Musing over Latte.
Floptin sits outside
the cafe on the mall
and watches the three
plump dames sitting nearby
one slightly plumper
than the others
and as he stares
it reminds him
of his first lady
the one who showed him
the ropes of sexuality
who sucked away
his innocence one night
and he recalls
how liberated
he felt back then
how her plump flesh
flapped against him
and the sound was like
nothing he had heard before
and she said to him
sweet boy
you're a man now
you can tell your friends
you have made the grade
and now sitting at the cafe
on the mall
watching the plump dames
feeding her mouths
their chins moving
their eyes excited
their voices booming
and their laughter
sexual and loud
and looking at
the plumpest dame
how her hair
was pulled back
so and so
he smiles to himself
and wonders how
she'd make him feel
with her flesh flapping
and her eyes aglow.
poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes
A Woman Called
A woman called for you today said Max’s wife.
Oh said Max who was she?
She didn’t say Max’s wife replied.
Well dames that don’t leave names
Aren’t worth worry over Max said
Lighting up a cigarette and sitting
In a chair by the window.
She seemed to know you Max’s wife stated stiffly
Seemed quite put out when I told her I was your wife.
Dames are always put out over something or other
Max said noticing his wife’s beauty spot
And how it moved as she spoke.
She was a brunette.
Ah a brunette huh?
Yes a brunette his wife said.
Well? She said after a minute’s pause.
New York’s full of brunettes.
This one came to the apartment and rang our bell
And stood at the door asking for Max.
There are plenty of men called Max in New York Honey he said
Comparing in his mind his wife and the brunette
He’d met at a bar the other night.
She seemed your type his wife said sulkily
The type that sways her hips and sticks out their ass.
Yes I know the type Max said and sighed
They can never leave me alone.
I tell them I am happily married to the best dame in New York
But they seem not to hear Max said
Watching smoke rise upwards.
Best dame in New York huh? His wife said.
Sure you are he said taking in his wife’s plump ass
Hanging over the side of the chair like melted cheese.
She smiled and said must have been a mistake
On her part coming here and asking for Max.
Sure it was Max said dames sometimes make mistakes
They have no sense of direction.
His wife smiled at him sexily hoping.
Max smiled back and hoped for erection.
poem by Terry Collett
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Sun Block
The plump lady
who occupied
with her behind
the front two seats
of the green bus
has passed away
and no one went
to her lonely
sad funeral
except a priest
and the lady
from the sweet shop
who sold Sally
the plump lady
dark chocolate
bars each morning
and cigarettes
and the old man
who lived next door
who used to peep
through net curtains
as she undressed
in the evenings
and others sit
where she once sat
and sunlight shines
into the bus
where she once sat
and others sense
the morning heat
that she blocked out
by sitting there
whom none talked to
but all would stare.
poem by Terry Collett
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Her Sexuality
Even her mother
never knew
how much
sexuality boiled
beneath the surface
how much
she thought of it
when sitting down
in some cafe
watching men
at some nearby table
fantasizing
about them
dreaming about
what they might do
if she allowed
or while sitting
at the office typing
her mind on things
which’d make
her mother blush
the mighty rush
of images
and desires
and old Mr Fleet
talking to her
about some work
not knowing that fires
burned beneath
her flesh and skirt
that she made love
to herself
while in bed
while others slept
and even Kennedy
the office ram
would have choked
on things she did
in dreams or wrote
in her locked up diary
and once
when some girlfriend
of her brother’s
stayed the night
and shared her room
and bed
she fantasised
of touching
and turning over
and kissing
all in the mind
she told herself
just one of those things
and even later
when she finally married
and lay beside him
at night having
sucked him dry
she’d stared
out the window
at the silver moon
in the dark sky.
poem by Terry Collett
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A White Hen Sitting
A white hen sitting
On white eggs three:
Next, three speckled chickens
As plump as plump can be.
An owl, and a hawk,
And a bat come to see:
But chicks beneath their mother's wing
Squat safe as safe can be.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Don't Take Lifts From Dames
Whose car
did you get out of?
Dolly asked.
Some dame
from the bedding department,
you replied.
She’s been bedding you
I suppose? Dolly said.
No, you replied,
she’s seven months pregnant.
So you got her pregnant huh?
Can’t keep your hands
to yourself can you.
