LITEROTICA PODCAST
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

not sure how many words

ruminator said:
I admire and appreciate your highly talented work. Thank you for sharing and teaching.

Your comment reminds me of the extremely destructive process of creativity in renovation. The chaotic mess of creating or bringing a vision to reality is sometimes as much work to work through as is the creativity itself.
Click to expand...

you're very kind, Rumi.

grazie. :)
 
my prodigal bag

the telephone rings
announcing the return triumphant
of my prodigal bag
and its errant contents.
shirts and shoes, shampoo too,
soon to be home.

the drive to memphis
is not far. but,
it's aesthetic free, all the way.
in kundera's parlance, shit not kitsch.

ragged houses and clutttered yards,
forgotten autos coupling,
kudzu’s cancergrowth,
all bothered me once.

have you no pride?, i sneered.
where is your order?
then i learned.
it’s the shit that keeps us honest.
it’s the kitsch that keeps us sedated.

highway 78 is a blue collar road.
trucks roll night and day.
the high-dollar fish I grilled the other night,
the oohandawe-worthy fish, came in on one.
so did the new battery for my laptop.
i kept that in mind as i lurched—
stop start stop—in city traffic with them.
i praised the long haul trucker;
i refused to cuss him.

shitjobs
border the road from the highyway to the airport.
failing plants. homely kitchens. strip joints.
i know the people who work those jobs.
they love their children no less than i love mine.
their dreams are no less important to them
than mine to me.

those thoughts nagged me on my way home.
they kicked me as i passed a new development,
one filled with perky houses and ordered yards.
so i drove to the house of my town’s prodigal son.

oh, we embrace him now that he’s dead.
we’ve spun his shit into kitsch.
but that wasn’t always so. not when
his whiskey and his worn khakis
offended self-professed gentry. not when
he ignored doctors and lawyers and bankers.
we embrace him now.

we forget, though,
that the rest of the world embraced him
for writing about abner snopes,
about ab wiping the horseshit off his boots
onto the planter’s
pale persian rug.
 
This poem by Chipotle makes me wanna play Drop D delta mud.

Nice One Kid.

;)
 
chipotle said:
the telephone rings
announcing the return triumphant
of my prodigal bag
and its errant contents.
shirts and shoes, shampoo too,
soon to be home.

the drive to memphis
is not far. but,
it's aesthetic free, all the way.
in kundera's parlance, shit not kitsch.

ragged houses and clutttered yards,
forgotten autos coupling,
kudzu’s cancergrowth,
all bothered me once.

have you no pride?, i sneered.
where is your order?
then i learned.
it’s the shit that keeps us honest.
it’s the kitsch that keeps us sedated.

highway 78 is a blue collar road.
trucks roll night and day.
the high-dollar fish I grilled the other night,
the oohandawe-worthy fish, came in on one.
so did the new battery for my laptop.
i kept that in mind as i lurched—
stop start stop—in city traffic with them.
i praised the long haul trucker;
i refused to cuss him.

shitjobs
border the road from the highyway to the airport.
failing plants. homely kitchens. strip joints.
i know the people who work those jobs.
they love their children no less than i love mine.
their dreams are no less important to them
than mine to me.

those thoughts nagged me on my way home.
they kicked me as i passed a new development,
one filled with perky houses and ordered yards.
so i drove to the house of my town’s prodigal son.

oh, we embrace him now that he’s dead.
we’ve spun his shit into kitsch.
but that wasn’t always so. not when
his whiskey and his worn khakis
offended self-professed gentry. not when
he ignored doctors and lawyers and bankers.
we embrace him now.

we forget, though,
that the rest of the world embraced him
for writing about abner snopes,
about ab wiping the horseshit off his boots
onto the planter’s
pale persian rug.
Click to expand...
I love the southerness of this poem, and I knew just exactly where the writer was, mentally and physically. But wasn't Abner Snopes from Mississippi by way of Faulkner? Or were you coming from MS to Memphis? I'm just curious.

