Autoerotic is the practice of saxual self-stimulation which is believed to heighten the saxual experience.Commendable deeds aren't Sexual behaviors that go against personal values,and religious beliefs.Reckless sexual activity is the path of destruction.We are born out of menses and money and both are impure so how can we claim that we are pure?
For the woman having menses
A high demand on her senses.
“I’d better I took no chances
That embarrassment enhances.”
A keeping up with the Joneses
On matters of strict hygiene,
Sometimes mistaking her tenses,
As she helps herself with Flagyl…
Her sincere man unreachable
For taught lessons still teachable;
But much glad who’d feared a baby,
‘Contraception’ wish and hobby…
For whom a child’s cry would face glow;
Bad-news bearing monthly blood flow,
Sees it and again phones Doctor:
A voice polite but could hector!
A business lady has a hunch
You will enjoy, "Period Crunch"*
Your monthly cycle
Titillates Michael
Perfect for breakfast, not for lunch!
* a new raspberry-flavoured
uterus-shaped cereal which
turns the milk red to enhance
discussion of a woman's
reproductive system! Thanks for
bringing it up for breakfast!
Where are all the women
the moon-eyed lionesses,
the stampeding herds of udders, vulvas, and horns
that tears the earth and trampled the serpents and scorpions?
Where are the mother bears that rip the ruby bark from the bodies of predators?
Where are all the women
ready to drown bad men in their menses?
Where are the Valkyrie
spears held high
iron breasts as bright as the sun-lit frost of Valhalla?
Where are the daughters of Shango,
that sharpen the double axe to take the life of the two faced thief?
Where is that rage that moves mountains
reshapes the world with fire?
Where are the women that are the waves of the weepless sea that pickles the eyes of arrogant men
and feeds the reef with their flesh?
Where are our warriors?
Where are our demons?
Where are our humans that are not too good to save the world?
A Little Boy’s gun with a barometric trigger,
showed a Fat Man how to
blot out an Empire’s rising sun.
Proliferation’s need pushed
Sellafield and Kyshtym to trip chasing Manhattan.
Twenty two years later and just
three miles south of Middleton,
failed safe assurances lied again and signed
Pripyat’s some thousands years lease that left
eighteen billion rubles around one elephant’s foot.
Fukushima’s seven year menses – Pacific stained –
west coast tide pool colors an invasive green
as Chinook escapements fill five year graves.
Intractable cesium hangovers bleed MOX cocktails
Nostrils blowing bubbles over damned lips
fused to the tit of a beast we can’t tame.
-----------------------------------------------------
Contest: Remembering What You Want to Forget
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Date: 09.04.18
Did you know the Gecko cannot blink ?
No I did not, but it sounds alluring that image
Of a focused lizard reptilian in glorious intent
From hide bound tail to protruding cheeks and jowl
So I blink, too tired to contemplate the enemy who stalks
Unruly neighbor holding night long juice jointed jamborees
Where alcohol steams the atmosphere with its truth venom
Inhaling vapours that create this courage that carries cowards
Yes I will blink, sleep deprived laborer courting reluctant pens
Refusing to yield hidden gems and buried treasures like jade
And tanzanite blue rhythms that accompany melodies and dirges
Legend has it that only the cry of the lion is met with sympathy
That of the lamb actions firing coals and flaring wood piles
Eager to consume flesh of the flesh returning it to the soil
Crosses are only temporary and sting in Easter
If carried by the many Simons that dot our unholy lives
Mother was the first and most enduring taken for granted
Only Gecko’s know the patient denuding effects of focus
Turning this pages that refuse to yield riches
And daily only seem to offer me
The menses of aborted dreams
Visualize the sound of silence
Realize the headstones of violence
Dark dreams constrict your iris
Your visions only raise greed on highlands
Harmonize our voices stained with curses
Our lenses shooting at the pose of hopeless
Hunger left mothers singing dirges
Children cramp to unrelenting pain like teenage menses
Leaving my brain entrained in this spiritual verses
Hear me you greedy strains with blood stained purses
You lie about your intentions
Rip us of our respect in pretence to satisfy our urges
Robbed us with taxes from our price tags below minimum wages
Between our breed and yours you left no educational bridges
Blood sweats we pour to secure hinges for our offsprings
Blood sweats you lure for your selfish interests
Did Become Perfectly Delighted
Seems like there always is so much to say
My poem does ends up making your day
Read throughout whole day and all night
On and on as hard as you may or might.
Poem has potential for being so splendid
Want it to go on and never have ended
On your face put and place a nice smile
Telling truth and not beguile for a while.
You become wise and welcome as can be
Relieve pain and set heart and soul free
Open up your mind so in you can confide
And a big stunning steak eaten rarefied.