I just got a lift home
by her that’s all.
You took off your coat
and went to the sitting room
and poured yourself a drink.
Dolly followed you in.
I found this name
in your pocket book.
A girl’s name.
You recognise it? Eh?
She showed you
the pocket book.
You read the name.
That’s just some dame
whose name I put down
who’s been shoplifting.
So you say.
For all I know
you’re having it off
with her too.
Maybe you’re having all
the dames at the store.
I’m a security guard
not a Casanova, you said.
She went off
out to the kitchen
muttering to herself.
You drained your drink
and poured another.
You could hear her
in the kitchen
slamming down
pots and pans
and cursing the air.
I don’t screw any dames
but you, you said.
You’re my Sweetie pie.
Dolly came back
to the door way
and stared at you.
You mean that?
Sure I do.
Every single word?
Every single word.
I’m your Sweetie pie?
Sure you are.
And you ain’t been sleeping
with no other woman?
No, of course I haven’t.
Never would.
Dolly’s glassy gaze softened.
She pushed back
her hair from her eyes.
Ok Sexy Boy
maybe I believe you.
Maybe you’re telling
me the truth.
Maybe I got you wrong.
She turned and went back
in the kitchen.
You sighed softly.
BUT IF YOU’RE LYING TO ME
I’ll POKE OUT YOUR EYES
she bellowed.
Out in the kitchen
Dolly banged around.
You emptied the glass.
A love was dying.
You could sense it
in your bones and
in the hollow sound.
poem by Terry Collett
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He Just Sits Silently
A little man sits
silently on a high shelf
watching the proceeding below.
From his vantage point
in the café he watches
the owners come and go.
He is a porcelain figure
who stares out at all.
He never smiles or frowns
at anything that goes on.
He just sits silently there.
19 March 2008
poem by David Harris
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Memories of Love
I still remember the day I met you,
You were sitting in a cafe, with a friend or two.
You looked up at me,
With those big eyes of yours.
And I could suddenly see,
I was in love for sure.
We hardly talked,
Just standing there.
You just looked at me,
And of the world, I became unaware.
I left a moment later,
I was to meet a friend, I met her.
But my thoughts were still with you.
dreamed of those moments few.
With a heavy heart the next day,
I passed the same old cafe.
But you were still sitting there,
As if u had appeared out of nowhere.
I blinked my eyes to make sure,
But you didn't disappear.
Instead jumped up with a smile,
And I felt like dancing for a while.
We sat down together,
In that misty weather.
And talked for hours on end,
ill darkness decided to descend.
Oh! What a day that was,
I will never forget because,
That day I realized,
Love is heaven on earth in disguise.
poem by Dipti Date Gokhale
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A Christmas Visitation
Anny stands by the door. Anny
Watches as your grandchildren
Open the seasonal gifts. Her blue
Eyes follow as toys are investigated
One after another. You see her there,
Her ghostly hand brushing back her
Curly blonde hair. She smiles at you
As she lifts her eyes from toys to you.
None of the others see her as she walks
About the room, her hands wanting to
Touch the toys, to finger the doll, to hold
Against her chest as once she may in
Better days before the Auschwitz death.
You sip your beer, your eyes watching
As she sits by your wife, taking in excitement
Of voices and grandchildren’s laughter,
Her bright eyes moving from you to laid
Down toys, maybe remembering her own
Childhood excitement of Jewish celebrations,
The candles, the singing, the feel of love,
The sense of awe. Speculation on your part,
You and your tender heart. Anny studies
Your wife as she talks of this and that to those
Around the room. Anny looks back at you,
Those blue eyes, that curly blonde hair, that
Ribbon tied in the hair, those 1940s clothes,
That sense of sorrow that follows her like
Perfume. You smile back and want to say
Other words you have said to her before,
But others might wonder why you speak to
One they cannot see, thinking maybe your
Dotage has taken a turn or that you’ve sipped
Too much beer in celebrational cheer. Anny
Understands these things and much beside
Since that Paris betrayal and train trip to
Icy Auschwitz where in 1942 she died.
poem by Terry Collett
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Geraldine's Bus Ride to Work
Geraldine rides the bus to work.
She sways side to side with the
motion of the bus, sitting in the
compact human zoo, faces, limbs,
bodies, eyes, mouths. The sky
outside is an early morning icy blue.
