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Coming home after a long day

I see you settled, unknowing

of my shadow creeping

you're bent over a chair reading

all i want is to consume you!



You haven't the sense

i've slipped behind you

Delicious ways

My rock hard cock poking you

Or my fingers dipped into your pearl



I don't let you decide

grabbing you by your sides

and letting you be devoured by my passion

You try to say something, but you just let out a moan

Whispering to fuck you hard



Then like a jackhammer

I am punishing that pearl after a long day

as your dance your velvet onto my needy cock



Hand imprints of my mark on your sides

you scream to slap, slap, slap... that ass!

Oh, and i do, every single time

But I wont ever let you go, oh no!

Not until we both cum



Your fingers entice as you drip for more,

As my engorged cock feeds to go off!



Holding you close to me

You grab from behind

begging and pleading

Let's erupt at the same time



I howl at the moon

Screaming your cherished name

Flooding from both of us could carry a village away



No matter the mood

No matter the time

I’m nauseated by my own philosophy

And I won’t claim the pages as my own anymore

All they’ve done is rip me off with their clever lies

But it’s my turn to do the ripping now

So I’m sitting on this dirty window sill

Tearing out all my chapters page by page

Watching the wind carry them away one by one

But it isn’t as simple as I make it sound

Like a spider bite on the inside

Every rip stings my heart a little bit

Ten years have just gone out the window

By sitting in it for just three months

It’s been ninety-nine days today

And now I’m in need of a massive re-write

Because all that’s left are two covers and a spine

But I won’t be the writer this time around

I went to the grocery store today and

when I was walking in, I noticed this

homeless guy standing outside smiling at me.



As I walked closer, his smile got even bigger

and I began to wonder, "What the fvck is going

on here?"



And then, just as I got a few feet away

from him...



he rushes up to me and hits my hand.



WTF?



He says,"Hands do not make the crime a crime, it is the mind that gestates the activity."



And that was that.



Ever since, I have been correcting my thoughts about crimes against my own character.

The detail of the pattern is movement,

As in the figure of the ten stairs.

Desire itself is movement

Not in itself desirable;

Love is itself unmoving,

Only the cause and end of movement,

Timeless, and undesiring

Except in the aspect of time

Caught in the form of limitation

Between un-being and being.

Sudden in a shaft of sunlight

Even while the dust moves

There rises the hidden laughter

Of children in the foliage

Quick now, here, now, always-

Ridiculous the waste sad time

Stretching before and after.

And when the day is done

And my head finds my pillow

And my fist holds a feather

And my breath draws it closer

And my eyes close ever faster



The tides of my breath slowly pull

Me into the sleep of island dreams

Where it’s always day

And the sun never burns

Where it’s never night

And you can always see

I heard there oft the flying sound

Of feet as light as linden-leaves,

Or music welling underground,

In hidden hollows quavering.

Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,

And one by one with sighing sound

Whispering fell the beachen leaves

In wintry woodland wavering.

Long was the way that fate them bore,

O’er stony mountains cold and grey,

Through halls of iron and darkling door,

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away

In the forest singing sorrowless.”

humping the flame of desire



restricted upon the palate of her fire



unashamed expression running deeply still



acquired her sense to finally kill

A man of many words I may be maybe

But mainly they do no justice to just what

I feel inside failing language entirely

Every word I have ever uttered in my life are as if

The flash of photographs powered by fresh batteries

But the lens cap of my handicapped limitations

Prevent the picture impacts I want to take constantly

From developing into anything amounting to any more

Than this stuttering coming out unfulfilling and too easily

Its as if the simple fluttering of moths and butterflies

The food of the starving behemoth restless inside of me

Translating my mind on paper is impossible

Likewise are the dead dreams buried deep in it

Incognito for life and maybe for life just like

Thoughts masquerading as mosquitoes in my mind

That keep coming back collecting in clandestine

Pieces of concentration in my consciousness

And the itching distracting me

“Push me over with a feather… I’m here but my mind is elsewhere. I need to know you’re there for me.. She, the immortal of reverie, that infernal enigma, that She of all hers, has picked me up off the ground where I was pushed over… lost now found. Found in dream only–in lull, obviously, escaping lost reality–the null, devoid of she’s except those coy, cold, imitating intimacy. It’s a wonderful day to dream, the sky the stage, the clouds actors and actresses. But you, plus me, is an impossible equation. I’m bored of boring and tired of the sameness. I’m too adept at antics for my own good because it seems impossible escaping redundant ridiculous choices… So, I’m developing things to add to my diluted personality. Sooner or later, moments or months or years from now, I’ll be new and unrecognizable!

Caught up in catastrophic thoughts of losses and hefty crosses I carried for years for no reason: I’m not stronger from the testing, now I’m weaker and distrusting…. as another storm tosses me in empty entropy, I’m wrapped in nets of regrets, entrapped in knots of naught… taught lessons by atrophy, taut muscles lessen…

After taking the Cure, Voncent felt like a new man. He was beside himself with the pleasure of having his old powers back, and also at the prospect of finally being able to die after 2,000 years.

A black-clad Immortal known as the Lord of Dreams, stands barefoot in a rainstorm he has created, his coat swirling around him, as he mourns the failure of yet another love affair.

Well, ain't that special.



Lessee if I know what to do with it.



Normally, it'd be set ablaze.



Then ashes.



And a big blowing wind!