first post...favorite poet. [27 Jul 2004|11:40am]
Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.

~Charles Bukowski

The Idea of You --Lauren Armstrong. [25 Jul 2004|09:25pm]

[ mood | tense. ]

I love the idea of you

Touching my face before you kiss me
Running your hands down my neck
To understand the symmetry of my body
Firmly gripping my waist
Which fits into one of your hands

I love the idea of you

Talking to me as I look down onto you
Interweaving your fingers in my ribs
Allowing my breasts to touch yours
Without that being an invitation
But purely sensual

I love the idea of you

Wrapping your arms around me like a father
But holding me like a lover
Knowing both, and intimidated by neither

I love the idea of you

Looking at my body as beautiful
Because it is mine
Looking at me as something past sex
As a conversation, an intellect, a friend, a lover
A late night phone call about nothing at all


Young Love: A Health & Safety Poem [16 Jul 2004|01:06am]

Please don't make love in the showers, dears,
the staff don't like it at all;
it's not that they think that it's rude, dears:
they're afraid that you'll slip and you'll fall.
It's not that we're prejudiced, honest -
we've talked all this over for hours -
but the Centre just isn't insured, dears,
for dykes making love in the showers!

We know that it's fun in the showers, dears
(we wish we had thought of it too)
but we fear we'll be sued for our lives, dears,
should anything happen to you!
Just think of your friends and your families,
this could cause no end of distress;
and if you break your neck in the showers, dears,
then what can we say to the press?

We know that you like to be clean, dears,
that's why you make love in the showers;
but why not go out to the park, dears,
the sprinklers are left on for hours;
why not go home for a bath, dears,
and do it in bubbles instead?
Or be like the rest of us here, dears,
and go home and make love in bed.

I hear that the Governing Body have said that this practice must stop.
It's an issue they hadn't expected,
it's caught the poor dears on the hop...
but they have an excellent solution,
that - well, nearly everyone likes:
it's 'one at a time' in the showers from now on -
but they've built a jacuzzi for dykes!

Jan Sellers

At the Kitchen Counter --jay farbstein. [06 Jul 2004|09:06pm]

[ mood | overheated. ]

At the kitchen counter, cooking
talking of our love,
the loves that hadn't worked before.

Onion waxed translucent
in butter and olive oil;
grains of rice, wine and broth
risotto plumping, concentrating on the stove--

we taste asparagus and mushrooms
drink Alsatian Reisling
look into each other's eyes
and know this time there is a difference
in this love that we can taste and chew--
this love will nuture us.

We reach across the plates and glasses
sparks arc between our finger tips--
we have to have each other for dessert.

After, back int he kitchen,
you call me to you,
unfold your robe
and draw my hand into our wetness--
I fall onto my knees in worship
and to taste of it.

And in the night,
weaving in and out of sleep,
in and out of consciousness--
every time to find you
fodled in my arms--
wrapped up like a present
we are giving to each other.


Pablo Neruda - I crave your mouth... [06 Jul 2004|11:21am]
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

one of my all-time favorites. [05 Jul 2004|03:24pm]

Just before she flew off like a swan
to her wealthy parents' summer home,
Bruce's college girlfriend asked him
to improve his expertise at oral sex,
and offered him some technical advice:

Use nothing but his tonguetip
to flick the light switch in his room
on and off a hundred times a day
until he grew fluent at the nuances
of force and latitude.

Imagine him at practice every evening,
more inspired than he ever was at algebra,
beads of sweat sprouting on his brow,
thinking, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,
seeing, in the tunnel vision of his mind's eye,
the quadratic equation of her climax
yield to the logic
of his simple math.

Maybe he unscrewed
the bulb from his apartment ceiling
so that passersby would not believe
a giant firefly was pulsing
its electric abdomen in 13 B.

Maybe, as he stood
two inches from the wall,
in darkness, fogging the old plaster
with his breath, he visualized the future
as a mansion standing on the shore
that he was rowing to
with his tongue's exhausted oar.

Of course, the girlfriend dumped him:
met someone, apres-ski, who,
using nothing but his nose
could identify the vintage of a Cabernet.

Sometimes we are asked
to get good at something we have
no talent for,
or we excel at something we will never
have the opportunity to prove.

Often we ask ourselves
to make absolute sense
out of what just happens,
and in this way, what we are practicing

is suffering,
which everybody practices,
but strangely few of us
grow graceful in.

The climaxes of suffering are complex,
costly, beautiful, but secret.
Bruce never played the light switch again.

So the avenues we walk down,
full of bodies wearing faces,
are full of hidden talent:
enough to make pianos moan,
sidewalks split,
streetlights deliriously flicker.

Tony Hoagland

ee cummings. [05 Jul 2004|02:17am]

[ mood | tired. ]

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new


laughing thoroughbreds [29 Jun 2004|01:59pm]

how many times
have I borne you
through the velvet night O
my thighs wrapped
tight O my thoroughbred

our small bed
vast space
where we birth
uncontrollable laughter O

my body
no longer woman
but silken flesh
on sinewy legs
galloping galloping

Patti Tana

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