A man opposite stares, his eyes
moving over her, his hands in his
lap, fingers playing with each other.
His eyes settle on her legs, drink
them in. She feels as if he were
undressing her, taking each item of
clothing off one by one. His eyes
are dark, deep set. She stares back
at him, takes in his lips, parted, thick
and saliva sits there. Her thoughts
move to Holly and the night before,
the game they played, the role plays,
the pre-sex drama. The man shifts
in his seat, wrinkles his nose, moves
his eyes to her breasts. She looks away,
senses his eyes fondling her tits, his
imaginary fingers groping. Holly would
have said something to the creep opposite,
would have shown him up, but she
doesn't have that way with her, she sits
it out, pushing thoughts of him away,
focuses on Holly's tongue licking the
inside of her thighs, sensation electrifying.
The man looks away, no doubt to masturbate
in his dark mind with his imaginary fingers.
Geraldine lets the thoughts of Holly and
her deeds linger, sucks in the hotness,
the scents, the sighs, the smells. She stares
at the man. He looks at his hands, his fingernails.
There is dirt beneath the nails, black as soot
as if he'd rooted in dark soil. She looks away;
Holly has set her (with her deeds) to sexual boil.
poem by Terry Collett
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Long Way Back
(bill rice/sharon rice)
(track 6 - time 3:33)
Sitting in a cafe at the corner of broad and grand
Stirring up old memories and the coffee in my hand
The waitress stopped and asked me
Honey do you know what you want
I had to stop myself from telling her the truth
What I really need is another chance with you
But this temper train Im on just ran away too fast
Its a long, long, way back to you baby
Its a long, long, way back
The neon clock is humming showing sign of wear
Ive lost all sense of time since Ive been sitting here
The waitress asked again
Is there something else you need
I need to take the hands off that clock above my head
Reset the time and take back everything I said
If I could turn around, then I would erase my tracks
But its a long, long way back, to you baby
Its a long, long way back
It is a lonely road a fool travels down
I guess I oughta know cause thats where Im headed now
And its a long, its a long, way back
Sitting at the cafe just ruby lee and me
I get feeling shes waiting on me to leave
She stopped askin hours ago if I know what I want
Yeah but its a long, long way back, to you baby
Its a long, long way back
I miss you darlin
Its a long, long way back
song performed by by Diamond Rio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sakei
yasai ramen
hot and fuming to the
nose
tongue is
familiar to the
taste of
Japanese
noodles and you
recall same old faces
that make you smile
facing the
passing crowd of
people
in the mall
the banana split
comes later
beside
vanilla ice cream
you chin is
resting upon your
fist
everything is
tolerable here
until
the toy train comes
towed by a
plump white kid
whose hands are
tightly held by
a strict grandmother
what we see
sometimes turns sour
then bitter
at first glance
everything is sweet and
we think
that sweet is forever
and desirable
smooth relationships
nothing messy
but it is never that way
mind you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Just Thinking About Walt Whitman
In the lunch hour alleys of the city,
We ate our Mexican food with the mild sauce,
Not wanting to raise the heat of our conversations;
Our plans were a rock concert at a small venue
Where the pretty but slightly plump girls scream
Drunken love to the lead singer,
And the tall man with the fresh tan
Hangs out in the back aisle scoping out the chicks;
And a few people begin to dance with missile-happy,
Excited legs spraying all over the place,
And I just want everyone to be joyful
Without punk rocking the scene with any consonantal violence,
And I always want to dig the waitress passing out the beers,
She tends to have cute, short black hair and some hip tattoo;
If I’m already sober, she will give me a free coffee
And I’ll sit in a dimly-lit back corner all lonely
And try to write a melancholy poem about her eyes;
If I’m slightly inebriated, she’ll smile and get an easy tip
And then tell me to behave myself;
Someone will bring pizza and get all-tomato stained
In the shuffle and flow of the night,
And then, when I go outside, I’ll have a fistful
Of quarters and dimes to give to the homeless guys
In some small way to pay back my debt to society
For letting me read Walt Whitman undisturbed on Sundays.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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To All The Dames
To all the dames
Wrapped in gold,
Silver fame
And fantasy, bold.
