your visit" affirmation
it's cool, this unspoken rule
I do it too, so what’s new?
It's only being civil
community code of camaraderie
who can break free?
It needs to be done
loyalties need to be won
so do the comment hit and run
then on to another one
I appreciate that, truth be told
this give and take system should hold
on poetic pleasantries, I am sold
“Reciprocity” is gold
oh, but that's not quite same
as being sure that you came
because I'm a favorite name
in your poet hall of fame
Come goaded by greed
Needing each word for your feed
Voyeuristic as I bleed
You need my pain to be freed
Come craving my rhyme fix
The potency of this mix
My poetic party tricks
Lines that give you the kicks
I'm a poet pillaged by pain
who's been baptized by rain
holding on to the sane
let me battle your bane
Read me for you know
You need me to grow
Dip in the stream of this flow
Words above, words below
Read and blaze in the fire
word kindling of your desire
let these flames take you higher
as they make each thought perspire
Obligation is overrated
Though my words might be dated
the ideas? NOT antiquated
to existence they’re related
Come visit me
Come here so you’ll see
Passion infused poetry
let it meld you and me
Eileen Manassian
You read out of obligation,
a tit for tat consolation...
a "thank you for your visit" affirmation
it's cool, this unspoken rule
I do it too, so what’s new?
It's only being civil
community code of camaraderie
who can break free?
It needs to be done
loyalties need to be won
so does the "comment hit and run"
then on to another one
I appreciate that, truth be told
this give and take system should hold
on poetic pleasantries, I am sold
“Reciprocity” is gold
Oh, but that's not quite the same
as being sure that you came
because I'm a favorite name
in your poet hall of fame
Come goaded by greed
desperate to feed
voyeuristic as I bleed
needing my pain to be freed
Come craving my rhyme fix
the potency of this mix
my poetic party tricks
Come click for the best picks
Read the poet pillaged by pain
who's been baptized by rain
holding on to the sane
let me battle your bane
Read me because you know
you need me to grow
Dip in the stream of this flow
words above, words below
Read and be set on fire
by word kindling of desire
Flames that lick passion higher
making each thought perspire
Obligation is overrated
though my words might be dated
the ideas? NOT antiquated
to existence they’re related
Come visit me
Come here so you’ll see
Passion infused poetry
that melds you and me
Eileen Manassian
Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.
She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations,
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.
Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainous risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence,
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!
A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place."
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
"It is no longer good.”
We are not merely poets
I am six hundred other things besides this
My Girl
Explains my voyeuristic childhood self.
My Pirate Women
I have been fascinated with them since Pippi Longstocking.
Color Me Happy
I am difficult to hurt; I believe in a joyful me.
Lickety Split
I live the life of this kindergarten teacher.
Hi I Say Brightly
I am notoriously eager to ignore adversity.
I am Addicted to Word Games
I play four to six hours of scrabble every evening.
Color Imagined
I love watching ducks swim in the spring.
We are World Wide Mirrors
We are all together in this, feeling the same emotions
Plethora of Flowers
Nothing delights my fairy-like essence more than marigolds
Having the peaceful right
On a clear night
Hearing tranquil sounds
Watching the twinkling lights downtown
Not expecting any interruption
From deceitful local corruption
But to my surprise
Someone’s undermined lies
While sitting alone
There was a drone
Flying around
Taking pictures of the ground
Why was it here?
All I am doing is chugging this here
Beer
Legally bought
Being old enough I thought
As it buzzed
Doing what it does
I stayed still
Could it fire and kill?
I think not
I pondered nervous and sweaty hot
If it comes any closer
I may fear being a fried roaster
Quickly it disappeared
I no longer had anything more to fear
Except Iosing, the evening’s festive cheer
Dampening my pants
Looking like I made an advance
On the drone
Spying on me when I was alone
To combat this voyeuristic try
I went inside
Sighed
And decide
Not to blow a fuse
Turn on the news
Reporting the enemy was the accused
Calm I did become
Knowing things were done
But how do we stop this evil invasion?
And the distrusting questions it is raising
Keep acting humble
Let the machine go off course and tumble
Then crumble
Or maybe the drone will learn the lesson
Realizing its handlers, started confession
You see, it is not all right
On a clear night
To bother someone alone
With an invading drone
In fact
It is classified as an attack
Beckoning the response “take that
you neighborly nosey brat”
Aye Writhed With Agony...
Unbeknownst to any
innocent onlooker, aye
underwent extreme internal
torture with silent cry
ying whimpers, whence,
(either left or
right) post-
pubescent myopic eye
didst readily espy,
an aesthetically pleasing female,
and most likely stunning
to any other generic guy
and suddenly rendered mute, NO...,
NOT even daring
enough to say "hi,"
which close proximity of sizzling
hot babe wrought me fancying
myself being whisked away
(in a one horse
open sleigh, despite
the remote possibility livingsocial
in Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania suburban) igloo
to be frozen
with fear, petrified lo'
while terror seized thee Oh No
bliss oblige emotional status quo
of much younger Matthew
Scott Harris head to toe
induced a deplorable woe
imaging other (prospective
obscured individuals) probably
considered yours truly
tubby unstrung mama's yoyo,
and at this present time feline
less in timid
dated noticing a sultry,
leggy, and foxy anatomical
and physiological arrest
ting, though such hypothetical chest
a coy gal, nonchalantly, innocently
with non verbal expressed
charm and demurely
posing as if intending
to serve as guest
of honor, nonetheless,
this brief illusory invest
ment, sans quasi
voyeuristic poetic, shrug jest
sheen, and imagistic distraction,
thy sole rhythmical
motif, since n'er nest
sold with any
purdy young thang begrudging
natural animalistic proclivity,
which absence young adult quest
ting, oh yea
definitely in apropos now,
yet...that self deprived
self discovery stage of life,
that "smarts" me psyche,
when clumsy teen
age dating experience,
a electric kool
aid acid (litmus) test
until twilight age
senescence doth wrest.
Chet lived creepily in the back of the tavern, hidden.
No one bothered him. He lived vicariously through the others.
The pretty barflies who flitted in chatting too loudly.
Flipping their hair. He had a salacious appetite, saw them all naked.
They sometimes waved to his corner when they were drunk.
He did not think they knew he was perpetually eyeballing them.
Unclothing them one piece of clothing at a time in his mind.
Uncovering their secrets was easy; they shared way too much.
His voyeuristic tendencies got him ostracized and secluded from family.
His mixoscopia and scoptolagnia confusing the prissy Baptists he knew.
He might go Catholic, he had heard they were more open. Nah!
Religion was not for him. His religion was this bar and those bar flies.
One of them was throwing her head back now, laughing loudly.
He would dream of her tonight. He smirked at the eroticism she brought him.
She turned and waved. If he was forty years younger, he would be over there.
But he knew better so he stayed put, swigging back his beer.