The sound of Sunday is not holy
Mauro Giuliani’s guitar
Is played
Sonata erotica
I hear it
As I bow down
My head
My right hand
And all five fingers
Supporting
Like five pillars
To this temple
Of an unwashed
Face
Attentive to giuliani’s
Sonata erotica
On a Sunday
I face a road
Sliced by sounds
Of motorcycles
Without any
Silencers
Sonata erotica
Flamenco guitar
Entering my ears
Resting on my head
My guests this
Sunday noon
Flamenco notes
Dancing
With dainty feet
Stamping on
My brain
Erotica on Sundays
Flamenco dancers
In pink
My eyes follow
The hands
And the hips
And the feet
To this surging
Dainty Desires
In a sense
Sleep is a stranger
Whose name
I have yet to
spell.
the face of prayer
is a little bit
sketchy
its eyes
closed
its nose
blocked
by so much
phlegm
i breathe
something
erroneous
to my heart
my sister
the religious
&
the piety
as usual
is angry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Ode To Erotica
i was prude enough
to deserve their hate
when i avoided you
erotica
my hands are bound
to the old religion
contrasting commands
between the voice of
my thighs
the contractions of my
scrotum
and the call of love
the freedom of
erotica
in the forest where the
trees tower
reaching for the skirts
of the clouds
erotica
you are so beautiful
red grapes are your
lips with dew
on a very cold morning
i shed off my skin
thrown my clothes
i feel the air all over
my body
erotica
you come to me
for i am bound by the
chains of wrong beliefs
about my fire
i am burning now
erotica
be my fire
burn me more
like molten magma
i am an eruption
right in the your beautiful
face
erotica.
i am man.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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About the erotica
Erotica is an art,
And not pornography,
Be it an image or writing.
Erotica has some cues
From where one imagine
And get sexually tuned.
Erotica is not vulgar
In its revelation of parts.
In erotica the mind also
Engages with the body.
You get love and then sex.
Only sex is pornography.
15.01.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In practice, attempts to sort out good erotica from bad porn inevitably comes down to: What turns me on is erotica; what turns you on is pornographic.
quote by Ellen Willis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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THE FLAMENCO DANCE (Complex Poetic Form)
In a juerga there's nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter's blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth, step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music's seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines' sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds, fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds, fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps mowing sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sleep is an eight-hour peep show of infantile erotica.
quote by J.G. Ballard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tomorrow's Promise
I wanted to write
you an intriguing lyric
that favored
Shakespeare and
Ovid’s erotica
but the desires that be
did not allow my
attempt of nestling metaphors
Indeed, usually the gift
of grand gesture
grants my brush strokes
the most vivid
ink to pour into
riveting colors
for your eyes only
marveling at the distinct
structure and the
deepened detail of each
line
I promise to paint prettier
pictures the next time
my thoughts reminds
me of your face
with delectable smiles
and unforgettable laughter
Tomorrow, I promise...
poem by Jason PraTT
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Vamos A Bailar
a spanish guitar
playing the flamenco
vamos a bailar
i cannot imagine
why are we still
all sitting here?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My 10th Sonata is a sonata of insects. Insects are born from the sun... they are the sun's kisses.
quote by Alexander Scriabin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm writing a new book right now that is like an erotica manifesto.
quote by Susie Bright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Erotica is using a feather, pornography is using the whole chicken.
quote by Isabel Allende
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Erotica is pornography I am willing to publicly admit I like.
quote by Spider Robinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pornography is about dominance. Erotica is about mutuality.
quote by Gloria Steinem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Diamond Ass
Asylum erotica. Yea I said the ones on the wheels.
Doomsday machinist. Flying out the window.
She's looking strange.
Nowhere to nowhere diamonds she's got what it takes diamonds forever.
You'd be surprised. Come on baby get it in gear.
Stone-face and rawmeat. Nowhere to nowhere diamonds.
Projected from above. A dead astronaunt returns. Buried in 69.
Brain is all crystalized more horrible than before, parasite sucking style.
Hey, yea man it's out of sight. Anti-christ service.
Hey, yea man it's out of sight.
song performed by by White Zombie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday Papers
Mother doesnt go out any more
Just sits at home and rolls her spastic eyes
But every weekend through the door
Come words of wisdom from the world outside
If you want to know about the bishop and the actress
If you want to know how to be a star
If you want to know about the stains on the mattress
You can read it in the sunday papers, sunday papers
Mothers wheelchair stays out in the hall
Why should she go out when the tvs on
Whatever moves beyond these walls
Shell know the facts when sunday comes along
If you want to know about the man gone bonkers
If you want to know how to play guitar
If you want to know about the other suckers
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Brothers heading that way now I guess
He just read something made his face turn blue
Well I got nothing against the press
They wouldnt print it if it wasnt true
If you want to know about the gay politician
If you want to know how to drive your car
If you want to know about the new sex position
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Read all about it, sunday papers
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Protective sex
Once sex was sin
And now it’s fun.
A sense of adventure,
A drive of curiosity,
A feeling of worthiness
An abode of erotica.
Parents grow content,
And advise their children,
‘Have protective sex’
10.07.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Musical Identity Crisis
It was a fine guitar.
My dearest possession.
The tool to escape my life,
The life without any prominence or distinction;
The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.
The only sense was from the music I understood.
The sounds created by those strings over the wood.
The notes would drown me to that world of imagination.
This was all I had for a fascination.
But it was not long that I lost my only passion.
The afternoon still survives in my memory,
The door bangs open, my uncle standing with a face
That gave away his fury,
His red eyes, the smell of his presence
Corroborated our doubts of his untimely alcoholic indulgence.
My mother screamed out Vociferous,
But the guitar did not stop.
I still don’t know-
If the attempt was prosperous
Or the musical protest was a flop?
The reek came closer,
The fingers played louder and faster.
The dipsomaniac spoke-
My price was settled by the dealer.
Enough to meet the addict’s expenditure.
The Music stopped for the last time.
The guitar was snatched and there ended
The play of notes, so sublime.
My mother would not let me go.
The dirty hands pushed her on the floor.
The sight made the anger in me grow
The addict had to be thrown out of the door.
He walked to my mother and kicked her to cry.
I lifted my guitar to give it a different try.
The guitar played a sound again
But this time it was for no musical gain.
The smash to his head made him fall on my feet.
The blood on the floor did not make me feel guilty any bit.
The Music had ended long back,
Now me and my guitar searched the identity rack.
It was not a weapon to kill,
But an instrument to feel.
And I was teased by everybody as Dumb Bill.
But not a boy of murderous skill.
poem by Saptarshi Banerjee
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Mirror Mirror....!
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Why you show me the face of this girl
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Dont you know that she is no more...!
When I shave there she is
Peeking over my shoulder
Starry eyes open wide
Smiling smiling.... that cheeky smile
Washing my face I can see
Glancing through my fingers
There she is mocking at me
Laughing laughing.... her funny laugh
About to leave combing hair
She is there behind me
Little dainty head of hers
Resting resting.... on my shoulder
Teary eyes about to cry
Half closed into a line
Pleading pleading....pleading with me
Please please please do not go....!
Please please please do not go....!
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Why you show me the face of this girl
Mirror Mirror on the wall
Dont you know that she is no more...!
poem by Rowving Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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