Write you not on paper,
Write you not walls
This moment be somber,
Upon the lads that call
Upon your pillars,
Languid or full of vim -
Oh the dames, your wine cellars
They fill these lads to the brim.
To all the dames, stiflingly poignant
Askew are the lads with their flimsy hands
Upon the curves of a dame so rampant
That even the gods sigh in disdain upon lands.
To all the dames who wage a war
To all the dames with lips ajar
And to all the dames who pledged with scars
This be a game of mad men, a swineherd too farce.
If I were to love
All the dames
I’d be a shabby dove
Bursting in flames.
If I could snare all the dames
And let them shatter in one of the games
Then I could bathe with the tepid hellfires
And sulk in the moments of an embellished ire.
I wish not to love all of you,
Only to tell all of you in the strangest hue
That when the heavens roared madly,
The heavens ebbed in a tangle of a woman’s melody.
This be sure, there is a flame
Never to be extinguished inside a woman’s caress.
This be sure, such fatal sadness in a picture frame
There is a mirth to be found not inside a woman’s dress.
A woman’s breath,
A woman’s breadth.
A woman’s idiosyncrasy
Over lacquer and musical fancy
A woman’s sigh
A woman’s bliss
Never a woman’s thigh
Or a woman’s hot kiss.
And so to all the dames
These are everything I know about the majesty
There are certain deaths in the journey and the travesty
All for a dame, all for a dame.
To all the dames,
Good night.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Eyeing
Yo it all started later
With the punk alligator
And Hailey was staring at me like an underappreciater
Like i didn't give a **** about what i had
And knew nothin about rap or gettin mad
Until i met LP, 50 and everone else
Went to the tour and then found kelp
Playin at the football places
McNabb and people with braces
At the stadiums open crowds
Birds in the sky, destroyin the mounds
Hope we sell out, dont want no ****
I don't want to **** to get nuttin out of it
It Is The Eyeing Tour
This Is Where You Get More
This Is The Eyeing Tour
Don't Deny It Or Get Your Neck Sore
Yo, yo, yo,
Get yo *** up!
Yo, yo, yo,
Get yo *** up!
Went to the Encore
With J to the Z
Everyone staring and talkin **** about me
I don't want to **** when i have a fast buck
Don't tell me my tracks suck
Cuz you cant do better (so)
yo, yo, yo,
Get yo *** up!
yo, yo, yo,
Get yo *** up!
It Is The Eyeing Tour
This Is Where You Get More
This Is The Eyeing Tour
Don't Deny It Or Get Your Neck Sore
Here we start at the football place
Don't diss me or your the disgrace
Somtin wrong, somtin out of place
Hailey tells me that i've lost the race!
Am i too late?
Have i reached the gate?
Where i retire or die
I can't be late!
This won't be my last tour
But just to make sure
Come around or get yo neck sour
Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo!
yo, yo, yo,
Get you *** up!
yo, yo, yo,
Get you *** up!
yo, yo, yo,
Get you *** up!
yo, yo, yo,
Get yo *** blump!
Get ready for the stump!
I don't want to go plump!
(plump, plump, plump)
Yo, Eyeing Tour
Do You Want More?
Yo, Eyeing Tour
Do You Want More?
Get yo ****** *** up!
song performed by by Eminem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oysters
Charming oysters I cry:
My masters, come buy,
So plump and so fresh,
So sweet is their flesh,
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter and moister:
Your stomach they settle,
And rouse up your mettle:
They'll make you a dad
Of a lass or a lad;
And madam your wife
They'll please to the life;
Be she barren, be she old,
Be she slut, or be she scold,
Eat my oysters, and lie near her,
She'll be fruitful, never fear her.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Above Myself
(3/30/12)
Sitting at home watching t. v.
When something took control of me
I felt as if I was floating on air
I had no worries, I had no cares.
I saw myself staring down at me
And asking myself: how can this be?
Then I heard a strange voice over my head saying
" you're alive - you're not dead"
There is a place that you must go
This is a place that I must show.
He took my hand and up we went
I felt as if it was heaven sent.
He showed me a country ravaged by war
And bodies were strewn all over the floor.
He showed me families living in shacks
Under terrorists attacks
He showed me children walking the streets
Looking for water and something to eat.
He showed me women being raped
And a terrorist putting it on tape.
