The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. September
FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE
The only saint in all our calendar
Is good St. Partridge. 'Tis his feast to--day,
The happiest day of all a happy year,
And heralded as never yet was May.
The dawn has found us marshalled for the fray,
Striding the close--shorn stubbles ranked in line,
With lust of battle and with lust of play
Made glorious drunk as men are drunk with wine.
There go the coveys, forward birds and strong,
Bound for the mangold where they wheel and stop.
Now, steady, men, and bring the left along.
A fortune waits us in each turnip--top.
With a wild shriek, and then a whirr of wings,
The covey rises. Brace and brace they drop,
Joining the dead ranks of forgotten things
In glorious death, the fierce delight of kings.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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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
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Flee Lust Arms!
Lust's arms are a tangling web.
Its gazes alone conjuring,
Frail souls to fall and ebb
Into Hell's unquenchable fury.
My soul was high upon the crest
Of holy thoughts and musings.
But sooner were its yearnings wrest
To idolatrous lurings.
Wild, drunk, and debauched turned I,
As lust its blood-drenched sword out drew.
It left my heart of love all dry,
As loveless lust sought more for new.
Lust's arrows are sharp and heavy
Piercing through man's entrails.
Then leaving its victim void and weary
It falls away with no avails.
True, remorse does first sooth the wound
But foregoes as lust keeps the strike.
Oh, that man would no longer play the fool
To follow lust's charms and lose his life.
The flick of the moment, the slip of time
The act of a fool in the daze of night.
Lustre ephemera, murderous wine.
Son, run from lust: stand not to fight.
poem by Domenic Marbaniang
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Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge
As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With 'pretty, pretty',
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me--
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side--
I see and hear the dainty dear!
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare.
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
'O pretty, pretty--
O dear little partridge!'
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek--
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are!
Sweeter than dove is she I love--
My pretty, pretty--
My dear little partridge!
When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty!
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby--
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our 'Pretty, pretty,'
Our 'Dear little partridge!'
Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say--
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
'Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!'
poem by Eugene Field
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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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Lust...
Lust destroyed my love
Lust pushed away my one
Lust made me weak
Lust took the one love
Lust killed my happiness
Lust is a sin I committed
Lust, I shouldn't had done
Lust got my suffocating
Lust made light turn into darkness
Lust made me miss my wife
Lust, my innocent girl is hurt
Lust I hurt myself too
Lust I miss my family I built
Lust, you were my biggest mistake....
poem by Joy O'Pateng
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Chiang Chin Chiu
See the waters of the Yellow River leap down from Heaven, Roll away to the deep sea and never turn again! See at the mirror
in the High Hall Aged men bewailing white locks - In the morning, threads of silk, In the evening flakes of snow. Snatch the joys
of life as they come and use them to the full; Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon. The things that Heaven made
Man was meant to use; A thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again. Roast mutton and sliced beef will only
taste well If you drink with them at one sitting three hundred cups. Great Master Ts'êen, Doctor Tan-ch'iu, Here is wine, do not
stop drinking But listen, please, and I will sing you a song. Bells and drums and fine food, what are they to me Who only want
to get drunk and never again be sober? The Saints and Sages of old times are all stock and still, Only the might drinkers of wine
have left a name behind. When the prince of Ch'êen gave a feast in the Palace of P'ing-lo With twenty thousand gallons of wine
he loosed mirth and play. The master of the feast must not cry that his money is all spent; Let him send to the tavern and fetch
wine to keep our tankards filled. His five-flower horse and thousand-guilder coat - Let him call the boy to take them along and
pawn them for good wine, That drinking together we may drive away the sorrows of a thousand years.
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
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Love Without Lust
Like the power of love
Lust goes on in the shadows
In the spirit of obsession
Intoxicated with greedy passions
Get me drunk
Let me say what i know
Love goes not without lust
A pair don't make two
In the smithy of the smith
Refine your feelings
Let not the sword from the scabbard
Don't give the barley with chaffs
I know love do exist
But the child is born with the placenta
Bring out the evil in good
Give your love without lust.
poem by Adewumi Joshua
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Looking For Power
perhaps filled with love
after the lust
he sought power
found it and drunk it
he got drunk
and got dizzy and
got tipsy and then he
got lost along the way
and then he said
what he really wanted
was love but then it is nowhere
to be found...
he met regret.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Have We All Forgotten?
