A dance between two icons of slenderness, Has me whisper words full of tenderness.
There is poetry in each fragment of gold, Upon the crown to your ivory scalp. I thwart the crudeness you’ve absorbed Into yourself. And, between two pillars of flame, Two folds remain, To hide a show of fireworks.
Of sparks and drops of wax, From a bent and worn candle, A sword embeds itself, Into a bed Of deepest flesh, And drags out the contents of a furnace, Of all remaining blood to the incinerator That may turn flesh to ash.
I would not cut, But simply sink, The blade between bed and bone, And drown in the pages of poetry.
In your eyes, I become lost In darkness where flowers become cultivated By scents and ecstatic sighs.
My annexation is the cultivation of a desert, Where the spread of white, Is the spread of newness upon a sheath of gold. To raise up a tree, From an abdomen soaked in beaded sweat, To see your sparkling face, Of the same way.
For I shall melt all of Antarctica, To see the spread of green.
“Where a man has his genitalia for annexation, it would be when he annexes the woman down south, at the southern tip of her, as the Earth and all of land, so that all of Antarctica melts. Conquer her heart, first, all of men, before the annexation; because, should a man do the latter before the former, her lust will be a blaze, will be absorbed by her, will be spread outward from her, to make an uncontrollable inferno that all will desire to be burned by.”
“There is great strength resonating through a woman, when she is continually deceived. Allow a woman to work, as offensive as that may sound, and she will be continually deceived, through what deception is ultimately defined as. Deception has the definition of ‘usage’, to pull a human away from a home, and maintain continual usage upon the subject, until they are worn thin. It would be the same as pulling a potential slave from their native homeland, and putting them to work under the command of a master. No one forgives the Femme Fatale, for a woman of this sort cannot ever be forgiven for doings; for that is because they continually attract and doom, based on previous experiences. A society of seduction is only ever introduced due to the female psychology that resonates itself around continual usage of the person. Lust, that is, is the place of deception, is the place of usage; to be placed upon the bed, and make whatever one wills of a body, is the essence of utility. Love holds, love embraces, and never lets go, whereas lust is wild and its flames are uncontrollable.
The words ‘until they are worn thin’ is when a woman, when being deceived, will be starved of any forgiveness. In love, a woman has limited forgiveness to offer. In lust, a woman turns forgiveness into allurement. That means, for whomever unlucky man comes across her path, he will feel the continual guilt of doing, making him continually weaker, under her rays of beauty. And, more-so, such a deceived and deceiving woman will be obsessed with appearance.”
“Love is an eternity that a man denies. A man denies what perhaps God has founded to be a mistake, when even He could not see that His own creations would mirror the same mistakes. We call such unplanned creations of an infant, a ‘mistake’ perhaps for a reason, that we were acting out of lust to burn away a moment that would not last.
In the name of concealing truth, God would be concealed by Man, and next say that God does not exist. God concealed Man and Woman, through clothing, upon the Garden of Eden, when fault struck Mankind. Mankind, as a dose of vengeance, conceals God in the wake of realization, and that is the realization of the creation of more fault. Lust rises upwards like the heat from Hell, making itself a reality and easily seen, to make ‘mistake’ after ‘mistake’.
The only reason why Man denies God, is due to every bit of knowledge towards good and evil comes as a shock for him, comes as a tragedy of loss, comes as a creation gone missing; and, in this, Man denies God because love is not a good reason for neither Man nor God to exist. Man must therefore struggle to want love. To want no breaths in the captivation of that love.”
Entrance me, Captivate me, In stunning eyes, And nuptial glare.
The beauty surrounds, All my childish fondness, I am but a weak little thing, In the territory of your arms.
The memory of myself, In the heat of unquiet, Is the time a face appeared, That was your own, A face of frailty and an open mouth, That whispered the qualms away.
A mother in the realm of death, A child in the place of smallness, Small fingers, that grope for a breast, For I am in love With the woman to who I’ve bent low, Upon a knee that has hit the floor, Alike a weight that resembles my heart, So heavy in the history it carries.
You find family in my dark? I will find a future in your light.
Bequeath me, now, with open palms to the wind, Your beauty of forthcoming surmising, There is description in my voice, To what I hold, A breast for an infant, As I once was, With smallish lips like marble against a nipple of garnet, I am weak when I bend a knee, And hear all words rejoice like a Heavenly plea. What am I besides a giant, made now as an insect?
Form your words like sharpest daggers, Your own words, in contrast to my own, There is finality here, Made of God’s footprints in the arid sand, Of a temperature so hot, Alike the lust upon your crimson cheeks, Those that blush for the view, Of my sharpest arrow, Held in the confines of a simple bow, Ready to be loosed upon your barren heart.
What words must I commit, To see candles you’ve barely lit?
Feel thy current calling, Between the motioning legs, Crawling upwards, To see the sun and its eyes, To hear the moon for its cries, Love has been the blessing, Though, lust has been the wave Of kisses for our mouths.
I feel the smoothness, of fruit, Of orbs of flesh, As softest breasts, Your fetish is a warmth, A beauty to which I feel the need To drown myself.
Lust is but a current, A conflagration of incredible warmth, An inferno that is but a spark To begin this trail of debris, That is cast over shoulders with a searing gleam, As love controls our whims, Lust will make music, Through our repeated sighs.
Who said love ever failed? Beside, and upon, and under A bed, With joyous eyes To shoot towards stars, That decorate a torso, Full of secrets to a night, As they are shared to me, in blissful melody.
Fill Me with your Denial
Your pleasure, Is but a falling fortress, Your face, Screams the calls of enticement, The calls of denial, The scream, the want, and the yearning, You have the face of change.
