a dozen and a pair


i am a rich collector

not of bitches

but of men

and counting them

is counting berries

how sweetly my bog sings

each one takes their turn

and leaves fingerprints and hoofbeats


later on

the lines stop

my lips conform

in to a glass apple

quivering under white blankets

stained red

my rivers free

an i am alone


no more fish shall swim

and none shall dive

i am shallow again

belonging to virgins of lost hope

dirty fingers stain a cheek

heavy black like blood

the willows dip in to the water

but are silent and patient


they forgive my lies

and bloody thighs--or so they say

the willow is greener than heaven

it has drained the lake

the nuns fill it with their milk

and my own is finally butter

i wait

until the great bells ring


for years i have waited

my mouth becoming veprecose--or so they say

and spiteful

until the unsullied ones broke our silence

a vow was whispered

but i was deaf to it

the men walked outside

and i beat on the walls


one boy of braveness

comes every day to the cloister's door

and breaths

i smell honey

to taste a man again

was my dream and a last meal

the nuns returned to silence

and i wiped my mouth


each word is a stinger

women become bees

they have no queen or honey to guard

only wax

my eyes seal themselves

dreams are always nightmares

but they leave me when i sleep

so i sleep with my legs tightly shut


their habits sway

my threads snap away like buttons

and my dress catches

on a lock

gravel has no sweet taste

but here i can open my legs

feet calves knees

never thighs


now when i sleep

it is not a savior

yet i see them in my head

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Night fell. Thoughts wander. Carved heads of lamps

swing shades dissembling outside the window.

Footsteps of passer-by, dissected by the moon, have died away.

O dark, my bliss… Immovable in this dark-born phantasm,

I feel the argent shades approach. Awaked,

like crazy Aladdin, I take the lamp of midnight dreams

from ancient pictures, and I steal away

into the windy night to fly above the sleepy city.

But Morning threatens always on the sly:

the cry of the new light will overtake,

and silver bullets of the dawn will strike my flight--

and night will leave for crystal of the mirrors

in timeless dwelling of Parisian Vampire.

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and then you are there


and your insight has funny handles

but one has to hold onto what he can

he being me

so i hold onto what you have to offer

and your memory

of what i always thought you were

and what you aren't much

to be concerned with

because with that memory

is flavored with kisses that tumbled

out of a dice cup on the hotel sofa

and tasty too

because i want it to be intimate

and filled with make believe

and with the heat of your cheek

against mine

and maybe there is another fantasy

waiting to swim naked across the lake

well the pond that is really a dream

of coral lips puckering

and the thing

one clings to in an obsession with desire

and knowing what you could be

if you could only be

that thought

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Cry For Help

Cry for Help

It's all messed up

A jumble of things

That dont mean nothing

All in my head


Someone get me out of this madhouse

Someone set me free

Please? please? please?

Will it never stop

The ups and downs

A constant

The only constant

Can't trust that I'm good enough

To deserve good things

But im not bad either

So why do I get that?

I don't get it

There are so many good people

But more bad things per head

Than there is good

Set me free

Let me go

Leave me in peace

Let me cry

For everyone

But especially



For me

By The Hopeless Writer

P M Jarvis

View hopelesswriter87's Full Portfolio

border patrol


there is you

and there is

the non-you

beneath the surface

of you is that turmoil

of confusion that

i give up understanding

but on the edge

where you and the non-you

exists is the edge that could be

my playground

where your fountain of joy

bubbles to the surface

and dribbles out

pungent excitement

there is a stamp on

your temptation passport

that hangs around the boundary

like my blurred kiss

that isn't floating before your lips

or under your skin

but on the flesh

and becomes an illegal alien

below your sovereign outpost

View gemboy's Full Portfolio



i am stuck in

too much time

of a rainy saturday

with a view and no you

i have the quietness

of wet leaves

and the evil pleasure

of seeing the memory

of you on the otc bed

in the living room

you lifted your shirt

and rubbed your belly

pretending it was nothing like

like a picture windown between

me and the mountains

i talked about how cold your toes were

and you tormented me with sexuality

even if you weren't

you were

you put me in the handcuffs of an image

that had the potential a seduction video

when the lights are flickering

on a rainy day when the leaves are quiet

in a place where a sofa could be a magic

carpet ride

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"Amor Fati"

Decided have been the choices

We will make


Everything is how

It should be

At least if you're happy


The end is the same

Either way

Fate chose itself

Long before

We ever did

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You Have Mail From Your-Name




View ladydp2000's Full Portfolio

a spice into you


dizzy from

too much fresh

ginger in my

noodles and chicken

with all the miles of horizon

we have beauty that dances

on our lips

where are you when i am eating

and want to flavor up your chops

like the witch's dunking booth

at the renaissance festival

when the sun fumbles down

like a hotel take down

on the stone balcony

top of the eight

we are running out of outs

and looking inning ending

double play

looking for an in

on the end of a skyline

where the sun slips into something

more comfortable like

the sensual curve of the earth

plunging into the hips and pleasure

of an evening painting

of smudged chromatics

the warmth of a pink coral sky

that tosses heat like jittery ions

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