Site Network: Submissive Guide | Submissive Journal Prompts | Dominant Guide | Kinky Blogging | My Blog |

Lifestyle Poetry

Lyrical, rhyming and passionate words are a beauty to this Lifestyle. Enter into the creative muse, the mind of submissives and Dominants alike. Find just the right words to express how you are feeling from someone who was able to use their inner voices.

Would you like to donate your poetry to this section? Submit them here!


Print Essay    Save to Computer

Vomit In My Mouth (Faustian Bargain)

Author: Johnny Noir

Filed in: fetish, rhyme, eroticism



Vomit in my mouth & I will swallow,

Pee on me & I will wallow—

For you to sit and smother me to death

Like a mother I should not hold my breath,

I would gladly die beneath your farting,

If you would empty your lower intestine

Onto me I should be honored

To wear your feces like fine jewelry—

 

 

Hamekhashefa Ha-Tse’ira

 

The witch, coming up for air was forced to drink from the bottle

Like a habit of cheap wine and pills—

I forced the witch to drink but she only wanted cold pizza

And dreamt of stars the way skinny girls do—

Listening to Babyshambles Kate Moss was caught sniffing coke,

Her shame became her glory though Dougherty is no Rimbaud—

Edna St. Vincent Millay maybe but he will never conquer America

Like Cromwell before him, his will be posthumously executed—

There are too many goddamned poets, Jews all, myself included—

Was Bob Dylan a poet, like you or me?

I’m thinking of getting more coffee—

The witch, liquored up, tries to seduce me

But I will never sleep with a Jewish girl again—

I don’t think of fucking a Jew as making love, it’s something else—

But then again I’ve never slept with an Italian,

That would really be making love—

Even if the pizza were cold and she were hopped up on pills—

I’m thinking of the haunted house on the hill

The people in town say the ghost of the witch lives there—

I’m fed up with air and want to breathe your methane

There is a river running from between your skinny brown legs

Straight into my open moustache mouth,

My lips parched and parted thirsting for your liquid—

I hope you’re drunk enough to see in the dark the way I can,

With your glasses on the side table

I can smell the great outdoors through your open window—

The city a vague memory I do not recall at all,

Dark hallways where we rioted with whores,

Dungeons where you lay sober in the morning—

I am happy you are alive, Pete Sepko,

God has been good to you and all of your friends are grateful—

Are Indian women the most beautiful in the world?

I’ve heard as much and have never seen anything to the contrary—

Every Indian woman I’ve ever met has been beautiful and brilliant

Jewish women on the other hand are hairy monsters that eat brains

Italian women are as nondescript as house paint—

But that doesn’t stop them from being the hottest women on the planet—

Why is that, Pete?

The witch drinks from the bottle, gags and throws up,

Lying face down in her own vomit—

Pete knows the source of this quote:

“Bad music has always been a good reason for going to war”

Here is your gun, kill the blonde first,

Her ass like a Russian winter and me like Napoleon trying to conquer it—

 

 

Jerusalem

 

Maachah was my wife when men had wives they could rely on,

But not in Jerusalem where the signal starts the race to the bar—

I live only a mile away from Jerusalem,

But I know not the way to the city’s gate

And the golden mall is something I don’t need to see—

Maachah has gone shopping with her mother—

Saying “…that is the most erotic poem about my backside

that i have ever read…

and I have you to thank...u are now the reason i shit,

its all for you u tim,

no other can ignite the fire in my soul that creates

the muse for your writing...

if only to keep you rytin…

i shall shit for you, for the world needs ur wisdom,

and i need ur kind words...”