Great visuals, Chipotle

Hi ee!
 
chipotle said:
ee, we need to get you a dobro.

boo, thank for your words. you're absolutely right. i live in oxford, mississippi.

here are some lo-fi photos from the trip.

http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216-4.jpg
http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216-3.jpg
http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216-2.jpg
http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216-1-l.jpg
http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216-0.jpg
http://i1.photoblog.com/photos/12958-1175048216--1.jpg
Click to expand...

I know the path you took; I worked the bar scene in Columbus, my daughter was born in Tupelo and my fella lives in Walnut.

A couple of those pics would make good challenge material.

Nice to meet you.
 
E.t.d.

At three a.m. he opened his eyes
from dreaming of a lighthouse
rising out of scrub, phallic and flashing,
to see a dozen fireflies
syncopated on the window screen.

Of course, he had an erection
as rigid as the lighthouse.
He rose and sat by the window
to catch a breeze.
Looking back he saw her
on the bed, an exotic fish,
mermaid on a stark beach,
her un-scaled hip rising smooth
her hair modest over one breast
the other begging a hand.

The heat dictated sleeping naked
and he wondered why he was leaving
this perfect body, knowing it
and all the pleasures.
But they couldn’t talk or
she was too brutally honest
telling him of the shortcomings
he had been ignoring.

He used firm strokes for relief
letting his seed fall to the floor,
no towel or tissue
to lessen the spontaneity.
She stirred as if in protest
at the loss, angled limbs sprawling,
settling back in elegant repose.

He left a note for her to find
in the depression on his pillow
explaining what she wouldn’t hear.
By the window he left her
what she wanted most
his essence.
 
Last edited:
Wistful

I remember a gentle man
with humorous eyes
one for the ladies
discerning, appreciative.
His poems formed freely,
unfettered by formality
and his voice was sensual.
I annoyed him by using
“c” instead of “k”.
It was important
and I apologize for losing touch.
I am missing his wisdom
and his easy, athletics’ body.
 
just a thought ~

I shall never give up hope.
One day the good ole days
will be long gone

and I

shall be sitting back.
Rocking chair bound,
remebering what it was like
to love, be loved
with utter delight and devotion.

Till then
I sit back, write a bit
and wonder. When ...


:rolleyes:
 
Motorcyclists Taking a Break at Starbucks

In chaps and jacket, helmet, black, she's numb
From riding with him, so she stands and feels
Her feet in boots with soles thick as his thumb,
And thinks she'd rather tease him in high heels.
 
changed shame to guilt

There are four beds here,
the fourth lies pristine,
waiting for weight.
All of us helpless
watching the days’ march
the nights pass
slowly, resigned to swallowing
what is served, accepting
all indignities.

Across the antiseptic divide
lies a stranger
I have grown to love.
Her hair is long and gray,
her body wasted and rebellious.
She is unconsciously abandoned
restlessly active
in the snowy field of her bed,
she swims in her coma.

Today she has soiled herself
and we cannot look
as she rolls in her own filth.
The staff flits frantically
past the open door too busy to care,
unaware of this uncomplaining soul.

A tall, distinguished man appears,
other-worldly in his business suit
graying temples.
Assumptions are made,
now a nurse will be summoned.
but he is no doctor.

A son who stands
for a moment
at his mother’s bedside,
taking in what she has become
then slowly draws the curtain
around their public grief

(alternate last line - around his public guilt - but it seems a bit harsh,)
 
Last edited:
A Morning Outing on May 1

Percolated up from wild color dreams,
Jacked on fresh ground cafe,
A string of errands on easy street.

We walk down rickety stairs under nip in air morning,
All smiles code talking syllables do just fine,
Off we go-me driving head north into towns
Pharmacy first, she heads in while I finish smoking over paper,
Soon reading mags-Rolling Stone 40th anniversary issue, great interview with Dylan, Perry Farrell, Rage Aginst the Machine, talking summer festivals.

She buys Shampoo, nail polish in bright reds and pinks, until Scripts ready and we amble out 80 bucks lighter, slide along the roiling river swelled by snowmelt and noreaster remnants, next stop Thrifway market for brocolli, another pack of smokes.

