The lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master.
quote by Khalil Gibran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Houses chapter IX
A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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The Guest Is 'Trouble
There is a guest and a host
child and servant,
eternity and vanity,
The guest is trouble.
In sickness, health is the host
he gives way to sickness
that the power of truth is depicted
the guest is 'trouble'
In pain, comfort is the host
who concedes the pain
that the vanity of darkness is depicted
the guest is 'trouble'
In death, life is the host
who gives way to death
that the power of resurrection is shown
the guest is 'trouble'
Life is eternal, death is a moment.
health is a fruit, sickness is a leaf
that falls from a tree of life.
They soon wither and waste away.
Be strong, it's not too long
the guest will leave.
and the host will have it all
The guest is 'trouble'
poem by Timothy muggaga
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Be a guest
The guest must leave the host
Against host’s insistence to stay.
Be a guest only for a while.
Be a host to compensate
23.07.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A guest should not cause his host's demise. When the guest is ready to leave, his host should not have given him a hunch-back.
The Black Dog
early morning when
the door of the house is finally opened
the black dog enters
missing his master
the owner of the door of the house
it wants to speak
but since it has no power over the words
it simply wags its tail
puts his head on the lap of the master
and from this gesture
one can see
that everything is well said
by it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Completing All The Touches
Her pupil shone –
Black stole a peek
Her smile wore sleek
Beneath a knowingness
That I would seek
A slipping down of garments,
Jealous of their role
To hide the jewels that complement,
Completing all the touches.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Lines of Lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Fantasy IV
Pounce of nipple
Snatches,
Catches me off guard
Flounce and ripple
Thro' the breasts
Arrests
Landing hard,
I'm flung upon my back
To analyse the ceiling -
No appealing under stress
Now under dress -
Panties gone
And she upon
My countenance -
I rouse to bait
Her feminine way
Lead astray by
Aromatic warming
Of her womanhood,
I tune her body's
Resonance
Thro' eloquence of tongue -
Her shrieking
Highly strung
We up the play
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Staying Guest
To stay as a guest of one, though a kin,
Is not welcome to the host in that
It costs his privacy, disturbs his comfort
And makes him anxious for your exit.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I ended up living at OJ's because Nicole bought a home that no longer had a guest house. OJ offered his guest house to me. Anybody in LA looking for a place knows the best places to live are guest houses.
quote by Kato Kaelin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A guest has not to thank the host, but the host the guest.
Talons of a Gothic Mind
She of talons, borne from gothic mind-
Steel of blue her chilly stare,
Pitch of black her fetid blood-
Whence there came an evil flare
To terrorise the weeping kind
Befogged in mental mire; to rape
The shore with phallic waves -
And all for lust, her one desire:
Corrupt the sand of innocence
Without a case for penitence,
Or cause for such as reticence -
While coming on her priapismic fire.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Lust lust lust Lust lust lust Lust lust lust
Lust lust lust Lust lust lust Lust lust lust
Lust lust lust Lust lust lust Lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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It Tastes Like NECTAR
To be an unwanted guest
sitting alone in the absence of the host
eating food 'hot and shining like an eye of a cat',
It is not delicious, but considered 'bitter like neem';
If you happen to eat in a house
where you are greeted kindly with respect,
the host also accompanies you to dine,
however they are poor;
Even if they provide cold watery gruel,
prepared with poor quality rice grains,
It tastes like NECTAR,
imbibes with your mind and body.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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In Love She Has Been Disappointed
yes, in love
she has been disappointed
with fate always playing pranks on her
one man to another man
one house to another house
always moving to another arms
for whatever comfort is left
of her
she feels betrayed
and ought not to trust anymore
yes, love is a disappointment
that is her latest
definition of what
love is
but always she will
fall on the same fault
if love disappoints her
to lust she will always return
there ain't no love in there
but there is always
the cure
for her temporary cares
her ceaseless loneliness
clinging to lust
for her survival
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Witch
Eyes, rivulets of red that run beneath a canopy
Of green-tinged lashes –
Tear blood playing on the grey-white skin,
Stretched across the twin peaks of cheekbone.
That slender pillar of a neck –
Magnet of eroticism, blinds to
Veins gorging on the flesh,
Dancing under pulse of blood –
Or whatever pumps inside.
Coal-black lips word intentions –
Castigations – variations of the horror
She was born to be.
O the hair! – a flame-orange avalanche
Thundering down to Hell
Where seething mounds of torn bodies lost their souls
To viler wants and fouler holes of
Scatological minds.
And the plunge of lavish breast –
E’er the siren’s weapon! –
Baits the mortal man –
Were he to chance his hand across
The certainty of doom.
But still we go, our weakness on display –
Hers will not a challenge be to see to our decay.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Under lust rain
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
lust lust lust lust lust lust lust
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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They Lust
They Lust!
Don't let them fool you.
Under that self righteous,
'Holier-than-thou' veneered exterior...
They lust.
That's the only thing they do,
That can be trusted.
They lust.
Whether it's sex, violence
Or drugs from others they sell to bust!
They lust.
The weapons they legalize to hunt and kill,
Just for thrills to satisfy their mental ills.
They lust!
And stealing and lieing with covered up shrills!
They lust.
Don't let them fool you.
If they didn't...
They wouldn't be asking God,
To forgive them for what they do!
They lust and pray.
And take they do from others that way!
They lust.
Deluded...
By their own self deception.
And this is not admitted.
Nor will they quit it.
They lust.
It's in the fabric they wear.
And dare those who oppose,
This exposure!
Seeking excuses and remedies,
To mask their misdeeds...
Feed and breathe.
They lust!
To protect and gratify their whims!
They lust in view.
And deny that's what they do.
They lust.
Self destructing...
With a willful absence of shame.
They lust...
And it is done,
As they imprison others to blame...
For doing the same.
They lust.
While watching those who suffer.
They lust.
And this excites them!
Even when betraying one another.
They lust.
That's the only thing they do,
That can be trusted.
They lust.
It's in the fabric of their allegiances,
They pledge to keep obeyed.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If you are a host to your guest, be a host to his dog as well.
If you are a host to your guest, be a host to his dog also.
Lust? Or Love?
Some say they believe in
love at first sight…
I scoff at those who see the
truth in this.
Love is an acquired thing,
you can't love someone you just
laid your eyes upon.
Lust, on the other hand is an
instantaneous thing,
an almost life threatening thing.
Lust causes babies and disease,
It is hard to tell the difference
Between the two…Love? Or lust?
That is something you will know when it happens,
Love doesn’t come easily, Lust does.
poem by Samantha Bunn
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Guest House
Lots of people satyed
In the guest house
Of that famous dr. that lives in a greek island
In grece because that is where his house is
Over looking the greek island
yes I also stayed in the dr. guest house
Once because he invite me also
some time ago
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The host counts the loss
Woman is a host and man is a guest
In a sexual act, an accomplished act.
She enjoys offering herself to him.
He enjoys himself feeding upon her.
Party is over; the host counts the loss.
22.02.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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