When a whore house was fun
I sat down to write about flowers, those often
called weeds and grows on untended pavements
but another thought got in the way as I recalled
that flowers in a whore house are usually plastic
except for a chrysanthemum on
a painting on a wall of an artistic whore
I have had much fun in houses of ill-repute
it is not only sex but also laughter and dance
The girls liked young sailors and the possibility
of a steady relationship.
It did happen to a sailor coming home from Brazil
with a blushing bride, no need to tell how
they had met
Time has changed, women are victims of men's
sexual demands and places where many victims
operate from have been closed down
Just as well, women in this trade are sex workers
and if not treated rightly, can take a customer
to court, or try a little blackmail
Whoring was more moral before you paid and
had a laughter, not hard-headed business
as the line of work has become
Bloated belly, swollen cheeks,
and a sunken stiff neck on robust torso.
Yet well fitted in flowing apparels;
falling and being raised frequently
from side to side.
Obscene opulence is your delight,
your prestige and your pride;
amassed unlawfully by the pen,
ever wet for your deception
and thievery.
The flight of your spoils of office
enlarge the shopping Malls and treasure houses
of the Occident,
leaving your covetous people
deprived of earning power.
To arms they take at boredom's peak,
whilst your virgins and maidens go a-whoring.
Still, you in your sinister acts of re-election,
widen their capacity for Evil, just to have
your sit-tight bid guaranteed you.
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
Gay, Pride Before Destruction
Need Saxon savages in a Godless world?
The pagans pervert God's Word, to right their sin.
Their judgment is their proud vanity un-furled?
Their colors diverge from white; see out, not in?
Church leaders whoring God's Word to fill their pews!
Their demise is judgment, leaving mercy out!
Flare their wings of white and gold; they ignore what's true!
Priests edit Holy Word, righteousness they tout!
Pride's weakness leads to our destruction, our fall.
We must be on bended knee; to Him must crawl.
Christ is Lord; he is king of kings and rules all!
Who are we to alter provisions for all?
You suffer now, so you scream; like we all yell?
You, think your pain is so great!? Welcome to hell.
by Martin Braun
3/16/2020
Civil whoring: such architectural engineers of governmental grant of freedom.
Yea to bruise themselves,
lo, the magistrates
by way of horse-like member,
oh pearls before swine.
Wanting freedom of association
--although prohibited --
she will meet the quota.
Godly engineered to preserve
cultural integrity:
she will find freedom
its demise.
Drinking intoxicating semen
in a coat of many colors
there she takes her meal
fooling the blind.
Thinking temptation could never find her.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
My words are not always
milk and honey.
They are not
trimmed with lace
and wearing
Grandma's pearls
while stealing kisses
in the rain.
They don't want to hold
your hand anymore.
No.
They come out to play
when I least expect,
each syllable
a trick in the making,
each word whoring itself
for a penny or a nickel
or even just a glance
from that beautiful stranger
across the room.
They wear their tight black bras,
and mourning shawls;
they drink like men
and smoke cigars.
Hooting and howling
as the moon begins to rise,
they wake the neighbors,
and
refuse
to go
unheard.
I know men, young and old, from Devizes
Who are wolves in surprising disguises
Sometimes girls are as bad
But it’s often the lad
Who, for whoring, has shelves full of prizes
Pretty Trowbridge girls, all in a row
There will always be one that’s a ho
And some may like a lay
But not all of them, hey
Just maybe the ones that you know
So, fine upstanding men from Devizes
Rendered ‘helpless’ by fit pairs of thighses
Be more cautious when drunk
More in charge of your s***k
Less “Not me, it was her, with her eyeses”
by Gail
The city rattling,
Feet trampling,
Faces focusing,
Engines purring,
Drivers sighing,
Music drifting,
Ads whoring,
Johns buying,
Click Clack,
Shoppers yapping,
Money swearing,
Tills ringing,
Workers wishing,
Cameras spinning,
Wealthy plotting,
And me weeping for eternity.
Plea From A Dark Soul
Weep not in the sun for me
my wasted life spent in vain
by death I did flee,
all but my shadow dwelt in pain
Utter not proud words for me
years of drunken whoring feasts
by death I did flee,
feeling no love, set loose my beasts
Deny not the fate I did earn
in my own just Hell to endure
by death I so return,
leaving a black heart so impure
Cry not over my burial urn
my deeds harvested bitter fruits
by death I so return,
to languish in my dark roots!