Within and without the ass of the Puerto Rican goddess

Forgiving me my sins whatever they were—

Don’t paint the cadaver white,

She looks better in the dark beside the window

Where bats and Elohim fly into blue night

Of the world’s peace and good, how strange the petit flowers blossom—

Strange flower that grows in your garden

The Spanish priestess looking for the pin-up queen

Was too tired to sleep in the apple orchard

With her wandering flock of sheep, her brainpan level with the ocean—

Closing the eyes of the saint and facing the wall,

Black men gather around Madonna in her coffin

Shoved all the way up the ass of the behemoth—

Vision crippled by daylight, the Bangladesh teenagers are Goths

With smiling faces for fingers—

Maachah can’t read because she’s pink inside

And her mother has to translate German into Latin,

Astonished by the video made on the run—

Shit for me in the sun, young hooligan,

I will never tire of your chapped lips and bruised backside

The rumors are that you’ve changed your name 

 

 

Left-Handed Task

 

The big-hipped Italian dominated the small Portuguese maiden—

Like a stick with a ball, like dueling shadows in the showcase spotlight—

Like a handful of matches

I’m talking about the inner light where the raindrops fall, Mischa’s got it now—

The left-handed task guided her over the rainbow—

So solemnly we kneel to the squealing goddess, the apple of infinity’s eye

The big-hipped Italian won’t give me a kiss—

That’s not true, we were kissing all night until I pulled her wig off

Now I’m worried about her smooth ass,

Looking like a star filled crystal ball on a Gypsy’s parlor table—

I was wise then, but then how long has it been since Crystal learned the wiser—

Pull her wig off like an old fag

Mischa’s got it now in reruns as I gallop in on an old horse,

All of the theaters are closed today due to cobwebs

The faggots are running the show now and they’ve all gone on strike—

The missing scene is that of the children, children, sweeping down like hail—

The left-handed task is a miracle to perform,

Just budding in the pot, going to school forever—

She is cremated, her fortune sewn throughout the new grass—

Mischa’s got it now—

The left-handed task is a little rogue spell that casts an eye on the apples green in the field

She is holding my hand and showing me the way to her limo on the yellow brick road—

I saw Kerouac do this,

I can do it too—

I love that fake blonde,

The plastic bottles and express trains like cameras in the eyes of god but who knows it but her lover kissing someone else in the spotlight,

I saw the camera turn and it was you

Facing me to perform a thankless left-handed task,

Your specialty, the trick you do with a handful of kitchen matches—

 

 

I'll start here and work my way to the bottom...

Pretty much what I'd do if I had you here with me...

I've been reading a bit about providence and fate and so on

And it seems that the matter is out of our control...

I mean, you say you're mine forever,

But who knows how long forever will last...

Obviously the stars have not aligned so that our bodies can collide in space,

Only our minds sharing a gravitational pull...

I will keep sending you poetry and of course the novel

But my letters may start to get weird with frustration

Because as much as I relate to you

And feel like I am a part of you and you a part of me

Like some kind of quantum particles sharing the same space

While being in two places at once, I will want you the way a man wants a woman...

I imagine things were different when people wrote letters to pen pals

Or had long-distance relationships...

I mean like, I don't know, centuries ago...

Then the two people most likely wound up getting married,

But this isn't the 19th or even the 20th century, is it?

We are living in the future where two people can come across one another

On the Internet and get all into each other just like that...

I’ll probably start channeling my feelings through the detective in the story

Without even realizing it...

I was hoping to develop a poetic language

That only you and I would share but you've got me thinking

In more realistic terms

Because I believe a poem should tell the truth and the truth is

I think about you constantly...

I'm not in school and write al the time so I have the luxury,

Unlike you who has to focus on rather complex matters

In regard to your studies

But I'm glad you find the time to correspond with me

No matter where it all goes or if it just disappears into cyberspace

One day like a fantasy

That never even really happened...

I am not hopeful that we will meet one day and at the same time I am...

You talk about your life being confusing...

My life is not, but it's not simple either...

I will have to keep pretending you are like,

I don't know, a fantasy figure in my mind

Because that is the only way I won't kill myself

If I can't put my arms around you and hold you in good old romantic fashion...