Churn south around the riverbend, town coffee hub, a stop for bagels and muffins, back on Main street ending the circle, she says "I know you love me, but you like me too, dont ya." I smile and nod with one eye on her and the other on the road, non verbal knowing with a full tank of realization.
As we slide past the Country Club, all snow now gone, and hang a left into the driveway.

Up the rickety stairs, provisons in hand, I let her go first and she calls me a gentleman.

I toast my garlic bagel, sprinkle cayenne pepper on cream cheese, soaks up coffee
quite nicely.

A day in the life, a moment in time, these days of first spring are of heaven born,
Me out in shorts and longsleeved tshirt,

Its music time, and Im leaning towards something symphonic, Copeland it is-"Fanfare for the Common Man" with so much of the day still before us and we are glad for the time together evermore.

So it goes on the freedom trail...with a prank in mind to go kiss her with cayenne lips, and our tongues turn to talks brushing ever so sweetly, and yes hotly from the red ochre spice, but she's tough and feigns not knowing, and I wonder if her nipple would be so resiliant against my heat.

Ravel's "Pavane for a Dead Princess" comes next, textured with aural color and we wash it all out in Debussy's "La Mer," the Sea boils up on battleship grey rocks.

A snippet of morning light and life, undercoated by joy and abandon, as the buds on many trees swell in violet and lilac and deeper lavenders.

Beauty in so many forms, gifts we exchange effortlessly, May is my month and i am lucky to find her so welcoming of my ideosyncratic vision, the way the cool air lays down upon my flesh, enough air to float the universe....across the connected sky.
 
It's my month, too, I have to remind him. He grabs the front end of May, a tiger wrestling crocus buds and pussywillow, but I snap with the tail of May's whip, slide us into June, snap with the snapdragons and bee drone, coconut suntan lotion served up with my birthday cake. May spreads out before us, possibilities clear and limitless as the conflower Maine sky. We thunder down the steps, and I never drive when he's around. "Just give him the wheel and he's happy" a friend of mine used to say and my God, it's true. And I the equally happy navigator, carryall for directions, cigarettes, lighters, sunglasses, babble as we bounce down Main Street, "we should get a bed with a bookcase headboard, don't you think? And a futon for the guest room I don't know what we'll do if the kids all come at the same time" and he's smiling, one eye on me rubbing his leg and telling him his skin is too dry, he must use the patchouli lotion I boght him, an eye on the road, an ear on WZON trashing Terril Owen. The day proceeds.

We smooch goodbye even though he's just going next door to buy a paper and smokes. He tells me not to buy green nail polish and I threaten to paint HIS toes L'Oreal Leprecaun No. 1, but when I find him in the magazine aisle I have only purple and pink for my spring toes and he's lost in the latest Sports Illustrated.

It's true, we're in love and we're in like. The best of both worlds! The kissing heats and cools, heats and cools, but the conversation is endless and endlessly fascinating, these plans and details mark our days, each outing another brick in the home we build in our hearts, rock solid and decorated with kindnesses; he opens doors for me, I make him coffee. May stretches out before us in a line of promises we will keep, some solomn, some frivolous but all snuggled in our joined warmth, a world that has grown from these words on a page, to voices, to bodies and now our oneness, joined at the soul. Now us, and still the lilacs waiting to bloom.
 
Yeahhhhhh.
They both resonate.
Reminds me of the old stuff, the good stuff, that classic stuff.
 
eagleyez said:
Percolated up from wild color dreams,
Jacked on fresh ground cafe,
A string of errands on easy street.

We walk down rickety stairs under nip in air morning,
All smiles code talking syllables do just fine,
Off we go-me driving head north into towns
Pharmacy first, she heads in while I finish smoking over paper,
Soon reading mags-Rolling Stone 40th anniversary issue, great interview with Dylan, Perry Farrell, Rage Aginst the Machine, talking summer festivals.

She buys Shampoo, nail polish in bright reds and pinks, until Scripts ready and we amble out 80 bucks lighter, slide along the roiling river swelled by snowmelt and noreaster remnants, next stop Thrifway market for brocolli, another pack of smokes.

