Was it real or was it just. . . Well. . . watch the grammatic shift in the next to last stanza as verbs become nouns, and adjectives become verbs and parts of speech just switch rolls not to abuse or confuse the reader but just to play with your mind whil
Watcha gonna do when I get you down?
When time is free for foolin' 'round
atop your sheets (and other stuff)
first, moving slowly,
just enough
to drown the sound
of heavy sighs
on squeaking springs
(and bedroom eyes
look empty for quixotic things)
behind your busy bedroom door
upon the bed
or on the floor?
Watcha gonna do when I ask for more?
Ya gonna moan and scream
like you did before?
Watcha gonna do when I get you wet?
Lie and retch? Moan and sweat?
Catch the sperm in a rubber net?
Maybe, even ask for more, I bet --
until
I whisper
startling words you won't forget:
"GOTCHA!
Then: let it all indulged subside
till late,
(much later,
when I come inside
you,) tongue in cheek
(sticky mouth)
lowered lip --
two-hand grip --
waiting for the treasured sound
that wouldn't come
(because I wouldn't come around)
waiting for the only word,
reserved
for those who reach absurdity -- Elysium.
You reach the fringe, first,
and uncontrollably burst
with excitation --
vault from near nirvana
to -- well,
"GOTCHA" once again --
and you lie quiescent,
reminiscent
while Beethoven beats the 5th and 6th with
DUM da da Dum dum
DUM da da Dum dum
symphonic thunderstorm
reverberating rhythmically
to the squeaking of the bed
until you rear your lovely head
bowlike arching neck and back
(hunting pleasures in the sack)
quivering vulva,
quaking lips,
controlless shaking of the hips,
thrusting upward -- pubic peak,
numbing neurons (muscles weak
contracted long -- too long -- I think --)
deep into euphoria sink
all senses to oblivion, still --
breaking all-resistant will
succumbing to the helpless gasp
and breathless whisper that at last
uttered
"GOTCHA" to the night
of your ultimate delight.
Vivaldi springs upon us
(one season at a time)
while marathon man
attempts decathalon,
a merry-go-round
of 'round the world in eighty ways,
countless revolutions,
uncounted convolutions,
convulsing bodies
with convoluted logic:
tips, lips, hips
and over all again
until even your labia ached
with agonizing pain
of having to do it all over again.
Watcha gonna do when I let you down?
Refuse to reach climactic peak
until my fortress springs a leak,
its strength depleted, warriors weak
from holding back
the sperm attack?
Watcha gonna do when you have no more --
your body limp -- your muscles sore?
I won't submit; you try again:
push me gently upon the spread
my limbs apart and hold my head
into the depths where we remain
embraced, listening to the classic beat
me, hurt me, address me by a filthy name
your pleasure (I heard you say, at last),
then, come electric urges
me spiralling through the vortex
straining marrow of my bones;
you tightly grasp me:
flailing at once flaccid flesh
with stroke, stroke, stroke
me gently, no control
over -- deluge of embellished spasms
surging up toward the tip
me over on my side
to let the blast subside --
and it did abate
while breathless, swirling still,
I trembled helplessly,
and you smiled slightly
trickling drips seeping
from sticky lips
that uttered
"GOTCHA!" at long last --
till sweet repose
covered us with restful sleep
and dreams
engulf us
as if none of this
had ever taken place
at all.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 894 times
Written on 2006-12-22 at 20:19
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Gotcha!
Watcha gonna do when I get you down?
When time is free for foolin' 'round
atop your sheets (and other stuff)
first, moving slowly,
just enough
to drown the sound
of heavy sighs
on squeaking springs
(and bedroom eyes
look empty for quixotic things)
behind your busy bedroom door
upon the bed
or on the floor?
Watcha gonna do when I ask for more?
Ya gonna moan and scream
like you did before?
Watcha gonna do when I get you wet?
Lie and retch? Moan and sweat?
Catch the sperm in a rubber net?
Maybe, even ask for more, I bet --
until
I whisper
startling words you won't forget:
"GOTCHA!
Then: let it all indulged subside
till late,
(much later,
when I come inside
you,) tongue in cheek
(sticky mouth)
lowered lip --
two-hand grip --
waiting for the treasured sound
that wouldn't come
(because I wouldn't come around)
waiting for the only word,
reserved
for those who reach absurdity -- Elysium.
You reach the fringe, first,
and uncontrollably burst
with excitation --
vault from near nirvana
to -- well,
"GOTCHA" once again --
and you lie quiescent,
reminiscent
while Beethoven beats the 5th and 6th with
DUM da da Dum dum
DUM da da Dum dum
symphonic thunderstorm
reverberating rhythmically
to the squeaking of the bed
until you rear your lovely head
bowlike arching neck and back
(hunting pleasures in the sack)
quivering vulva,
quaking lips,
controlless shaking of the hips,
thrusting upward -- pubic peak,
numbing neurons (muscles weak
contracted long -- too long -- I think --)
deep into euphoria sink
all senses to oblivion, still --
breaking all-resistant will
succumbing to the helpless gasp
and breathless whisper that at last
uttered
"GOTCHA" to the night
of your ultimate delight.
Vivaldi springs upon us
(one season at a time)
while marathon man
attempts decathalon,
a merry-go-round
of 'round the world in eighty ways,
countless revolutions,
uncounted convolutions,
convulsing bodies
with convoluted logic:
tips, lips, hips
and over all again
until even your labia ached
with agonizing pain
of having to do it all over again.
Watcha gonna do when I let you down?
Refuse to reach climactic peak
until my fortress springs a leak,
its strength depleted, warriors weak
from holding back
the sperm attack?
Watcha gonna do when you have no more --
your body limp -- your muscles sore?
I won't submit; you try again:
push me gently upon the spread
my limbs apart and hold my head
into the depths where we remain
embraced, listening to the classic beat
me, hurt me, address me by a filthy name
your pleasure (I heard you say, at last),
then, come electric urges
me spiralling through the vortex
straining marrow of my bones;
you tightly grasp me:
flailing at once flaccid flesh
with stroke, stroke, stroke
me gently, no control
over -- deluge of embellished spasms
surging up toward the tip
me over on my side
to let the blast subside --
and it did abate
while breathless, swirling still,
I trembled helplessly,
and you smiled slightly
trickling drips seeping
from sticky lips
that uttered
"GOTCHA!" at long last --
till sweet repose
covered us with restful sleep
and dreams
engulf us
as if none of this
had ever taken place
at all.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 894 times
Written on 2006-12-22 at 20:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text