Poems Of Any Length

[Pyrotex]

Dirty Knees

Nelson Thompson 2006 -- V.2

 

It's not easy being a "kneezer".

I keep secret my hidden persuasion.

Other men sigh

For a boob or a thigh.

But I have a kneecap obsession.

 

That's right, I lust for knees.

And they must be stained or dirty.

Mud, soot or grime,

Or even some slime.

Ahh, to me a soiled knee is pretty.

 

Slap some vaseline or mayo

Upon a girl's knees so fair.

I'll slobber and I'll thump 'em,

I'll kiss 'em, then I'll hump 'em.

Filthy knees are a treasure so rare.

 

Other body parts don't affect me.

And even clean knees leave me cold.

But a kneecap with a little dab

Of greasy dirt or a bloody scab

Makes me hard as a brick of gold.

 

Gimme knees that are dirty and soiled.

Make 'em black, chinese or boiled.

I'll rub them with my prick.

Yes, I know I'm very sick.

It's an illness that can't be controiled.

 

 

==(thanks for the inspiration, Raccoon)== :hihi: :cup: :)

[Loricybin]

that was MASSIVELY entertaining

 

hurrah

[Queso]

seriously. ++ that's so ridiculous and fun.

[Queso]

"march 21 2006 years after jesus died"

 

I've got a medics satchel,

and a shamans djembe

carved with the two teeth

uprooted from the shrunken

Head au jus.

 

I've got a fox in sight. She vibes when my rhythm is

projected thru resonance; dissolve

Like the body of her acoustic during light rain,

Or Ravi's drone strings,

his last vibration

an aubade whisper,

Laughing downhill,

 

Every time I wake

I'm really born again and she shuts the aperture I crawled thru-

[Loricybin]

understand it well,

for it will never make sense

although

if you try

you might find

that nothing

is something

you can

't grab.

[Tarantism]

"march 21 2006 years after jesus died"

 

I've got a medics satchel,

and a shamans djembe

carved with the two teeth

uprooted from the shrunken

Head au jus.

 

I've got a fox in sight. She vibes when my rhythm is

projected thru resonance; dissolve

Like the body of her acoustic during light rain,

Or Ravi's drone strings,

his last vibration

an aubade whisper,

Laughing downhill,

 

Every time I wake

I'm really born again and she shuts the aperture I crawled thru-

i didnt know that you listened to Ravi Shanker. rad.

[Queso]

pedro's mouth,

all full of green

And I'm up on my knees

with no clothes in sight.

Green tea in a bottle, candles on books.

 

Chani Lynne rests

even further than I

So where's she belind

closed Reye's,

 

Type these symbols all perched

near the flickering flame on

Kerouac's sketches of

the endless-

 

How many of you hear?

Have ever seen the wind

flow thru closed

eyes

spiral

into itself.

 

A vortex, in your mind.

And this is all a city,

Unbent are the casuals,

Dropped off

everyone's got eyes on reflections

 

 

 

Anyway-

um, anyhow

Really. You know,

Just the right cloud,

right there, near the sun.

You'll see it.

 

Sundogs barking @

The moon.

 

Improvised, I sketch my thoughts while I rest my weight on my toes, on my bed, on my floor,

she sleeps O so silently

but her aura's buzzing like a rainbow

mutation kind of feel,

My lighter Can't Die-

Not Now-

O Fire,

use heat

to convert this plants

energy into

me.

 

(Jazz, spit by orb for the sake of The Kicks. Get your kicks, I got mine. This data's ALIVE-)

[Pyrotex]

Pagan Campout

Nelson Thompson

 

I ventured forth with brave abandon

To a semi-arid campsite in central Texas.

Mesquite trees and Wine Cup flowers

Surrounded me like a natural cathedral.

My tent kept out the bugs and gave me

A private place to nap in the noon heat.

I spent little time there, preferring

To roam up and down the main gravel path

Lined with tents and Pagan vendors,

Offering their Tarot readings, loin cloths,

Tie dyed tee shirts, jewelry and swords.

I bought a small, petite Samarai blade,

With leather bound handle and sheath.

Drank lots of water, peed it out just as fast,

To avoid heat stroke and dehydration.

