Haiku 17 (curve.of.your.back)


The (curve.of.your.back)
Sounds through sweet flesh to me now
Fall of rock from cliffs

Cairn to your strong need
Racked by all my desires
Tall stacks of Black Sea

Smoothed blue shape of you
Warmed now with sun�s heated breath
Scattered by caress


� Amanda 2012
2/7/2012
Quote

Love�s Ambush

The Russian sniper fled
Her target fallen fast and blooded.
She, now years later, remembers
That target had once been her lover.

�Throw Away Poetry� for Hazina by MadWomanKashka
� Amanda 2012
6/21/2012
Quote

Ghost

I take the name POEtess and wander through the hallways and rooms. It�s been a while and now this place is like a tomb. So many memories, so many hearts; this was the place where we fell apart. My eyes, so aged and jaded now, see the worn carpets, the hand printed paint, the smell of cigars and sweat in the air, all invisible to that younger me, that new found we.

Avy calls me �Poe�, her greeting gives me smiles. I learned of Poes so long ago; one from pre-school, one whose songs I loved more. My lover had led me to the latter�s voice, each song a message, a kiss or bite between the notes. I catch my foot in a carpet hole and stumble up to Avy�s door.

�Hi Poe, haven�t seen you around this place; how are you girl? I missed your face.� �Hey sweet baby, how are you today? I missed you to, and let me say; you look so lovely dressed up in black. Let�s go out dancing, and chew the fat.� �Oh Poe, I�d love to so much, but can�t do that. I�ve a date dropping in soon; so stay in touch.� I kiss her softly and walk away; she has no one coming, she�s stuck in a soft �being kind� tough girl place.

Hallways in the dark, doors that once were bright openings now closed with kick marks, rusted brass name plates and hinges; all locked tight. Stairway dust and cigarette butts, and there�s the room I loved so much. Shuddering, with my hands shaking, I turn my face hoping light, that certain light that lit her face, won�t escape to confront me with her shining gaze. Down and I stop on the landing where we�d shared our smokes; and I drift down more to the Lobby Bar, where once I kept them proud and well lubricated, and laughing so loud at my cruel banter. Seated at stool�s edge, I order that drink; that sweet syrup wine we�d toasted and made that pledge to without thinking.

Hard faced unshaven guy in soiled white apron and worn collared cotton shirt behind the wood; now scratched and ringed in circled grey, unpolished and ugly, memories reran and I thought of those days here sad to say. �Hey Manda, what�s the word? I heard you�d left permanent like. That writing working well?� I study his face, a voice that rang in hallways and in passing from so long ago. Was it Neil? Was it Brad? Was I being had again? �The writing is going, at times good, at times so slowly.� �Hey, do you remember that song you used to sing? The song you sang about the sailors and me on my boat?� �Neil� I am reminded, once a prince and now fallen. I chuckle hollow and grimace at my glass, �Yeah Neal, I member, you did love my attentions.�

There�s no one in this deserted large space, this Lobby in the outer hell, I wonder about the Concession Stand, with toys, and dolls inflatable; I wonder about the bouncers, the model managers, and Stu�s spouse Peg. I think of my old friends, some now elsewhere, and some now dead. I bottom up my sweet thick drink and drop a twenty on the worn wood for Neil. �See ya girl; come back soon.� I smile and think �Yeah and I�ll flash you too.� I wander toward the exit doors, outside there�s sun waiting, and I�m not leaving sore in places best not noted, or dwelt upon, or medicated any more. Behind me the door bangs shut; and I begin to fade.
______________________________________________________________________________

4.ghost
Means that you are leaving a certain place and you're usually going home and not coming back. Its the same thing as "Goodbye, I�ll see you later".

I gotta get home to my girl. I�m ghost.


5.Ghost
To avoid someone until they get the picture and stop contacting you.

This mother fucker is annoying yo. I'm guna have to ghost him until he gets the point.



12.Ghost
A person from you past that means something to you. Like an ex-girlfriend, past hook up, someone you liked. Usually relate it to when you hook up with them and you're telling your friend.

I saw a ghost last night.
I am a ghost now.

� Urban Dictionary �ghost� http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=ghost

____________________________________________ ________________________


Quote

walk
smell
think..

Fox was there..and not..
saw you....danced by
Lost you
Me lost..but you

Saw a hare
Saw two and dreamt





Hope past



Quote

walk
smell
think..