Churn south around the riverbend, town coffee hub, a stop for bagels and muffins, back on Main street ending the circle, she says "I know you love me, but you like me too, dont ya." I smile and nod with one eye on her and the other on the road, non verbal knowing with a full tank of realization.
As we slide past the Country Club, all snow now gone, and hang a left into the driveway.

Up the rickety stairs, provisons in hand, I let her go first and she calls me a gentleman.

I toast my garlic bagel, sprinkle cayenne pepper on cream cheese, soaks up coffee
quite nicely.

A day in the life, a moment in time, these days of first spring are of heaven born,
Me out in shorts and longsleeved tshirt,

Its music time, and Im leaning towards something symphonic, Copeland it is-"Fanfare for the Common Man" with so much of the day still before us and we are glad for the time together evermore.

So it goes on the freedom trail...with a prank in mind to go kiss her with cayenne lips, and our tongues turn to talks brushing ever so sweetly, and yes hotly from the red ochre spice, but she's tough and feigns not knowing, and I wonder if her nipple would be so resiliant against my heat.

Ravel's "Pavane for a Dead Princess" comes next, textured with aural color and we wash it all out in Debussy's "La Mer," the Sea boils up on battleship grey rocks.

A snippet of morning light and life, undercoated by joy and abandon, as the buds on many trees swell in violet and lilac and deeper lavenders.

Beauty in so many forms, gifts we exchange effortlessly, May is my month and i am lucky to find her so welcoming of my ideosyncratic vision, the way the cool air lays down upon my flesh, enough air to float the universe....across the connected sky.
Click to expand...



yep...that's love alright
; )

add my smile and an " awwwwwww" to the list of responses
 
Hopscotch and Rocket Ships

i blast out of your stratosphere,
bypass your orbit
and skitter like a stone across pavement,
or a comet across last night.

where i land,
you avoid that step,
and hit every other one in turn.
 
My internet is down so I'm piggybacking someone else's wireless...

Boilerman

The sinews of his arms, his legs
Flex with exertion, glisten with sweat
He listens to the moans , stokes the fire
She hungers and hisses, feeds

In the darkness of her underbelly
It is the rhythm of his movement
Ceaseless in his attention,
Never missing a stroke, pumps

Steady and single minded, devoted
To urging her ever onward
She rolls, crashing through waves
Cresting, tossing left then right

He is merciless, demanding
Pushes her until she feels her seams
Splitting, her heat boiling over
All she can do is scream, bellowing

From his attention, devotion, adulation
He is relentless until she arrives safe
resting at her desired destination
Only then does he stop to smile
 
tungtied2u said:
My internet is down so I'm piggybacking someone else's wireless...

Boilerman

The sinews of his arms, his legs
Flex with exertion, glisten with sweat
He listens to the moans , stokes the fire
She hungers and hisses, feeds

In the darkness of her underbelly
It is the rhythm of his movement
Ceaseless in his attention,
Never missing a stroke, pumps

Steady and single minded, devoted
To urging her ever onward
She rolls, crashing through waves
Cresting, tossing left then right

He is merciless, demanding
Pushes her until she feels her seams
Splitting, her heat boiling over
All she can do is scream, bellowing

From his attention, devotion, adulation
He is relentless until she arrives safe
resting at her desired destination
Only then does he stop to smile
Click to expand...

This is v e r y erotic ~~!!!

:heart: it

~~ just me

...
 
Fishing

I've got to go to the shore
and watch as eagles swoop
down low to capture fish
at rest in sheltered pools
beneath the rocks studding
the river as it flows from high
to low and near to there
I'll see a deer serenely tending
a speckled fawn until at last
the eagle flies to its eerie
at the top of the tall, scraggly
pine with a trout held tight
in taloned feet so sharp I need
to hold my breath in wonder.
 
Last edited:
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

THROBBS
ABC Exhausting, though not Exhaustive
Replies
7
Views
7K
dombeotch
D
Back
Top