WHAT have we all forgotten, at the break of the seventh year?
With a nation born to the ages and a Bad Time borne on its bier!
Public robbing, and lying that death cannot erase—
“Private” strife and deception—Cover the bad dead face!
Drinking, gambling and madness—Cover and bear it away—
But what have we all forgotten at the dawn of the seventh day?
These are the years of plenty—years when the “tanks” are full—
Stacked by the lonely sidings mountains of wheat and wool.
Country crowds to the city, healthy, shaven and dressed,
Clothes to wear with the gayest, money to spend with the best.
Grand are the lights of the cities, carnival kings in power—
But what have we all forgotten, in this, the eleventh hour?
“We” have brought the states together, a land to the lands new born.
We have worked in the glorious weather, we have garnered and reaped and shorn.
We have come from the grass-waves flowing under Heaven’s electric lamps
(Making of sordid cities, boyish and jovial camps).
“We” have cleansed the cities and townships: we rest and frolic and gain,
But what have we all forgotten? Did we send the peace and the rain?
What have we all forgotten, here in our glorious home?
(I the greater the sinner because I was greater than some.)
What have we all forgotten so widely from east to west?
(I—and the most ungrateful because I was doubly blessed.)
Sinners to self and to country! and saviours though misunderstood!
Let us all kneel for one moment and thank the Great Spirits for Good.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Grasshopper
Happy insect, what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All the summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow,
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently enjoy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
poem by Abraham Cowley
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The Pull
Summertime came too soon,
Summers in kansas often do.
And the air was still,
I felt the pull.
I recall the heat rising from the ground in a way.
And I knew I was the first to pass this way.
I believe I step across some line,
Or I stumble through the doorway in space and time,
Like a drunk who blacks out from the wine,
Never remembers his name.
Always feel so alone,
Wherever I am I feel the pull,
And the life Ive left behind the pull.
And in case I have no future, Ive got the past
Theres no telling just how long this play will last.
I believe I step across some line,
Or I stumble through the doorway in space and time,
Like a drunk who blacks out from the wine,
Never remembers his name,
Never remembers.
Im down, walking through a storm.
I hear a voice inside, crying,
It calls my name like a judge accusing,
Black robe hanging down, whoah,
Dont forget be brave about your love.
Well I walk across the murky room,
And theres flashes in my eyes,
I dont know what Im doin.
Like a drunk who blacks out from the wine,
Never remembers his name.
Like a drunk who blacks out from the wine,
Never remembers his name,
Never remembers his name,
I never remember my name.
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Tynedale.
My Tynedale. (Summer)
Hedgerows green, wood pigeons preen,
Quiet valleys seldom seen,
Winding lanes for country miles,
Run down farmhouses with missing tiles,
Field after field of ripened corn,
This is my Tynedale, the place I was born.
The guns and the beaters all head for the fell,
Their target; grouse, maybe pheasant as well,
A year’s work done, it’s the glorious twelfth,
The birds all released in the best of health,
Thrashing and flailing, and waving their flags,
Brace after brace dropping down to the crags.
Farmer and labourers amass in field,
Make hay while the sun shines and gather their yield,
Cutting and bailing, trailers stacked high,
A ploughman’s lunch under Northumberland sky,
The sun getting hotter as they rake up the last,
Off to the inn, refresh and repast.
Singing old songs with forgotten lines,
The men all have ale, the womenfolk, wines,
Each and all tired from toiling the day,
Picking the tatties, or bailing the hay,
All the work done, beast watered and fed,
‘Tis the end of the day, aye! ‘Tis time for bed.
poem by Derek. A. Sim
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Quicksand of Lust
Walking through the jungle
All of the sudden, you’re stuck
With him
Such a happy occasion
Such good luck
You're with him in the quicksand of lust
It's going very slowly
But it's okay
As long as you're together
Nothing else matters in the quicksand of lust
Halfway through
And you're still together
Things look bad
He produces a lever, and pulls himself out
You are left in the quicksand of lust
Nearly over your head
You begin to panic
You're starting to submerge even quicker
Oh no, what’s, this what happened?
You suffocate, alone, in the quicksand of lust
poem by Salimah Davis
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Search Party
You touched my tongue
With yours - blending buds,
Kindling minds, racing worlds,
Unifying two lovers - one body.