I don't how that comes across but I'll just go crazy

If I have to make to this damned computer...

Why can't they build a robot like a Star Trek thing

That looks and feels like the actual woman you've always wanted to be with...

Our technology is lame because it sets up a relationship

That is just a tease and leaves a man totally lonely

Like he's living on another planet entirely from the woman he wants so desperately

He can picture her in his mind

And almost hear her voice calling out to him...

“I'm yours forever...forever...forever...” fading into the darkness of electrostatic...

If this is love in the 21st century, I tell you right now, it sucks big time...

 

 

Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth

I have never known an emotion could fly—

I have never visited a place as warm as your heart

My feelings torn to pieces and scattered to the wind,

You collect them in your basket and bring them back to me as gifts

I had only known flaming gifts before that—

How so miraculous that we began as faceless words on facebook

And have now become so warm and endeared to one another—

I just wrote some poetry that I spin the way a spider spins its web,

It comes so natural to me—

And your reply was sweet, but not as sweet as you,

But sweeter than your cappuccino

You redefine my reality from the cold gray I mistakenly imagined

Like a prison cell with no walls—

I wondered why I was dreaming of butterflies set free to fly

No longer pinned down in their coffin-like display boxes—

Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth,

The words I use linger like echoes—

Your words resonate within me; now who is the muse?

You are, eternally—

I want to begin again just like you, like I just turned twenty-one—

I want to start over again like fresh sheets and make them bloody all over again

Like a virgin seeing the dawn as if for the first time after an endless midnight

After a long night in the desert finding fresh water

Deep from within the earth—seeing starlight as if for the first time

After days of darkness with no stars and now this new and never before seen constellation, this original zodiac, the Minotaur and the Muse—

Musing with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth

Count to twenty-one, that’s how many years I have loved you—

Now keep counting, how many lifetimes is that?

Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth

 

 

You make music with your ass, pissing like a waterfall—

Shitting with the urgency of making an airtight case—

Your ass sends me out to the stars

To look back on a world that seems so small—

When I say the goddess shits the universe into existence,

You know I mean because you are the source of the metaphor—

Thank you for your music that I hear in the silence

Of my own mind like some wonderful creation

Emerging out of deep dark space, and yes—

That deep dark space is your asshole widening

To loosen a steamy brown turd that falls and splashes

Into the cosmic abyss of Elohim's toilet—

And your piss bathes my senses like a hidden waterfall

On a tropical island that is only as far as you pulling your knickers down

And squatting over the porcelain alter—

Your ass is my temple, your thoughts and words my scripture—

My poetry is your piss—

Baby, I live up your ass like a child in the womb

Waiting to be born anew every time you squat to shit and piss,

Morning, noon and night and in the middle of the night—

I am the poet, but you are the poem,

I am the writer and my every word hangs on your every turd—

 

 

Still hungry? I'm stuffed...

I need a smoke and some more coffee—

If you'll be my skinny cigarette,

I’ll be your creamy cappuccino,

You are the only star in my sky—

I don’t know where you end and I begin,

So let’s smoke each other and meet in the middle—

I’ll lick your foam if you'll light my match,

If you’ll dance on my pole,

I’ll scratch your back—how’s that for tit for tat?

I’m hungry for your jellyroll, but I’ll give you my éclair,

The kind with extra cream, eat me if you dare—

You’re the girl in my looking glass,

I'm sweet on the sugar up your ass—

Now how is that? I'm getting fat on your love

Like a spicy chicken dish—

But did you know that I eat with my hands?

And what do you eat with? Your mouth I hope—

Open wide and I'll feed you the worm

Because you're an early bird,

That's what I’ve heard—

Let’s leave it at that...this is so silly

Is it so obvious that I adore you?

Babe, I wanna stick my whole face up your ass

And devour you from the inside.

For some people that would be shame,

But for me, yes, that would be golden...as you know


Related Poetry



FetLife

Iron Gate Banner Exchange