The church I went to as a teenager
was full of sex.
It seeped through the worn wooden pews
into the pours of our skin
It filtered through the sunlit air.
The aroma of young girls at prayer
was overpowering for an adolescent boy,
yet only now in my own old age
do I recall how the older members
of that congregation,
how with closed eyes and backs arched,
seemed to be holding onto
some sudden and unexpected arousal;
that orgasmic instant
was called ‘feeling the Spirit of the lord,’
a sort of magnetic and divine experience,
but now I know it as
that very same energy as sexual pleasure,
and consider this ‘knowing’ as not a blaspheme
but a gifted glory
one just as powerful as prayer
and capable of a much greater holiness.
Onanism
The vehemence of sexual arousal
Quest no gender
A critter owns the vehemence
On the nib of sexual delirium
Is solely,
Her and He own sexual pleasure
Their elate melded with blood en route veins
Onanism brings a euphoric sense of freedom
I have been called a sex god
It has been said that
I radiate an aura of pure sexuality
I stopped telling my friends stories of my exploits years ago
Because they don't believe me
For instance
My last lover was a 54 year old paraplegic actress
I once gave a girl dozens of orgasms within a single minute
And can reproduce this feat at any time on any woman
Every inch of my body is fantastic
Like a machine fine-tuned for sexual pleasure
My sex drive is monstrous
Unending
Makes me crazy
I only stop to smoke cigarettes once every few hours
And I don't have a refractory period
All this is true
I'm probably a nymphomaniac
But it doesn't matter
Because I hate people
Because I hate dating
Because I have nothing to prove
Because the cosmos are indifferent
Because economizing sex disgusts me
I'm generally quiet
Try to keep a low profile
But inside
a Martian sex dragon
Breathing passion and lust
Inside
Roaring madly alone, tortured
Clawing at my skin
Chomping on my bones
Gnashing on my brain like a chew toy
I pretend not to care
I like to think it doesn't have an affect on me
But it is me
And I hate it
And I love it
The River of life
The mountain ice gave birth to a river
Crystal clear down rapids that were an ecstasy
Of sexual pleasure smoothing rocks
Foaming of joy let it never stop do it again
The stones said.
But some waterfalls were not so silver-tongued
Ending in eddies of resentment.
The water became corrupted by overuse as it
Reached lowland of temptation
A wide flood running slowly towards the ocean
Where it will be clear again and regain its innocence
Alas, it cannot make the journey once more.
The pleasure of old age
This is good morning only been up twice in the night and not
Stumbled over furniture, his wife kept filling the house with
Unwanted things. When he protest she says he lacks artistic sense.
A good morning because he was able to empty his bladder
Without sounding like a cat on a hot tin roof - yes I know-
Whoever when young thought of the simple Act of evacuation?
The pleasure it is to do so without using
A suppository, the simple enjoyment of the thriving completed.
There is, especially when old, a certain sexual pleasure of
A body that functions, it can so easily go wrong, that extra
Glass of whisky, a glass of wine one should have left
Untouched on the table, with a cloth clean as a cerulean sky.
Today he would only have soup for Lunch and no red wine.
Better be on the safe and alive. But there are moments he
Thinks “what does it matters you are dying anyway; silly man.”
God didn’t give you extra time to read slimming magazines
But to be a connoisseur of Portuguese red wine, that is mild as
Spring and dreamy as a horse chewing hay in his stable when
It rains and the farmer has gone to Sunday mass.
I welcome the prospects
Of a thunderstorm
Watching the tree leaves
As they fight and squabble
In the wind.
I yearn to stand in the rain
Twist my neck
And taste the droplets; tasteless
Tear drops crying
Rapping on my window pane
Deep into the night
“Let us in!”
As I sleep their torture away
Oh, I dream long
Of coffee
Perhaps, a play of sexual pleasure
Before the sun returns, tomorrow
Are dreams more than just figment of our imagination
Are they more than just meaningless
thoughts and ideas flowing around
in our subconscious mind?
Or could we just have another misconception
of our being?
Could there be two sides of our mysterious lives?
Living here on earth and also slipping into another
universe as we slip into deep sleep.
Where time is measured by more than days and hours
Where there is no such thing as dead
Where your dreams and ambitions come true
Where all that are deprived are brought sexual pleasure
Dream Land
Where the keys to unlock the mysterious of our universe
lay hidden for us to discover
Where all that leave the midst of this earth
continue to live
So embrace your beauty sleep
knowing that there is more there
than originally thought
Are dreams more than just a figment of our imagination?
I will let your imagination be the ultimate judge
Dream Land
bY rudY
Arousal, wild, insatiable
her lure erupts
I'll track her down,
climatic indulge
emotional recovery
my love
fervent revere,
fidelity declared,
yearning pent up lust,
excruciating inner fire
she leaves me exhausted
mind body fulfilled
extinguished sexual lather
your body I desire
sexual pleasure
replenished
the world bring it on!
my affinity your love attire