He said: this is the point that this world has come to
And there is something that I must ask of you
" we need these voices to be heard
We need you to spread the word"
Then he took me back to where I began
For this was all part of GODS plan.
He wants all of us to do what's right
This should be our only fight.
"Now I see and understand that we must do all we can."
poem by Louis Rams
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The Broken Engagement, page 3 of 4
In Paris, I quickly settled my
Business, so had time
To spend with Mary. 'I'm
Taking you to dinner
My dearest Fairy Queen,
And we shall have
The finest French cuisine
At that cafe you love! '
As we were sitting there,
After our repast,
Relaxing in our chairs,
Something caught my eye.
An elderly couple came
Into the cafe and sat
So close I heard a name
I hadn't heard in years.
Then, in shock, I realized
The woman was my love
Of long ago; those eyes
Were so familiar.
Excusing myself to Mary,
I stood and approached
The nearby table, wary
I might be wrong.
'M'sieur, Madame, me pardonner,
Vous semblez familier à moi;
Nous n'avons pas rencontré?
Pardonner mon français brut.'
'Vat iss he zayink? Shpeak
Hup! I cannot hear! '
Said the old man, whose beak
Twitched as he spoke.
The woman turned with malice
In her eyes to see who
Was interrupting. It was Alice,
My long-ago fiancee
'Walter! My god, it's you! '
She nearly upset her chair;
I replied, 'How do you do? '
She had aged terribly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
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Young Lovers
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee.
At a nearby table, two lovers are kissing and making up,
but then after their last kiss they decided to disconnect
to take a deep drag from their shared cigarette
and to take a sip from their cooling coffee cup.
Placing the cigarette in the ash tray they cuddled back together
fitting like a glove with their arms around each other
totally preoccupied, giving no one else a second look.
After several minutes of holding, kissing and whispering,
and the occasional passionate tongue in mouth sucking
it looked as though they were here for the rest of the day.
Suddenly her chair flew backwards, as she quickly stood up
rocking the table, which spilled the coffee from their cups
and the ashtray to hit the floor, as she pushed him away.
She then slapped his face and shouted at him in anger,
but he sat calm and collected, and said that he loved her,
and she had misunderstood what he was trying to say.
With her hot temper cooling she decided to sit back down
and asked him a question, which caused her face to frown,
as he explained she dragged the chair closer to him again.
Picking up the fallen ashtray she listened to what he said
whilst others in the Café were drinking and being fed,
and outside it persistently poured with torrential rain.
She ordered two fresh coffees, with a deep sigh of regret
while he lit up another blue tipped cigarette,
which they both drew upon until none remained.
He held out his hands as they looked into each other’s eyes,
with a smile she touched his finger, as though to apologise
then dragged her chair closer and began kissing again.
I like sitting at this particular table in this lively Café
eating my cheese toastie and drinking black coffee
watching people fall out who later make up,
and it’s by no means unusual to see in this busy place
a few exchanged words followed by a slap across the face
and then a kiss and make up, over a fresh coffee cup.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Flesh For A Fantasy
There's a change in pace
Of fantasy and taste
Do you like good music?
Do you like to dance? Oh yeah.
Hangin' out for a body shop at night
Ain't it strange what we do to feel alright? Oh yeah.
So when will you call?
I'm experienced Oh yeah
Face to face
And back to back
You see and feel
My sex attack
Sing it
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
It's after midnight
Are you feelin' alright oh yeah
Turn on the light, babe
Are you someone else tonight?
Neighbour to neighbour, door to door
Don't ask questions, there's time for it all Oh yeah.
Face to face
And back to back
You see and feel
My sex attack
Sing it
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We cry
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
I sing for culture...
Father loves his son,
Mothers, daughters, too.
It's an old old story,
Cries the new world too.
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
We want
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
You cry
Flesh, flesh for fantasy
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Amorality
the flesh refuses to understand the code of wont's,
like a river it surges taking the route of least resistance
filling every nook, every vacant space of the heart's desire
it is warm, and plump, and always pulsating,
alive, it breathes air and fire, and sees its prey
and pursues it, and bites and chews like teeth and tongue
you may shy away, and take the code and fall into the chasm of regret
you may run away and deny what commands this flesh makes
how can you? it is you from the tip of your hair to the tip of your toe.
how can you ever deny? you're all covered by skin, fixed and held.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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