Fox was there..and not..
saw you....danced by
Lost you
Me lost..but you

Saw a hare
Saw two and dreamt





Hope past





quite lovely and Rabbit_In_Your_Headlights (sighs) and murmurs in her sleep Quote

Old Woman

Where once
light gaiety danced
survival has traversed.

"Throw Away Poetry" for borda by "RomaAtHeart"
� Amanda 2012
6/24/2012

borda's photograph - http://fav.me/d5411ve Quote

When the Only Warmth Is From the Bridges to Love That You Have Burned

une reddition
une reconnaissance de la v�rit� quand elle s�est finalement r�v�l�e � moi
une acceptation

--------------- (franglais.merde) ---------------

a surrender
recognition of the truth when she finally revealed it to me
acceptance


�Throw Away Poetry� for Wordeea and TheGirl by ErtrikendInEnding
� Amanda 2012
6/25/2012

Quote

for those of you who've followed along the years this and my prior thread on poetry and literature have lasted ... first on the love of fun and interest of a few ... then on dudley's back, and pretty much his alone, and then on mine when i left, and left again, and came back; for those few who bother to see, that amid this place of bared necessitates, and tits, and pussies and dicks and credits splashing while covered in splooge; for the even tinier number who visit the forums and threads and realized that something special about THIS site existed ... and for you ... yes you the finer filtered ones, the tiny handful who read and are read;

The Girl Desired on blog - http://amandagraham.org/the-girl-desired/
and on deviantArt - http://fav.me/d5538p5

is offered.

For so many years, and in some tiny parts, my life has been sacrificed to provide for some younger, and some older, an object lesson of what not to do, and what never succeeds. So heed this please: This story, this small 20 some page short story; began here, in love of a model. It's a silly little thing, to love a model, and most frequently leads to heartache, and in most cases poverty and longing; but this is my object lesson for you all, who bother with me, or fear, or ha'te; this hopeful wish from me, for those who found the Forums more than a place to advert yourselves, or as in the VIP to burn models like witches; from this site, and this forum, and this single thread so often ignored; a story was born that has been published, a writer was shaped, in love of a model.

Note the cover, that lovely image that my close friend did for this work, note the credit for that work placed on the copyright notification; she and I share such a common burden; but from both of us came something of beauty that now combined places flowers on 'love' and 'longing'. It's not theGirl that artwork reflects, there are touches of her to it, small bits and 'takes'. Between my South African artist friend and I is a work that describes how from this place and ALL that it is ... love with a future can be made.

For you models, with talents so rich and deep, who come to this thread or others to seek, some positive future possibilities ... take hope away with you and see ... it can be done; just survive. Quote

Disaster

�Al�ksai! They were living in Shupa�lavi, and one time a child was crying bitterly. Its mother did not pity it and beat it. "You are crying," she said: "I am going to throw you out doors. I am going to throw you out to the Owl." Hereupon she dragged the child out of the house. A large Owl had been close by and had heard the moaning of the child. He came to the child and when he saw the latter still crying he put her on his back and carried her off. He lived in a little cave at the side of the bluff on which the village of Bay�pki was situated. To this cave he took the child. The Owl had little chi'ldren in the cave that were living there nicely.

When the mother of the child no longer heard the crying, she came out of the house and looked for her child, but it was gone. "Where has that child gone now?" she said. ''It seems somebody came and got it," whereupon she went through the houses and inquired everywhere, but no one had it. In the morning she again went through the houses hunting her child, but could not find it, "Where may that child be?" she said. So she was without chi'ldren �
� � you looked in before the sun had risen, and yet the Owl had told us not to do so. You have done this, now you have done it and we have no chi'ldren now. We were just getting our child back again, and now you looked in and it has turned into an Owl, and it will now remain an Owl."�

Hopi legends, �The Child Who Turned Into An Owl�; IndianLegend.com


This is my legend; once child woman, then ancient child. Now, I am Owl, the hunter, the deceived lover of lost women. I am Hehewuti Nukpana Powaqa; I speak the voice of your disaster. I long to call your name; I am revenge and anger. I am that ghost without hope. Fear and hate me; hide within yourself the truths that I know well. Hide from yourself what I know of you. I will speak your name and no other�s.

� Amanda 2012
6/28/2012
Image: �H_e_h_e_w_u_t_i N_u_k_p_a_n_a P_o_w_a_q_a�, by Amanda Graham � 2012

http://amanda-graham.deviantart.com/#/d55allw
Quote

Old Woman

Where once
light gaiety danced
survival has traversed.

