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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter  8/20/2014 7:21:23 PM
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Fantasy III

Should I lean to my advantage,
Dare appose my lips? -
Would she hers?

What sips from that delicious wine
Might do for me?

Cleavage, snug in black,
Taunts a thought -
Plains of areolae
Wait in for evening,
When she relents to blood-filled hands
Hankering, restless;
I'd render her as art,
Track her curves
Like pencil over tracing paper;
Be her pioneer,
Charting out the waves
That silhouette her form…

A signal -
Glint of eye -
Flash of moment,
Teasing, telling play of naked forms,
Euphonic moans tuned to sleuthing fingers:

Therein the jolt; I move,
Accommodating balance.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
Mark R Slaughter



Fantasy VI

Ride of butt'ry skin! -
Such beauty-sin,
Sliding down a buttock.

Now, at crack base
Another chase
Perambulates the mind -
And so I seek
Thro' ruddy cheek
Another fair behind;
But I am spoilt.

At eye-limit:
Brain waves assimilate the view,
Contrive a land of breast-alps
Pouting at the sky -

Nipple-sirens calling -
Porn-blue air obliging,

And echoes -
Flitting girl-calls
Share the bounce ‘n flounce -
Their frantic lines glancing
Off the flesh-heights
(Ever had a sound-wave massage?) -
Botty-ripples playing.

They cry for me:
'O climb for me
And hail the highest mound -
See? I bare the cherry-best,
And coupled with an open thigh
Across the woman-moistened ground,
You've not a need for any breast -
Heav'n quintessentially found.'
Mark R Slaughter




There was no love

-at most deluded hope
and one deluded guy-

No ‘us'
Or ‘we'

- I've one illusory night
all told-

Our fate will e'er belie

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
Mark R Slaughter



Field Of Thought

Morning mangles,
Drags in the coffee craze;
Eyes hang heavy –
‘Tis a cast of hoary fags
To court my nicotinic lungs;

And I fall to Earth again.
The world remains
Fresh-air drenched

Heady swathes of yellow-ochre flowers
Preaching to the wind
Try to tell me all is well –
O how they lie! –
Maybe once
Upon a while
Upon a day
In cool winds
I’d play across a file of strings –
Resonating tonal airs caressing words
To render songs of careless climes

Back Inside
My head-clock
Digitizing periodicity,
I stretch, recoil towards it
Through introversion,
See it waning in the backdrop –
The plane of black
In which my head rests;
And as you know,
Nothing in a brain aglow
Is all it ever seems:

Echo eggs bounce along the sand
In duple time;
Yolks, that are the folks –
My goal, to toast –
Would offer up a loan,
For I am on my own
Toying on a ragged plain of memories

Over here, across a field of thought,
Cerebral blues hail! –
My winter cometh
(In all seasons!):
She sees I never heal –
Even in the beauty of
Her icy scene
She’ll not save this myocardium –
My little engine
Giving life

So please don’t wreck me
In my illness –
My brain, it falters
Under pressure of its cranium.
(I’ll never get to grips with
Existentialism) ,
Beg to rule

Now we see internal gatherings –
Their meeting place: My Head…
A parasite is warming in the flow of nerves
Begetting memes –
‘Tis I,

And on…
Tho’ green, ‘tis long,
The song
That I have been –
And O! the words –
I nearly pray…

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2014
Mark R Slaughter
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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter