Slowly, sanity slips through fever-laced dreams.
Layer by layer, I fall deeper into unknown rabbit holes.
What was up is now down.
Colours melt, dripping from the night skies,
Pouring onto my fracturing cranium.
Hallucinating, I walk upon a fragile field of wilting roses.
As each petal dies, so does another memory in my delicate mind,
Leaving behind nothing but specks of dust floating within empty space.
It's getting harder to tell if I'm still alive in this nightmarish scene.
Beads of sweat mix with humid navy breezes sweeping across me.
My breath hangs precariously all around.
Voices trying to wake me grow fainter,
Disappearing amongst delusions.
Ties that bind my soul eroding,
I feel my flesh burning, puckering.
The illness wraps its tentacles tighter around me,
Refusing to let go, dragging me six feet under.
As the ground cracks open, the faint thread finally snaps.
No longer can my soul return to my mortal coil;
It will be left to rot among the foxtail and weeds,
Consumed by Death's cursed grasp.
Nothing could be finer than to be deep inside your v****a in the morning
Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I touch her up in the morning
When my morning glory presents itself at your widening door
Threading through your fair forest to enter your oasis once more
Rolling with my girlie in our bed so bright and early in the morning
Puckering up my lips to kiss your stiffening papillae tips in the morning
And then south of your succulent breasts I often long to go
To sip the ichor of your oasis in its fertile and full flow
Until finally we again come back chest to breasts and face to face
To merge in that one climactic full and frenetic embrace
From which we recover aquiver, relaxed and wholly spent.
A brief glimpse of heaven from above so generously sent
This engrossing eternal bliss allows us both to rise
To luxuriate in our fleeting moment of that pure paradise.
If I had a magic wand for only a day,
I'd make a wish and here's what I'd say,
"Nothing could be finer than to be deep in your v****a
Every morning"
I always liked the rain
It’s avant-garde disdain
Encased in every raindrop
Its tauntingly cold chill
Trickling off a drippy nose
Its million centipede dance steps
Puckering the dust, stirring the mud
The child like joy of running through puddles
Popsicle stick armadas attacked by giants
Mud pies with maple twig candles
I still enjoy the rain
Walk more slowly
Savoring its scent
The icy edge of its smile
Its tear like essence
Reminding me
That I now walk alone
Shared my list with God today
the pros and cons of the season:
how fond I am of blossoms, despite
all the sneezing – how showers cleanse
the air, refreshment of a spring drenching;
how orchids abundance bear, how perfect
nights are for strolling, loving couples
hands assuring – puckering in leafy shadows,
beneath endearing folds of canopies, stars all a-blush,
beaming deeply brighter
from such intimate exchange –
Shared my list with God today – more
pros than cons; not grading His Season,
nor His Methods nor Reason...just wanting
to say about this one, of Rebirth and
tasteful Sharing, I find no other, delightful
enough for affectionate comparing....
Get uncertain, fast.
I remember some, not much.
Clovers sweet and sour
puckering my lips
for the zing of existence,
my sour sweet mouth
always wanting more.
Nimbus clouds float by above,
soon there will be rain.
~~~
I hate coming back
so many grieving people,
only I feel it.
On the porch at night
I sit thinking of nothing
I am not lonely.
Blue moon in the pond
across from the running crick,
Look! deer in the street.
~~~
Sunrise, a pink bloom
brief, like the morning glory,
orange clouds settle.
There was an old lady from Spain
Who found eating pasta a strain.
However she tried,
Her false teeth would slide
And land in her glass of champagne.
Her husband said 'darling don't fret,
Just chuck out the bothersome set!'
So now she sucks chips
Through puckering lips
Abandoning all etiquette!
20.04.20
Limerick Poetry Contest - sponsored by Janice Canerdy
after months
many moons
taking to my
hairbrush
pulling out
the hair that
my brush had
pulled out
from my head
and beard but
what to do
with it as it
seems a waste
to throw away
so pondering
thoughts thinking
recycle
so first i tried
to be a cat and
swallow then
throw up
but
hairballs
aren't any
fun so then
drying it out
trying to
push it in
as if lint
into my
bellybutton
but it was
too small so
next
puckering my
lips as to kiss
adding this
hair to where
my mustache
already
exists
it tickled
my nose
to sneeze not
wanting none
of this
so thus lit
the lightbulb
above my head
a great idea
super gluing
back where
it had
come
from
touche
toupee
This whole left V right is starting to get boring
The only honest one is Jeremy Corbyn.
They convince the old he can not lead
Judge him on his character i do plead.
Debts or the people is the last thing on their mind
Its about protecting their way of life I think you'll find.
Hated by the media and both sides of the house
He's stuck to his morals he's not a mouse.
With all the elites pressure he refuses to kneel
A touch of Cromwell I do feel.
Vote after vote the people they decided
Yet the labour party is still divided.
Money grabbing leaches like snakes in the grass
All puckering up to kiss Blair's ass.
A true Red this country does need
Jeremy Corbyn, someone for the people, someone who'll lead.
Please do not listen to the lies media tell
They sold their souls, they're going to Hell.
Majestic purples glow
brilliant dark reflections in the sun
Crocus
blooming unattended wayfarers
strewn throughout the pale beige grass.
Daffodils stretch up
tall and gangly inching toward the rays
holding tight yellow white buds ready and willing.
Tulips barely peek through the gray dark earth
tipped red upon the bladed greens
teased by the early spring warmth.
Hyacinths squeeze tight their buds
puckering snug and low
amidst the hint of change in time.
The sun holds steady
pale yellow rays glistening in the clear blue sky
reminiscent of a faint young sun's return.
Spring arrival, far too early on the calendar
ends February with seventy degree temperatures
and blasts March starts with wild restless chilled winds;
Blustery the day
revealed in magenta fired hues unmatched
by spring's past and welcomed in sudden early rebirth
Spring Tease.
Her vase is happy again
when she came to him
she was a lonely tulip
beckoning to be held
and nurtured
with his love
his dying love
... in sunlight
so pretty, so elegant
his tulip puckering
her petals for him
just for him
in months to pass
their love grew,
a new dawning,
like virgin wool,
expanding their
horizons, their
love rose to two tulips
in her vase
so beautiful and devised,
yearnings and longings,
lonely hearts,
forever cherishing their meet
150 words or less free verse-77
connie pachecho
2/23/17
A man in his later years enjoys a cigar.
He holds a fat brown rolled stogie with his fingers to his lips.
He puckers at the end of the stimulating stump, pulling a large puff.
He lights his vice with a blow torch.
Blue, red, yellow flame jets out the end of a curved steel tube.
He is balding and grey with whiskers.
Puckering and squinting casually his skin reveals fine wrinkles.
A dark green frame with round clear lenses sets on a large triangular nose.
His clothes are plain:
a button collar shirt with tiny blue checks,
a dark blue puffed coat, a tan denim bib.
His hands are large with fingers like sausages.
He holds his cigar and torch like a gorilla enjoying fruit.
At times only a moment matters.
The best things in life are not always sophisticated.
Experience and simplicity allow senses to be the only luxury needed.
People relish their vices
after youth and excess have revealed what is common and uninteresting.
It is the process of feeling what is familiar and different about the moment
which drives people in later years to enjoy an awareness of their senses
rather than any perception driven by language.
I'm a little duck...I waddle here and there
A fat juicy duck, with lots of meat to spare
I'm a little duck...I jiggle when I walk
I still preen my features...in pond I am the talk
I'm a little duck; water rolls right off of me
my feathers ever shiny, a glorious sight to see
I'm a little duck; I'm not a swan full of grace
But passion, it exudes...in every curve a trace
I'm a little duck; I'd make succulent a meal
You'd lick your lips with glee; the taste so yummy...real
I'm a little duck, and in duck world that is fine
But Oh...to swim in swan lake, now that would be sublime!
Eileen
Quack Quack!!! Puckering up here!!!
He hath become religious of late
prostrated before the virgin Mary
Cornflower blues blown to wild violets
and thin lines puckering in concentration
Prayers spilling in loud sputters from his mouth
She hath listened a time or two
to testimonies led by callused hands
Run lukewarm holy water upon him
Coaxing gentle promises from cold maidens
candlelight vigils by the goose feather altar
Ordered 10 Hail Marys, and 5 Our fathers
and she bled for both of their sins
I stand in front of the mirror
Trying to look a dish
Puckering up the lips
Practicing for a kiss
I half close my eyes
For the Greta Garbo look
I don’t look a bit like
the siren in a book
Looks more like I have myopia
Squinting like a fool
How can I look seductive
What's the golden rule
Lips all red and shiny
Rehearsals come to an end
Had plenty of practice
Courtesy of a friend
I stand here by the mistletoe
With what I hope is a seductive face
A wet juicy kiss smeared my mouth
Yuck what an utter waste.
Penned on the 18th December 2013
If desire crests from craven heart
On my duplicitous eyes won't chart
With clever guise will deliver Cupid's dart
From ducts, drain silt that lust does cart
Only sentient strain from dilated pupils impart
Through mind's eye, residual glare will kick start
If grifting ears strain only lurid rhythms to hear
To sift only the tawdry jingles that decorum jeer
With modular shift will Jove's hypnotic cadence sear
Melodic parlance with romantic vibes will ring clear
With only rational discourse your sterile drums cheer
If drooling lips seek with Venus's frothy dew endear
And impulsive lips cannot from sumptuous strips veer
A chapping balm on the puckering seams I'll smear
With arresting bitters saliva from taste buds shear
Onto comely face a dry, innocuous kiss will steer
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