I am but two fingers within, A pencil has outlined your womb, A thorn has cut the flesh, Measured as a fragment, To what you owe, To the empowered me, Please me, the man of too many nights.
Death denies many, While life adores the plenty. Your servitude upon my cauldron, That heats the water for your bath, I have a message: I state, that whether or not you face me, You are the woman who will accept me.
Blow Kisses My Way
Kisses are sterile, Without their fire, Without lips that glisten, Without cheeks that also gleam, There is not the constant Rush of any moment. Blow those kisses, In my direction, In my way. I yearn to catch them, And pull strings upon your heart.
Beauty has its way Of offering flesh. From the womb of a woman, Flesh is raised. Flesh comes about, In the thickening trail of anguish, In all despairs to a life, Well-lived.
Blow your kiss, Towards me, Upon me, So that I may taste it.
Your distance, Is often the cause, For my tears. I have cried many a night, To see you peacefully Nestled to a blaze, A blaze of love and glory. A blaze of the fewest nights, Needed to prove, An offered love.
Kisses are meant to be few, For love is not meant to be renewed. For how could longing be there, When love has already been shared?
A Feminine Seduction
Great marble, so close to the color of your flesh, Peel off, I do, the art of modesty, The clothing I have discovered to be sinfully placed, Upon what makes you whole.
I view, With eyes alike the artist, Wielding his brush as a weapon, As a dagger, As a sword, How yourbeauty has come as seduction, Placed upon the doom of humanity.
You starve the wonders from the world, Through all you consume. One finger like the bent and burning candle, Touches my flesh to rend it scarring, Touches my heart to make it roar, With all fury and pain to my world. And two eyes of yours, Made alike the ocean, with tears alike a banquet So that all may eat them.
All Pain Runs Deep
To the ocean, and to the ends of the Earth, Subtlety is but a natural fixture, To one perception of flatness, Never the infinite, But, the limitation of a sight, As if beauty were never protected, As if humans grace themselves over With another’s blood.
Christ and sin, The strange calls from the din. The women and their desperation, The fires from a Hell, Are faster than those from Heaven.
They burn faster, Over flesh. A quickness, a temptation, Christ called to the forsaker, A woman had called to her son, A Mother of sorrow, A face made of ivory, And tears descended, Like angels removed from Heaven.
I find letters scrawled, Upon your worthless back. You have never been a gift for my liking, A woman, broken, Made for the coins upon a road. You are longing for temptation.
Demure, you have become, By the traces of blood on your eyes, Beneath your eyes, A storm comes hanging. The tiredness from my fingers, Knows to withdraw.
A lost bird, Soon becomes tranquil, For it has died.
It became the sorry thing, To meet the meadow’s engrossment of flame, Upon the night of deep bliss.
You were that sorry bird, Of only one wing, With eyes of coldness, Though, you are demure, With breasts shaped as glistening puddles, And a thorn between your legs, One that edges, upon height, As those legs tremble in their heat. They are as two pillars of flame, And both are rotten.
Love leaves when Heaven departs, And God saw Himself fit, to be lost, Among the fragrances of womanhood, As I did.
As I gave into the kiss you blew, For my steaming recollection, For my fiery furnace, There was beauty all around, So tortured, Though, it was demure.
Dashed with red lines, Above your feeble lips, Redness has clashed against the almighty Of porcelain chin and nectar saliva. It is the sort that drains, From a serpent tongue.
You obeyed a man, With whom you sought after denial, To whom you’ve danced a longing night, Many of them, with which you saw betterment, If for but a while. Am I cherished in your company?
There are dew droplets that run a tempest, From your gleaming orbs as eyes. A breast hangs freely from a collarbone, A kiss hangs so sweetly from two embedded nostrils. I am weary in my want, Though, so dreary in this contempt.
Face me, dear child, You, the woman to my form and emotion, The face you are beholding, Decked in exasperating smile, And ruby lips melting wide open, I fear for my coming touch. To crack open, Your smallest shell.
There is wine for a memory, And kisses, aplenty.
There are roses for an aroma, And great harmonies played vast.
In all we make, By the cruelest of neglect, There are shadows forming heavy on minds, On my own, The buried torment, Comes as earnest.
the fire of the sun and in the warmth of their skin, two lovers unite in the
holler and jeer of a morning’s session of passion. There is, imagined in this
scene, a pair that dances on their own toes above the fruit that releases the
nectar that is the sin of lust. One speaks of beauty, the other speaks of
despair. Yet, the comfort that surrounds the aura to the dream is the enemy to
love. One dream and one blaze cover a pair so embedded in simplicity.
acts as the man with an entire field below him in its radiance from the
overhead sunlight, while she gleams with as much luster as the sun, to give
Bastian the radiance that all know in holiness. Bastian is God to an angel
covered in her own cotton garments.
is as merciful as the holiest of saints, though tears into her the punishment
that fits the description of any atrocious fiend. His face is shown with the
emanations of regret. More than once, she questions why he is weeping, but not
once does he offer an answer. He gleams in the aroma of love-making; it is
softness to the angel’s defeat. A few drops from his face mingle in with the
drops of his body, but his face is soaked in sadness. His temples are soaked in
passion. His mind is drowned in sorrow.
God’s realm, he has become the doer of good to an angel that envelops herself
in simplicity. Her shoulders show loveliness through their roundness and their
connection to a splendid stem of a neck! Her face is captured by the kisses
given to her from the man above, and what a face it is! Bastian and his lips
trace the skin of her breast, draining its plumpness. He allows himself to
linger on her scent.
scent of a beast lures; that is the Hunter which Bastian has become. It takes
God and a Hunter to create a child in the womb of an angel. He takes in her
softness in every inescapable delight. Every one of her tremors results in the
creation of an empire devoted to wings and gold.