There were people everywhere, Pagans all,

Though they rarely agreed on just what

Their religion was exactly -- didn't matter.

Most had clothing, a wrap around skirt

Being the height of fashion, and sandals

Being a necessity against thorns and scorpions.

The music was as varied as the clouds in the sky.

Guitars, keyboards, flutes, and drums, drums, drums.

The true Pagans know the real names

Of every kind of drum. I have one, too,

But I forgot what kind, no matter.

Around the billowing, towering, central fire,

When the night gets really dense and dark,

I played my drum till my fingers bled,

High on adrenaline and anything else my

Glands could produce, watching the naked

Bodies dance and fling themselves about

As rag dolls would dance in your hand.

The drum beat goes on and on, into the core

Of my very soul, every drummer beating

Something different and yet the accumulation

Coming together in one rhythmic harmony

That pumps the blood through the brain.

I awoke the next morning to bird calls,

The wind rushing through mesquite branches,

Flapping the tent none too gently either.

Was that heaven or just a dream?

Did that gorgeous girl with the flaming red hair,

And the unfettered breasts like small animals,

Dance right there in front of me, aroused

To fever pitch by the rhythm of my hands?

I tell myself it happened, no dream that real.

I smell coffee and climb out of bed.

My hands are red and sore, but my smile is wide.

A new day blossoms and sleepy Pagans

Are milling about, seeking coffee, food,

And an empty porta-potty, for we all

Are still humans anyway.

[Queso]

props for your imagination.

[Pyrotex]

props for your imagination.

And "props"? Hunh? WTF Over?

eDit: aPril 24. mOnday.

dEar oRby,

yOure' fine, my man, I trust you, it's just that I was in a funk from being back home, facing the office again. yOu have no idea how much I did not want to come back from the Pagan Camping trip.

 

aNyway, I'm back now, and feeling better. tHe sore muscles are gone, and the bug bites. mY attitude has improved after I circulated the big poem I wrote among the local Pagans. tHey liked it a lot, and the feedback made me smile again.

 

tHe only thing wrong is that since I returned, I have this problem capitalizing the first word in sentences. nO idea what is causing this.

:hihi:

[Queso]

O I know it happened,

I Just know you've got such an imagination..

They way you described everything,

it's evident your imagination was present during your observations.

 

Thumbs up, man.

s'all I'm tryin' to say :hihi:

[Loricybin]

speak your staring thoughtsend

out loud, with it

you damn vile sloth.

 

your stubble may decay

waiting for you in a

cold and dark fortress

 

await no future, there is (n)one

watch the past

come back to

slap.

36 coldhot sting -fingers

across nine faces,

reverberating,

sliding together

 

9-split end echo trauma

7-slowing gathering

3-regaining

2-returning

1 is solidified

 

a four finger welt still throbs

across your cheek you

heartless.

[Pyrotex]

...Thumbs up, man....s'all I'm tryin' to say :singer:

See edited post #231 above! :eek2:

[Boerseun]

The topic was long debated

with moral issues inflated

the proponents beseeched,

consensus was reached

that sodomizing dead clowns

is indeed overrated.

[Pyrotex]

...that sodomizing dead clowns...

Ahhh, sodomizing dead clowns,

Though it draws many disdainful frowns,

Is certainly an acquired taste,

Like blue whale kidneys in artichoke paste.

 

Doing a clown sphincter in rigor mortis,

Is certainly not an art, nor 'tis

Considered a sport by any means.

Even among the sodomy fiends.

 

"Clowning around", as those fiends would say

Is more of a protest against the way

Society puts clowns on a pedestal;

Honoring them for stupidity incredible.

 

A clown alive is almost worthless,

Performing deeds that are gross and mirthless.

A dead clown is worth more in mortification.

And grease paint provides some lubrication.

 

:singer: ;) :eek2:

[Boerseun]

:lol::cup::hihi::lol::):D

 

...and lube being a great invention,

sold at the annual dead clown convention,

is recommended to all,

who has for clown corpses the gall,

lest he suffers from anal retention.

[Queso]

I have been drinking everyday,

so I've been writing a lot of poetry.

 

This one's called "Evolution" :

 

Daddy-

Your legs are long-

Crawling up the wall.

 

and then a fox stands up,

and whispers to the moon

i Love you.