Comments Posted By Ursamare
Displaying 1 To 30 Of 31 Comments
Kitten baby. All sparkles and gems. Lying on your back like a golden soft dream. Tendrils caress her soft breasts. Her nails reach out to me and scratch. Ecstasy is an itch waiting to be scratched.
» Posted By Ursamare On 07.22.2013 @ 2:19 pm
Slaves. Bludgeoned with the axe. A fist of iron another of steel. My dreams came in a packet of lucky strikes and the will to hold my daughter with hands untarnished. I work to feed and prosper. The old fella at the top, he smokes off my dreams.
» Posted By Ursamare On 11.15.2012 @ 10:40 pm
» Posted By Ursamare On 11.14.2012 @ 1:55 am
Yes, you. The one with the big hair who parented me. You & this lousy dipshit clone society we relegate ourselves to, amid crunches of cheerios & forgotten dreams. Once upon a time there was a cave then someone drew a bison on it & a fire crackled, smelling still of earth.
» Posted By Ursamare On 09.12.2012 @ 10:13 pm
Here she was strapped in like a leopard. Her teeth gnashed and her fingers turned white at the ends from grasping the leather so tightly. Good thing she had crimson-coloured nail polish, Chanel “Fire” on. She knew what she was doing but the anticipation had evolved into a deeper, darker desire at this point.
» Posted By Ursamare On 07.03.2012 @ 7:59 am
Spindle legs like threads. You are not the sacred beetle, there is no mythic word for you, you do not roll the sun, you roll a mound of shit. You are, taxonomic creature. Truth is, to me you, are never an insect, but a god unto yourself, replete
» Posted By Ursamare On 05.14.2012 @ 5:25 pm
Ivory against bone bears the same density. Marrow is a crippling thing when considered the milky, brown essence of everything. Funny how they say we’re all made of stardust–simple–when all we are and ever were are running forms on a distant field.
» Posted By Ursamare On 05.10.2012 @ 10:56 pm
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. “Yes, us please. Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar”. Little did the tastebuds know – they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of rootbeer float.
» Posted By Ursamare On 05.07.2012 @ 6:54 pm
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. “Yes, us please”. Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar. Little did the tastebuds know – they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of a rootbeer float.
» Posted By Ursamare On 05.07.2012 @ 6:53 pm
Chard, glass, piece of self left on the “identity pile or puddle”. We call this a tribe but it forsakes its young too early. It doesn’t let us live enough. And I find myself snatching at meaning behind words via this electro-forum. This passage that could be no less hauntingly dangerous than beautiful young man standing on the edge of a barge.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.28.2012 @ 10:55 pm
gumdrops of the sky
they rise in my mind
lifting my heart
over my head
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.27.2012 @ 2:49 pm
She looked and saw the spindly form of lanky legs and dropping breasts in the illustration. Bold streaks of purple, violet, indigo and electric shocks of neon green ripped through the page in streaks of colour – it was going to be a Psychedelic concert tinged with “no regrets”.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.26.2012 @ 11:45 am
Parched. A fella. May a new verb like some offshoot of, “He’s a jolly chap” becoming, “Damn. He got chapped”. Ah the fluctuations of you, Language! Do you know how much I adore you?
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.25.2012 @ 7:11 am
Oh shame. Shame on you, shame on me for having raised you to be this loose. Shame on physical indulgences you can’t control, the zest for life you must not have, the skirts you wear, too short, the platform wedges you wear too high. Shame on ever really feeling the need for a rock hard softness slipped between a wet place between two strong little thighs. No remorse. No regrets.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.24.2012 @ 8:50 am
Mmm. The delicious reminder was what it was. He knew food, he knew sensuality. Had he said any sad cliched thing about her being dessert she would have fled. But as it stood the classic lines were not in place because everything he did was truly different and the meal sumptuous.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.23.2012 @ 9:10 am
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.21.2012 @ 7:00 pm
She would not. She would not forgive him, it, whatever he though it might be, what she already knew, too well in the deepness of her pores, in the surface of her skin, cheeks that bled-blushed crimson. Half-rage, half-silent knowing dying. He had brought her down like a crumbling wall and now all lay bare, exposed, so desperately open.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.20.2012 @ 8:22 am
Shady the Dadie. That’s what they called him.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.19.2012 @ 7:19 am
So cool she wanted to smack right, hard and fast in one of those crisp cool no-foul move sorta hits that would leave his ear ringing, her hand smarting, and his pants pitched like a motherfucking tent.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.18.2012 @ 11:37 am
Ah, the dingle, dangling jingle of those little silver cups like tiny fish against the sweet, soft curling ear. Ringlets fell, intertwined themselves and she tilted her head. “Oh, these” she said, “they’re antiques from an offshoot of the Silk Road when it passed through what was then Hindustan. A caravan brought it westward two centuries ago and my grandmother gave them to me today.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.17.2012 @ 7:50 am
Ooh, longingly. That little silk ribbon against that soft delicate little shoulder and a rich curve below. All that was need awaited one sharp body gesture–towards her–he simply had to look.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.14.2012 @ 6:49 pm
Ow! Ouch. Yes. No. Yes. Please? Yes. Okay. Fine. Blood. Smeared teeth.
Never shy. Bite again. And again. And, bloody hell! Again.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.11.2012 @ 10:04 pm
Puddle. The drop on the floor. I knew if I jumped in it–there would be no end. No. Zeno had an arrow or something, didn’t he? Don’t puddle splashes just take you back to that drop when you could still laugh and were so young?
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.10.2012 @ 7:07 pm
The lid is off, joy tumbles out like a popcorn popper dream. Only poppers ain’t what they used to be. This ain’t the 60s and dreams don’t come for free no more. No. You pop the lid off the top and it’s your brain, singin’ man. It’s the cosmic egg cracked open, only it’s like, totally your mind.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.03.2012 @ 1:31 pm
Ablaze! The fire that rose round the circle that was once a symphonic vibration known only to a cluster of stars. I am, I am, I am! The singer-songwriter of my own destiny! And life has fulfillment when you recall your unearthly celestial beginnings.
» Posted By Ursamare On 04.02.2012 @ 9:20 am
Lingering, playful. She dangled her whims in his face like a pair of sumptuous round breasts so full with the curve of fat his desire to kiss them was now inflamed by a gorging need to bite them. Hard.
» Posted By Ursamare On 03.31.2012 @ 5:13 pm
It was there in the glass, in the leaves, in the freedom to say no or yes. Every molecule fell apart at her fingertips like magic. Thoughts coming down like the gentle pitter, the delicate patter, of the rain outside the little townhouse she lived in with Marley. Her cat.
» Posted By Ursamare On 03.30.2012 @ 1:20 pm
It was o determined her, her signature. There in the cursive handwriting of the dead man she once was. A signature is a signpost. A promise. An uncompromising thing.
» Posted By Ursamare On 03.21.2012 @ 8:11 pm
Lit, done, the tribal word begotten. He wrenched himself up like a storm preparing to slay. Is this what a liege does? Call his tribes to honour, to killing? The flame flickererd again and again in the wind and a delicate foot slipped into the doorway… .
» Posted By Ursamare On 03.18.2012 @ 6:16 pm
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There it was long and short, florals and waves, ancient designs that promised a primal knowing. Her gaze fell on the carpet, she looked at its medallion and asked, “Is that me”? Am I my own mandala?
» Posted By Ursamare On 03.16.2012 @ 9:55 am