Robert J. Lindley 11-09-2014
note: Written from a dream, rather a nightmare that I had recently. As the darkness closed in the screams grew louder, the pain stronger and the heartaches
shouted for more agony.. Singe this sinner's hide with pain
that makes the angels cry..
A voice speaks out, tis only the start , we have ages and ages to increase
the torment and pain.
Time serves us this sweet delight , this lost soul now lives within our eternal night!
Quote for perspective--
Poetry is a bowl of cereal and if you are nice you get to add milk and a spoon.
author, Robert Lindley
Black-blue and purple-gray, barred from florescent in amber we play
scratched across vinyl, we sway, arguments in amber we play.
Hopped up on booze, blow, and the down beats blare where we grind
the twenty-first centuries bruised gene pool is content in amber we play.
Fused in secretions, saps, drink thrust and dine whoring for more
like the short lived denizens of earlier times in amber we play.
Alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway
selling their innocence as if it were blight
oh the pretense of love, found, lost or betrayed.
Drunken dancers grope for holds, bleary eyed strays
tasting the bitter fruit bone weary of fright
alive in the moment pupils blown, see them sway.
The disc jockey's spinning tunes stage dive, surf the floor
in the jaundiced light of bars where love's betrayed in amber we play.
Whites blown and blood shot, cigarette smoke a thick haze
jaundiced death walks to the bass beat as in amber we play.
SONG: Whiter Shade of Pale
I see her as the woman on the road,
and in the distance just inside her sight,
one solitary male approaching—that alone,
draws up within her, latent fire
and by its warming she must genuflect
before the altar of desire.
There is a silent passion, holy in its touch,
that sparks connection, unexplained.
There is electric purity within its cloud
that strikes across that narrowing space,
creates magnetic lust in celebration
of the naked thrust oncoming,
finally to close the gap
between her trembling body
and his throbbing heat.
I see divinity in that.
I see the re-enactment of the woman made
to be the glory in that polymorphic act
inspired from pagan dreams of paradise,
gifted yet today
upon the god-blessed whoring saint
called humankind.
~
(Some of you will be offended by this poem,
but I am more convinced than ever that there
are times of affinity between the states of
sexual attraction and holy blessedness)
holds the band
together, listens
to their ****
(plays the peacemaker),
hauls the most gear all
over the ****ing
place, been taking
her/his rage out on the
skins & cymbals
since her/his early teens,
would’ve put a
gun to her/his head
had mom & dad
not gotten that set
for her/him way back
when, the most
wanted in the city,
loyal to one band
if s/he’s honest,
whoring her/himself
out to 9 if s/he’s
not, plays the electrics,
learns the drum
machines, djs
on the computer &
kicks back with
her/his internal
rhythm by tapping
both feet to
infinite beats
while doing
everything from
sitting in class
to working the
production line.
Lydia:
I don’t recognize myself anymore
Greasy hair, grimy nails; I’ve become their whore
Servicing eight or nine men a night
I’ve learned it's better not to try and fight
Too many black eyes and broken ribs
So many punches that I’ll never have kids
All because I answered a newspaper ad
To get a new job, to help my gambling dad
I was kidnapped and sold into slavery
I’ve survived on false hope and bravery
It’ll be a miracle if I ever get free
For they have files on my family
They’ll kill them if I run away
So here I lie on Christmas Day
Getting ass-slapped with a leather belt
And praying in vain, because no one can help
Me:
The above lines are Lydia’s story
It would be a miracle to end her whoring
If I had the power I’d set her free
And free every girl in captivity
11/29/11
Boring
Snoring
Warring
Whoring
Long life with a boring, snoring sod
made the wife a warring whoring broad.
For Your Turn For A Tyburn Poetry Contest
sponsored by charles messina
the exquisite deadening boredom
which comes with repetition & mundane habitual actions found in
the dead-end-jobs of america,
not only shed light on THE GREAT BIG LIE that is,
“the american dream,”
but they allow for us to ponder the concentrated ramifications of our
fierce
anger,
as the have-nots continue daily to outweigh the haves
(whose faces one can hardly place, as the smartest stay clear of the spotlight)---
we dead-end-job contemplatives
fester together,
watching western “civilization”
plummet,
drooling, having overdosed on vain self-indulgence & hegemony,
stumbling from the clinic with a list of new std’s we’ve acquired
from whoring ourselves every which way possible,
spiraling downward at a
break-neck pace.
and then your 15 minute break is over.
Related Poems