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My Eyes Were On Your Tomatoes

I now am missing kissing.
And that's since I've gotten older...
With time to think of this,
Especially when it's cold outside...
And I'm inside with wishes.
Wanting more to snuggle close.
And I connect that to being older.

Oh how I like to dance.
And when I dance I hear the jokes.
The young folks laugh and the old ones sit.
As I dance on the floor,
Not giving a...
Well,
Not much thought of it!

And when I invite 'anyone',
To do a 'swing' with me...
I refer to the dance.
But there's a hush that is silent.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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How Dark the Night

(Copyright (c) 2006, Kenneth Scott, All Rights Reserved)
17 June 2006

How dark the night
within your tight, undulating breast-embrace of sensuality,
your torso-sized udder-breasts burying my erect virility
deep inside your satisfying breast-valley, refusing to set me free
as my rivers, my warm, yearning rivers, flow abundantly
between your massive, thirsty breasts of ecstasy.
How sweet the song
all night long, as you moan with insatiable pleasure,
my thrusting tower your lifelong treasure,
your countless gallons of orgasmic udder-bosom claiming me
with overwhelmingly sublime jealousy, undulating udders of jealousy,
refusing to release me from their amorous embrace of tranquillity.
How beautiful the lady
who keeps me, passionately buries my virility
deep between her gigantic udder-breasts of serenity,
faithfully drinking my abundant rivers of love-seed

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poem by Kenneth Scott
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Freedom of Love

(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts

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poem by Andre Breton
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Bohémiens En Voyage (Gypsies On The Road)

La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes
Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits
Sur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétits
Le trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantes
Le long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis,
Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis
Par le morne regret des chimères absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon,
Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson;
Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert
Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert
L'empire familier des ténèbres futures.

Gypsies Traveling

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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She Loved Me; I Loved Her Not-Chapter Two

Audrey stood in front of the mirror that night
with the radio on staring at her body
in just in her bra and panties
evaluating her body, comparing her body,
her hair, her mouth, her behind
to Carly's
putting tissue paper in her bra cups
trying to get them look like Carly's breasts
puffing out her behind

pouting her lips
trying on a shade of lipstick
of lip gloss
that matched the kinds Carly wore.

She put her shortest shirt
thinking to hem to make it shorter
but not too short;
She didn't want to look cheap;
she would have to hide it in her backpack to get it out of the house.

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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La Géante (The Giantess)

Du temps que la Nature en sa verve puissante
Concevait chaque jour des enfants monstrueux,
J'eusse aimé vivre auprès d'une jeune géante,
Comme aux pieds d'une reine un chat voluptueux.

J'eusse aimé voir son corps fleurir avec son âme
Et grandir librement dans ses terribles jeux;
Deviner si son coeur couve une sombre flamme
Aux humides brouillards qui nagent dans ses yeux;

Parcourir à loisir ses magnifiques formes;
Ramper sur le versant de ses genoux énormes,
Et parfois en été, quand les soleils malsains,

Lasse, la font s'étendre à travers la campagne,
Dormir nonchalamment à l'ombre de ses seins,
Comme un hameau paisible au pied d'une montagne.

The Giantess

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The face is value giver.

To know which breasts are lovely
From the two pairs looking alike,
I must know whose breasts they are.
The breasts owe their value to their face.
31.01.2010

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Small breasts

Small breasts are as much an asset; be proud.
The insecure only will seek large breasts.
Men of valour go for the handy ones.
Small breasts are an asset that humbles men.
21.06.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The hidden breasts

A woman hides her breasts with clothes;
She hides them from being seen
To betray their presence by shape
More pronounced than the naked.

Anything that is hidden means
It’s location isn’t traceable.
Breasts aren’t hidden with clothes;
Breasts are decked out with clothes.
24.12.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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