Open eyes in head and each ear to hear
Able to avoid catastrophes ever so mere
Then start to cheer coming to senses
May mince words with those in MENSES.
(Always make sure you meet all suspense's.)
After climbing up or descending the stairs
To bed do be sure you say all your prayers
When in each dream sky rockets are ignited
With God's great sights be perfectly delighted.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
A tiny waist
Imaginary breast
Empower
Don't deflower her
Give her book
Not dick
Care for her lessons
Not her menses
Send her to the classroom
Not your bedroom
Give her book
Not dick
She needs literacy
Not early pregnancy
Education
Not ejaculation
A sense of honour
Not prolonged labour
A better future
Not vesico******l fistula
A pen is all she needs
Not a ***** nor kids
Save the girl child's pride
Don't make her a bride.
My wrapper loose day after day
My motion and emotion unstable
I forget to think
But I wasn’t drunk
I remember in a trance
Stable I was
My wrapper tight on my torso
Not divulging the firm breasts
I remember vividly when it began to loose
Days turned nights
The sun withheld its radiance
I mourned unending
Breasts tumor I had
Oh! The pain hurts
One more ill has befallen me
A spinster at 50
Severally dumped I was
By men on trial
The life I live was wreaked
My heart fell apart
Picking up the fossils
Amidst courage and optimism
Dreadful incidence I traversed
Since my birth, early 60’s
Aargh! I’m bigoted
But utmost myopic
I wasn’t sleeping
Merely a spinster’s vision
When at 52
Men on trial returned
I had miscarriages
Pains were inflicted
53, I would be
The wrapper has slipped off
Revealing the sagging breasts
My legacy is gone
I’ve missed my menses
I’ve wept all day
I pled against miscarriage
But all hope is not lost
Because I’m pregnant!
OMEBE RITA
Rooted
Tied with blood stained ribbons
that bind us to our past.
The moon,
regulator of tides and menses.
The Virgin Mary,
last remnant of Goddess power.
Dark caves
painted in red hues.
A book of words,
forgotten train whistles,
tears from fists,
laughter of children,
open mouths of hunger,
the veils of slaves,
rooted
deep
in the mother earth
Walked inside and fell asleep...in my dream you were the song that I sought to learn and
then you opened the door that opened me and all I could do is flow like a minstrel in the
midst of menses a sight to see more a sight to hear for pictures are more to the soul
clear...the pieces of my shattered past lay all around my feet and the shards of glass
sought to penetrate the deep of my thoughts yet there was still a sound of tinkling glass
falling and I was there not the least appalling for in the breaking I saw a releasing a
mending of sorts and the heart that longs for melody found it in the cacophony of the
chaos so-called and herein lies the puzzle with its pieces all pieced together and I under
the umbrella of you become wet only from the dew of the mountain top upon which we
momentarily chose to stop...again....my friend, you and I!!!
I awoke
in the febrile night again,
half dazed
from my conviction
of your certainty,
contorted
by the pounding of 4 am,
and still restless
with vestigial sleep.
My sense for rain
laps the water
of vestibular illusion
and I am again in the Venetian
dusk of your warmth.
Somewhere,
between July
and this dense archipelago
I hear the whisper of November,
it is the chilled first day,
shared with menses
and candle shadow.
It is all seasons
and every brush stroke of memory,
it is the in-escapable,
visual artefact,
of you.
Island of femininity of the dark,
Floating luxuriously on a lark,
Mysterious face shadows day.
Glorious glow, nighttime’s way,
Waves of mist make her mark,
Delivering passion in the park,
Luna, Roman goddess of lore,
Has captured numbered allure,
Associated fashion of menses,
Celestial body that senses,
Cycles of life for renewal,
Her form a true jewel,
Phases she performs magical.
Her realm so deeply mystical,
Desires never truly ever known,
Presence more deeply shown,
Passion is her only fashion,
She filters no ration of compassion.
Into my head stink in mythic one hissing
of running are ratters, as I hated by
up nearly level of piled woodsheds rottenly sites
at weediest the backyard’s place,
of my neighbor’s unit close edged up wards
side by sides, feet away from my place . . .
Once lucky I bound at woodsy near duty
she a terrier if the ratters in her site been gone
over willowy apart, as roofless patio
the backyard's sensory stain at royalists’ land . . .
Upper away of gallant converted living by
out of mind, she the pureed-bandit around
bazaars think backfill thy new world
in menses aid raised velvety clubs by wards.
Miserly her space and empty from kindliness
consorted in byte ratters her terraces
downfalls by sight, in careens simply mode empty
my home unfair or caustics up a side,
at silly carrion backyards as waste as hissing
up I needing help from as careless chick!
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