"Throw Away Poetry" for borda by "RomaAtHeart"
� Amanda 2012
6/24/2012

borda's photograph - http://fav.me/d5411ve


I love this picture
Quote

(shrugs)

*peers through the window of the small forest side cottage* *shifts bare toes awkwardly, arches feet, rises en pointe, grasps outer frame, pulls to look through lowest edge of darkly glimmered glass*

Shadows, light, two women standing back to back in cotton summer frocks. Facing mirrored opposing walls; one petite, blonde, her back mate taller, darkly coiffed; two pairings of shoulders rising jointly in mismatched timings. 'Is it some danse du temps? Is there musique playing beyond hearing?� Arms bending, elbows angling, hands extend palms up, supplicant gesturing; shoulders rise and dropping, heads tilting in echoed reflected direction. They smile, they frown, pull up their gowns in curtseying; now danse continuing.

*fingers cramp and now she downs upon soils damp* *winds blow soft, leaves hiss, toss her hair and clothing*

�Throw Away Poetry� for Lara by AliceLostInForests
� Amanda 2012
6/26/2012
Image: �Dark Reflections� by mippieArt � 2012

http://fav.me/d55c2pr
Quote

I Dream of...!
I dream of... A life without pain...
I dream of... Love that I can't explain...
I dream of... Eyes not plagued by tears...
I dream of... A soul without fears...
I dream of... A pure, unbroken heart...
I dream of... A hope of never growing apart...
I dream of... The smile on your face...
I dream of... A better place...
I dream of... The things I could never do...
I dream of... A dream of you...

Quote

The dream

The elevator doors open and there is a push and shove to gain entry. This small parallelepiped already has four occupants. There is the mouse brown curly haired twenty something girl in the corner; her skin is pale and if it were not winter, or fall, I am sure that she would have a scattering of freckles. There is the elderly couple who I know that I have seen on television before but never together like this. There are no odors or scents of perfumes; I am probably like Mike Hutchence just damaged enough to become suicidal if I live through this crush. There I am close to where the numbers on the brushed aluminum panel are. I wait while this new group pushes into us before our fall. I know that we are high above the cement pit at the bottom of this buildings lifting machinery; but do not know what level this dream began, or where I intended it to cease.

The doors are slid away, as I mentioned, as this confusion begins; and now there is wall to walled flesh and wool and winter wear all around me. The new members of the crew of Otis 23 are male, and young, and tall, and strong. They are filled with glee and hostility. Their teeth and lips are large and thick, and the leader of the band is looking for someone to pick. Packs, they are always packs in dreams like this; and it is always the alpha hunter who selects the ki'll. He has his betas close around; they�ve mixed into our four count now. They have eyed the elderly who have backed against a wall, and a roundish acned one has ogled the girl cornered into avoidance submission. Only their and my eyes make studied contact. The innocents within are studying floors and each other. One now is to my left by the numbers, and there is one in the left forward corner; the acned one stands to right beside his leader brother, in confrontational laughter before me.

The leader steps forward and points his finger �What are you staring at?� I make no response, no apology, no stuttered mutter, keeping my eyes open to his face locked and in peripheral studies. The finger advances as he bares his teeth grimacing ugly. �Go ahead take a shot�, and his finger taps, first me then his chest; �Give it your best!� My eyebrow, freed of my control, rises arched and the other lowers. He grins harsh and wide, �Go AHEAD!� tapping his jaw in expectation. The four laughing together and the corner one claps him on the shoulder. There is that feeling of lightness that accompanies this type of travel; that feeling of faintness and adrenal overdose.

Their hands are chapped their fingers fat, except for Alpha whose hands are long and narrow with nails chipped and chewed; there is little to do. �Look how she angers, look how they cower!� this red headed leader sings to his brothers. He�s practiced in this art of imposition; he is well within a comfort he has discovered. A pack of Plaid shirts, jackets open, haired throat lines and muddied boots from where they have huddled. This pack of white skinned thugs has been grunge like in this deep woods surrounded city for centuries here in my dream world that is tilted with anger and fear and distaste for what is real.

The narrow dirty pale skinned cuticle chewed unkempt hand approaches again and Alpha leans forward �Do it, do it now, do it you�ll never survive what comes second� he hisses and his pale blue eyes go hard and hooded. My hand snaps forward from my side, my hand grasps and grips hard. My nails dig deep in denim fabric; my hand wants to rip it. My palm and the under flesh of fingers feel the shape and softness within. I do not grin, I do not gloat, I do not feel any emotion, I have given up to all that will follow, and this vice hold is my revenant lost hope. His face goes white and he statues like a ghost. The movements and laughter have ceased. There is no smell, like Michael Hutchence I will go suicidal at some future choking moment.

