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Poetry travis boudoir

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Poetry Travis Boudoir

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In silk, Eyes to the mirror and floor Hair, swish against all the black, Sighing for strong arms with wings on the back The pretty lace, petal place All glass and dimly lit In the plush we sit In the curtains we kiss Dreams of skin on skin, Is this as good as pretty gets?

A hundred looks and a cha-ching fist? Here goes the dress Always more hope in a dress. Love in the afternoon.

It was very hot. The day had gone just past its noon. I'd stretched out on a couch to take a nap. One of the window-shutters was open, one was closed.

The light was like you'd see deep in the woods, or like the glow of dusk when Phoebus leaves the sky, or when night pales, and day has not yet dawned, - a perfect light for girls with too much modesty, where anxious Shame can hope to hide away.

When, look! I tore her gown off - not that it mattered, being so sheer, and yet she fought to keep that sheer gown on; but since she fought with no great wish for victory, she lost, betraying herself to the enemy.

And as she stood before me, her garment all thrown off, I saw a body perfect in every inch: What shoulders, what fine arms I looked on - and embraced!

How smooth and flat a belly under a compact waist! And the side view - what a long and youthful thigh! But why go into details? Each point deserved its praise.

I clasped her naked body close to mine. You can fill in the rest. We both lay there, worn out. May all my afternoons turn out this well.

Ghazal Ebrahimzade Jul The Story of a Rose. Rose is nice Roots in dust Feature is rouge Of the shame love trust Bud…bud…bud Blossoms of the yard.

Man is running Worm is cunning man in hurry Ha…ha…ha… rose is worry. Edna Sweetlove Dec When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I were very fond of each other indeed although not sexually I must add before you suspicious buggers start complaining.

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er, How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood. But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.

And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky - may they stay forever young in the company of the angels. Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

Amy Lowell. A Lady. You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.

In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.

Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blent colours. My vigour is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet.

Gather it up from the dust, That its sparkle may amuse you. Ode to Walt Whitman. By the East River and the Bronx boys sang, stripped to the waist, along with the wheels, oil, leather and hammers.

Ninety thousand miners working silver from rock and the children drawing stairways and perspectives. But none of them slumbered, none of them wished to be river, none loved the vast leaves, none the blue tongue of the shore.

By East River and the Queensboro boys battled with Industry, and Jews sold the river faun the rose of circumcision and the sky poured, through bridges and rooftops, herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none would stop, none of them longed to be cloud, none searched for ferns or the tambourine's yellow circuit. When the moon sails out pulleys will turn to trouble the sky; a boundary of needles will fence in memory and coffins will carry off those who don't work.

New York of mud, New York of wire and death. What angel lies hidden in your cheek? What perfect voice will speak the truth of wheat?

Who the terrible dream of your stained anemones? Enemy of the satyr, enemy of the vine and lover of the body under rough cloth.

Not for a single moment, virile beauty who in mountains of coal, billboards, railroads, dreamed of being a river of slumbering like a river with that comrade who would set in your breast the small grief of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a single moment, Adam of blood, Male, man alone on the sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man, because on penthouse roofs, and gathered together in bars, emerging in squads from the sewers, trembling between the legs of chauffeurs or spinning on dance-floors of absinthe, the maricas , Walt Whitman, point to you.

Him too! He's one! And they hurl themselves at your beard luminous and chaste, blonds from the north, blacks from the sands, multitudes with howls and gestures, like cats and like snakes the maricas , Walt Whitman, maricas , disordered with tears, flesh for the whip, for the boot, or the tamer's bite.

Stained fingers point to the shore of your dream, when a friend eats your apple, with its slight tang of petrol, and the sun sings in the navels of the boys at play beneath bridges.

But you never sough scratched eyes, nor the darkest swamp where they drown the children, nor the frozen saliva, nor the curved wounds like a toad's belly that maricas bear, in cars and on terraces, while the moon whips them on terror's street-corners.

You sought a nakedness like a river. The sky has shores where life is avoided and bodies that should not be echoed by dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream. This is the world, my friend, agony, agony. Bodies dissolve beneath city clocks, war passes weeping with a million grey rats, the rich give their darlings little bright dying things, and life is not noble, or sarcred, or good.

Tomorrow loves will be stones and Time a breeze that comes slumbering through the branches. But yes, against you, city maricas , of tumescent flesh and unclean thought.

Mothers of mud. Against you forever, you who give boys drops of foul death with bitter poison. Maricas of all the world, muderers of doves!

Slaves to women. Spread in public squares like fevered fans or ambushed in stiff landscapes of hemlock. No quarter!

Death flows from your eyes and heaps grey flowers at the swamp's edge. Look out!! Let the perplexed, the pure, the classical, noted, the supplicants close the gates of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson with your beard towards the pole and your hands open. Bland clay or snow, your tongue is calling for comrades to guard your disembodied gazelle.

Sleep: nothing remains. A dance of walls stirs the praries and America drown itself in machines and lament. Water Lily Sep Silently going upstairs to the boudoir by myself.

Silently going upstairs to the boudoir by myself Silver crescent is hanging A lonely phoenix tree standing in the deep garden All the doors of a crispy autumn night are locked It never can be cut and break up It never can be figured out What is it of missing you?

That is as much feeling as for you in my heart, never be more and never be less. Heather Valvano Aug David Lewis Paget May Castle Krake.

The gatehouse lay in a ruin where The Army stormed inside, And hunted down the defenders there Who, to a man, had died.

I took delight in the story when I purchased this ancient pile, And sat in the ancient boudoir where I was pensive, for a while.

It took some months to clean up the place Ripping out each bush and tree, Till Castle Krake was taking shape And making a home for me.

I slept up there in the boudoir During those long, cold winter nights, With only a blazing brazier And a sputtering torch for lights.

One night I heard a commotion, it Was down by the Castle Keep, A sound, a clashing of soldiers, I woke from a shallow sleep.

David Lewis Paget. Nadia Dec I will never get married because marriages don't last. Being a product of divorce blows big chunks all the time.

You tell your parents how you feel and they say "we will discuss it dear" but they never do it. Don't reach for a thesaurus means her bedroom.

Need therapy much dumb and vain mother? I feel messed up in the head because my parents hate who they are and I hate myself most days because that's what I learned from them.

Should I meet guys off the internet like mom now does? Should I meet a man who will take care of me like the woman dad is with who loves his fat wallet and great job and be the kind of woman my dad likes?

Would my teachers care if I sat in the back and cheated like the girl who gets answers from tests in exchange for quickies in cars during lunch.

She is tardy for the party and class a lot. Maybe I should because I'm messed up in the head at 18 and nobody cares about me but me and that's a short list.

Have friends but they have some of the same body issues and mental ones like me. He wanted to cmid and I proved I'm legal. On the fence about giving away my virginity.

Ofelia Rose Aug Eau De Posies. Terry O'Leary Aug Malimar Monorhyme. Yenson Sep Ganesh Malani Jan Jessica Rose Toby Nov The Mimosa.

Beautiful she was, All sleek pine and cotton wool rigging A beautiful deck made for a'spying And a secret cabin boudoir fit for a king Plenty of nautical miles ahead Just open sky blue and free So shiver me timbers and come take my hand We'll take the Mimosa to sea.

Shreya Inks Feb I take shower and get ready for work; wearing fake expressions of satisfaction, and walk the crowded roads, where I get lost; and work whole day with speechless action s.

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Poetry Travis Boudoir Video

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