Tongues wrestled violently,
Fluidly, in fluid -
Juice flowed, fluidity rousing -
Endorphin storms erupted;
Hearts raged, blood gorged
Cock, clit, tit.
Search-party hands
- desperate -
Found their feelings,
Feeling up, squeezing, sliding,
Rubbing, working, fingers fiddling.
Lungs breathed - sighing, rushing,
Panting, huffing, heaving
- ciliated turmoil.
Hearts worked harder,
Forcing blood torrents;
Whirlpool minds raced,
Blinded, careless, caring, daring.
Clothes faded, cast out - jetsam.
Skin flesh moulded, melded -
Oh to split! for
Inner flesh wanted in.
Pulses pounded,
Rounded mounds flirted nipples
At the lips;
Phallus begging, forcing, pushing,
Pushed;
Ripples crossing skin dunes
Under shudders:
The Quake of Coming - coming -
Came.
We came.
We found.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Destroy, Destroy, Destroy
The battle of the beast.
A creature that only knows one thing.
Destroy, destroy, destroy.
It entered the world as nothing more then a mere boy.
Cold and abandoned.
The exiled one.
He knows no love.
He is what no one wants to become.
He lives off of lust and blood.
A pain felt hundred times worse then living on the brink of death.
All he does is fight.
Morning till night.
The battle of the beast.
A creature that only knows one thing.
Destroy, destroy, destroy.
Abused,
constantly confused.
Trust no one.
Get close and suffer.
The forgotten lover.
Neglected and rejected.
And that has created his own protection.
A self projection of what seems sincere.
A wall wrapped up like spider web.
he waits patiently for his victims.
He doesn't show any leniency.
The battle of the beast.
A creature that only knows one thing.
Destroy, destroy, destroy.
The deception is his human form.
Hell rip you apart.
Hell tear out your heart.
When he feast its best to retreat.
For him their is no bias.
He hates all as equals.
No taking pity on one over another.
The battle of the beast.
A creature who knows one thing.
Destroy, destroy, destroy.
He doesn't pillage or plunder.
He decimates and devastates.
He burns entire societies to ground with his anger.
Which causes the constant quake.
The battle of the beast.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Lust We Fought For
The lust we fought for in now just a pile of ash.
The lust we fought for was a lie to it's very last.
The lust we fought for burns in my memory every night.
The kust we fought for wasn't worth it's own right.
The lust we fought for seemed so out of control.
The lust we fought for only needed us to grab ahold.
So the lust we fought for wasn't lust at all.
Indeed it was love that made our great fall.
The lust we fought for keeps me crying at night.
The lust we fought for has me praying to turn it right.
The lust we fought for makes me miss you more.
The lust we fought for broke my heart to it's core.
The lust we fought for brings out a million tears.
The lust we fought for challenged all of my fears.
So the lust we fought for was the pain i deserved to face.
Indeed it was love from that magically beautiful place.
The lust we fought for is now gone up in flames...
Because I now know that the lust we fought for was real all the same.
poem by Erin Grantham
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Lost Horizons
The last horizons I can see are filled with bars and factories
And in them all we fight to stay awake...
Drink enough of anything to make this world look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
She had nothing left to say so she said she loved me
I stood there grateful for the lie...
Drink enough of anything to make this girl look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
Turn summer trees to bones and ice
Turn insect songs against the night
With words we build and words we break
Im drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves...
Drink enough of anything to make myself look new again
Drunk drunk drunk in the gardens and the graves
song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Drunks Denial
the drunk will continue on the path of denial
and accepting the truth is not their style.
they can sit at a table and drink a fifth of gin
and for them, it is no sin.
or they can go out to a bar with people all around
get blitzed and fall to the ground.
they will stutter and stammer
and say they are fine
and that all they had was a little wine.
they'll slide behind the wheel
although 'their face they don't feel'.
they'll start the car and then glance around
to make sure there are no cops to be found.
they'll shift the car into gear
of getting caught they have no fear.
at times they will start off at a slow pace
then they will proceed to race.
some will say they need the exhilaration of speed
to maintain the high they need.
some will say they need to get a 'head'.
just so they could go to bed.
no matter what excuse the drunk may think or say
with someone else's life you do not play.
the life you took when you could not see
was someone called 'me'.
you took my life while i was in my prime
'i was gone before my time'.
and that dear drunk is a crime.
poem by Louis Rams
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