� Amanda 2012
6/29/2012


Music and images to accompany: http://fav.me/d55fiyo Quote

*Ravens' Carousel*

On strife and anguish ravens soar,

Hark, thou agonist; nevermore.




-original, yours truly 2012- Quote

Tool

1. tool

One who lacks the mental capacity to know she is being used. A fool. A cretin. Characterized by low intelligence and/or self-esteem.

That tool doesn't even know she's just using her.

3. tool

A sad soul who is being taken advantage of without realizing it

-"I need to get a new pair of shoes."
"I will PayPal you the money; which pair link me my darling."

UrbanDictionary


The world she lives in is the world of tools. With some, who prostrate themselves and pay for that submission the bargain is clear and understood by both parties to the agreement's terms. "Are you dominant or submissive? Will you humiliate me? What do you think of sissy boys? Do you role-play cuckold fantasies? Will you make me {do the laundry, lick your toilet clean, whip me, strap-on fuck my ass}?" These are the men who are clear and more easily manipulated, she enacts the martinet they her marionettes. They demand little, appearing with their scripts quite detailed. They offer the fantasies they have tooled all their lives; they hold the toys they wish to use upon themselves, their desires, their life histories and that of their families, marriages, job histories, real names, real places; they will offer their twisted submissive lives. These tools require the minimum of contact and affirmation and imagination. Often they require the smallest alteration in costume, though she has accumulated some specialized items, usually through their hungered gift giving cartoon driven video and magazine idealizations. Later their longing for her to become innovative and imaginative will be fed with stories read, photos and movies that she's seen. Eventually she or they will become tiresome and formulaic; they will find another to sublimate their need for control to, or someone prettier or cast more in that picture they carry within of 'She Who Must Be Obeyed"; that point is a relief to her, her attention to their increasing detailed requirements become hard to keep centered and in focus.

She treats them strictly but with kindness; there are limits to the damage they inflict upon themselves, for some she keeps their secrets, though often they will speak openly in front of others in this whorehouse world, of themselves and what they love to have done to them. Perhaps it is their need for shame or guiltless indulgence. She is not educated enough to analyze; and her interest extends only as far as her bank balance.

For some of them it is the illusion of love that is sought; they submit themselves to her in supplication and tiresome desire. They want to know her, they want to meet her, they want to marry, they adore her, they want to consume her; they buy her for hours and drown her with continuing compliments, gifts so many showers of gifts. They need to know where she lives and their constant guesses state by state, city by city, a list of one thousand zip codes. Yes she is American; and then her misdirection, now instinctual, begins; at times it is the west coast at times California, at times she randomly picks a place she has heard of "Cincinnati Ohio" "New York ", State or city?" "Florida". Her regular customers and the hangers on in this whorehouse place have learned to laugh at how this goes. "WTF honey last week you told me Buffalo?" It doesn't matter though. To most she is a cunt or asshole or mouth to be jerked off to; just a wet, silk skinned tender surface to imagine in their embrace. There is that smaller group of customers, that carefully filtered set of tools who have managed for one reason or another to interest her further; but in the end it is always the financial solution that she seeks to comfort, the rest of it is just decoration.

She understands clearly that this tool trade is reciprocal, that to many she is just a magazine photo that will obey their direction; some want her to hurt, some want her awkward comedy, some are silent only directing cash at her pussy in those moments when she accidently poses in the position they respond to; Skinner in her box. Oh it is not always acting, she does like to fuck herself while being watched, she does like to see their cum ooze and squirt from their cocks; she is young and has all of the necessary hormonally hand and toy driven moments of pleasure. She also has sufficient pathology to gain fulfillment easily in this occupational category. When asked she describes herself as Pansexual; but that is simply another pathway to avoiding direct answers; the definition is so general and nebulous that she can shoehorn any customer's needs into it adaptively. She is, in most of these sexual interactions, the easiest class of them by far, just a sex robot taking direction and doing as told. Her beauty is unique enough and her body markings and decorations simple enough to be the blank slate that most customers require for a ten or fifteen minute display. Their understanding of the opposite sex is usually primitive enough that she can pretend away the discomforts; she can convince them of the pain or pleasure of what they choose, she can create a Harry Met Sally moment before their clock and cash expire. The ability to do that Jane face and the Jane body signs comes quickly to any with success at this bit of sideshow acting. Any whore understands this.

