~WELCOME TO MY PAGE. ~AKA...NO BS ZONE ~

I'm just odd, overly sarcastic at times, internally optimistic, constantly intrigued, a believer, prefer few over many, hopeless romantic, but a dreamer all-throughout...from the books I read, to the clothes I wear, to the places I’ve travelled, to the movies I watch, to the music I listen to, to the men I’ve loved...this is my world, take a seat, relax and

just live in it...just feel me!

"Passion make the world go around. Love makes it a safer place." -Ice T

Showing posts with label My poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My poetry. Show all posts

3/06/2010

...Figs!

 They say the proper way to eat a fig in society, is to split it in four, holding it by the stump, its clitoris...and then you open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, pink, moist, juicy honied, heavy-petalled, four petalled flower is exposed....

You throw away the skin, which is just like a four-petalled calyx. After you have taken off the blossoms with your moistened lips...

But the vulgar way, is just to put your tongue deep into to the creased opening, and take out the soft sweet flesh in one bite...

It is said that every fruit has its secrets. The fig is a very secretive fruit. As you see it standing, growing, you feel at once it is symbolic: and it seems male. But when you come to know it better, you will agree with the Romans, its female...you realize it is internally female.

The Italians vulgarly say, it stands for the female part; the fig fruit: the fissure, the yoni. The wonderful moist soft smooth muscle, passageway towards the center into heaven; its involved, its in-turned, its soft, its juicy, so so sweet, openly pledging heaven, ooo it’s so delightful.

Now you know, there is fruit that is flowered inward, womb-ward. It was always a secret, and that's how the female should be.

It is my dream to some day, lean back and watch as you will indulge your senses. – Jasmine


Masquerade

Stand where you can see me in this closing slice of light. I will show you myself, peeling cleanly from the ribs so you can see it, that fantastic pulsing violet, gulping over beating muscle like a waterlogged rose.the high heels in the kitchen, her slim spine arching with gorgeous laughter, red nails on white skin and the watch that told m you worked late.
Dead centre, a sharp split with your name on it.

Grace


Tonight I will sleep on your side of the bed and knead the beads of your spine against my knuckles like rosary, a striking utterance of grace.

HIS SONGS!




Have laid back and watched you most of this night, your

wordless tunes on strings that could break like a heart in your hands.

I can hear your mind through the chords, inscrutable as the sphinx,

enchanted by the way a note walks on the water of your eyes

as I want to hear your words.

THE ART OF SILENCE...

"It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the lover struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words."
-T.S.Eliot