Current poems in progress...

AnOld Amber

mHopefullt will be more friendly
less critical but more forgiving
more conginial than symon or ped ant
and more forgiving to anonymous moonwalker

instead of driving all poets from general heavens
we will welcome him in the molecules of rough poetry
saying hhis claims as molecular biologist as well
he/she could be loveable, after all

i wish, he/she likes astronomy too....

THIS SALON IS DISTASTEFUL
it reeks of thots lustful
but fear not my fellow humans for this is the naked truth, when close to depths of beauty reached and sincerity is at hand, we shy away and have a laugh

Alrighty now! Keep your tongue behind your zipper.

Adolescent sex
Japan 1978
Robot bee-legions.
Kaikaida's fate
Internet Sex Porn
Blind Date
All in Asian Regions
Too much text
Talkin about my Ex
Giant Cat attacks
Republicans never Know the Facts
Which are that Liberals devour their young

Lubricious pumpings
viagra coolwhip with cucuber lickables
Ive been working out with tongue barbells
her squirting slick fountain is so yummy and stickie
wet silk moaning

warm furry mount
Neiiiiiigh!!!
Giddy Up Go Nellie

Dist' I through yonder window break see in eyes of yond maiden faire a beauty pure

Enough of this....

Life is so much more than shallow drips of teenage spew
take a chair and step to the side you mostly ungrateful few
be aware of the blessing a site like this offers
Dare to write a true feeling, a true thought

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No thanks! The premise of this site is misleading. One cannot interact creatively with a post without the characters here taking it as a personal affront. Too much drama. Too little payoff. It's just how I feel.
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A personal affront is a good first step.
Hey there should never be hard feelings here or anywhere about creative writing. It's all good.I just find the gallows humor a bit much. To my way of thinking it's like a dirty joke. Funny but not memorable.
jd
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As I said: I don't write on IPP any more, gallows humor nor prose nor poesy. I only stop by the various salons on occasion to see if any of the old familiar faces have dropped a work in.

After many year my poem is still there
Proving, yet again, that nobody cares

Unspoken

To me,
the idea of fucking you
is delicious.
I picture the details;
the room,
with its bland utalitarian blinds,
and white duvet and pillow set,
slightly stained
despite frequent bleaching.
I can smell you,
a mix of nervous sweat,
salty desire and sweet fear,
poorly disguised by Old Spice.
I can feel your wet kisses
against my fevered skin,
and your hands as they fumble
with my cheap lingerie;
I can feel the itch and scratch
of fake blue lace against my arms,
as they reach down to debag you.
But oh,
the afterglow,
of regret
and remorse
is poorer.
You, trying to think,
of how to escape me.
I, trying not to picture,
picturing your wife -
and envying her
her innocence.
A sweet meal
of bitter herbs.

I'm now that man

I have reached that age
some may know about
where all men fear
all have read about
my livelihood is out of my control
my existence is up to another
like many before me I thought it could not happen
like so many others I to was wrong
I have always asked for truth
and lived as a truthful man
But who among us has no secrets
I too have my ' if they only knews'
truth is measurable is it not
I have hidden so much thinking it mattered
soon my security will be gone
In a pure world a man could just be
I am tired and breaking and wondering
if true freedom is attained my absolutes
Lets see:
I am near sixty years old
I have written here off and on for over ten years
I have fathered two children
I am a grandfather
I am full of shit and know it
I have been married for close to thirty years
I have worked at the same job for thirty five years
These are not secrets, this is not new
this was a secret, This is new
I am
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Not far behind you there neighbor. This gets my attention.

Invoking Frost

In the south we have no birches to bend,
Neither do we get snow or ice to weight them down
In a manner that would incite my muse to bleed.
But more, and more oft I find
As my life hurtles past its equinox
That I'll stop over to simpler times:
When my brothers and I would take turns
Wagering our adolescent egos
By commandeering a 55 gallon drum
And launching it down a steep incline
To see who could hang with it the farthest.
As the barrel would careen at breakneck speeds,
Negotiating the deformities of terra firma,
And the deflections of loosened earth and stones,
And some few unimpressive trees
There would be moments of zero gravity
When one felt as if he was in the clouds.
While the one was curled up in the fetal position
Pushing out against the rigid walls
And holding on against the centrifugal force
That was working to unseat him
It required all his focus
To avoid a premature ejection
Out through the open portal
With its payout of disjointed fingers
And bruised, bloodied elbows.
As I repeated the ride over and over again
Not once did I consider
That I chanced a broken neck, or spine,
Or ruptured spleen. What did I know of fear?
It was the ensuing climax that I strove for
More so than the adrenaline fueled ride itself.
Having gotten away and coming back to earth
It mattered little whether the ride ended
With me inside or outside of the barrel,
It only mattered that the world
Had not spit me out for good.
Riding barrels was the closest I ever came
To being a swinger of birches, and
And I'd be remiss if I did not see the similarities.
To this day if I close my eyes for long
I feel as if I am that child in the barrel still
Waiting for this wild ride to finish,
When I can once more exalt:
Life is all affirming. And launch out again.
One could do worse than be a rider of barrels
When he's not got his father's birches to bend.


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Wow, I really enjoyed that and can so relate. Ah what I did in my youth without second thought. Thanks for the ride.

Tall Building

the first time I saw a tall building
reaching to the sky
I grabbed hold of my mothers hand
said momma please tell me why
The thing is the building wasn't all that tall
didn't come close to reaching clouds
mother wasn't in the talking mood
she didn't pull her hand away
I stared for a moment or more like two or five
wondered if I would long remember
the first thing I'd seen that was high
something in my mothers face I looked into her eyes
she smiled and gave my hand a squeeze
she said Johnny will you please
take care of your family son
let your little children cry
don't force them to grow up too soon
I said mommy I'm just a kid myself
got no kids of my own
she got that far away look again
gave my arm another tug
Fast forward thru life's down's and such
momma,s gone don't think of her much
got high all the wasted ways
ran through most of time never looking up
until today when I watched my grandson cry
he's happy now
Heavy sigh
Another day
another flower
will he one day look up at the same sky
I hope he does
I hope he sees the same
tall building.
10/25/12 jd
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Like spokes in a turning wheel.
-------
It seems.

she has beautiful hands

what she does with them can be so, oh so
she brushes a strand of hair from her eyes
she wipes a tear from her little girls face
she spreads jam on yet another sandwich
and hangs the sheets out to dry
she makes a fist
pretends to cry, then smiles when she thinks you frown
tugs at that strap upon that gown
she knows you are so predictable
she pretends not to notice
she cleans the house with those hands
writes letters with those hands
gives hugs with those hands
pulls down zippers with those hands
touches herself with those hands and
all the while smiles
she knows me
with those hands
she holds me
with those hands
she takes me there
ah ah ah AH AH ... A H
she brings me there
you do know where
with those hands
she is never alone
Hey have I told you about my girl
she has beautiful hands
11/15/12 jd

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:) yep yep yep a lovely tribute to ur girl.

Wet sugar ribbons, slut-skirts, mouth-candy, and syrupy protein..