Tools, they are and she is. After the years that she has invested in this source of income she knows what is required and what needs to be done. For the business of this whorehouse setting she is a tool to management as well. The competition between the women in this world is keen and sharp and the customer lists are carefully hidden from each other as much as possible. The other girls and she are publicly sweet to each other, compliments and admiration flow when they are seen together by the customers; when requested and paid well they will fuck each other but when the lights go down and the heavy makeup comes off, they clean their mouths and holes carefully washing off all traces of the contact between them, the tastes and smells of perfume and pussy and ass that cling in sensitive noses. A very few, only with a very few does she exchange private information, and even fewer does she feel actual hints of affection for; affection which in the end disappears in disappointment that the other girl was truly no friend.

The worst of it is the secretiveness, and the self-delusions about the extent of the influence that this line of employment induces and which can rarely be overcome. The hardest of the tools are those who become obsessed, either with her destruction from first moment, or those who are drunk with their love of what and who they think that she is, or what they wish her to become. They are hard to sway, harder still to keep away. They induce a fear of discovery, of exposure and disclosure; and so she has become reclusive and adept at dissembling, avoiding conversation and inquiries that are unacceptable to her survival needs. Tools, all are tools now in this life; she sees it clearly, even her closest lifetime friends have commented upon how she has changed. She experiences joy, she experiences affection, but now her life is deception.

This world of tools sharp, pointed, rounded; worn and rusted, some broken and thrown to destruction. With time she finds herself wondering at whether she will recognize that point at which escape has fled; and she will fall, as others have, into neglect and disuse.

How do I know all this, of her, of what it is that runs as coarse as Saharan sand storm winds on her bones and skin? How do I understand so easily the tool like qualities of this and other worlds? I am she at a different point in the history of tools; I who love her as I must not. I who am ensnared, even I who has the knowing and I who have given the forewarning. Having friends who have shouted out "Darling you know how this ends; step away and harden your heart. Escape before you to end." I who am a favorite tool pretend "Shush now chi'ldren this story can have an happy end."

� Amanda 2012
6/30/2012


Quote

the smallest noises

A case composed; oxidizing Russian silver set upon wooden surface, with finely engineered hinge wide open, spread metal book leaves shine inviting what I place within. Perfectly rolled paper containers; plant leaves Turkish and Virginian, a soft muffled thunk-ring as I drop them in.

Brushed steel case etched with golden detailed designed outline; what she gave me. Click then sparking grind; exchange of air for flames inhalation.

Beating near my ear is just outside my hair, erratic muffled tumble of pale winged plunder.

Seashore sound inside his chest, life's passage wave by wave; drum and mumble of surf's motion consumes this sand-less shore.

"Throw Away Poetry" for Romeo by FriendLostNow
� Amanda 2012
7/2/2012

Quote

A jolly young fellow from Yuma
Told an elephant joke to a puma;
now his skeleton lies
beneath hot western skies-
the puma had no sense of huma

- Ogden Nash Quote

Happy Whimsy

*dresses Jeffie up in a bear suit* *dons a red military coat with braids and buttons of gold*

"Let's play my dear until the tents are folded and put away."
"Let's open a hotel in Vienna where you can wander."
"Let's have chocolate on some quay, with sunlight kisses."
I wonder, do different cities still call to you each day?
Does carney life for a roo in costume make your heart ache?

*waves the whip that does no damage to a roo in a bear costume frayed and old*

"Throw Away Prosetry" for GentleJeffie by "aGirlInVienna"
� Amanda 2012
7/3/2012


Quote

I'm Not much of a poet but something I just cobbled together today

I sit in quiet contemplation,
A future full of apprehension,
Wonderimg what life will bring,
A nesting bird starts to sing.

The screens glow upon my face,
My thoughs locked a dark place,
Heart beats like the wings of a dove,
My soul cruelly drained of true love.

The news makes it visually clear,
Our world is being led by fear,
In life I'm not a fighter,
But wish the outlook was brighter.

Just over 4 years since you've been gone,
Forever in my mind my dear MOM.


� ME 2012 Quote

You have sparked my fire
It is roaring hot
My loins are burning
I will forget you not.

You've warmed the heart
That was going astray
With hope renewed
Lust has taken way.

You have the moves
I cannot wait
For our next encounter
To take place.

Hoping it's sooner
Than the last
And each time
Is better than the past.

Craving to delve into your mind
Opening the soul
The best turn on of it's kind
Then the fire takes control.

It is roaring hot
Longing again
For you to hit the spot. Quote