This space represents the sights and sounds that I enjoy . I post pictures here that I have seen on the web and do not claim ownership unless specifically stated. If you would like me to remove your copyrighted photographs, please inform me and I will do so immediately. I enjoy landscapes, unique views of architecture, the effect light has on anything, sensual and sometimes lusty pictures and pretty much anything that attracts my eye. Visit as much you wish and enjoy yourself. If you wish to reblog feel free to do so.

Please note that the content of these pages is for individuals above the age of 18 only. There is significant erotic content and if that offends you please do not go further.

 

The mightiest of oaks

labelledamesansdice:

submission is the spiritual song
of the gnarled oak;

sturdy she is;
imposingly deceptive,
twisting on her own, by her own
right…

rising the girth of her
gargantuan boughs to a moody
sky she worships; despite the
impetuous caterwauling
of the wind that taunts her…

as she is a prisoner, formidably
tethered to rocks…her distended
veins braided within the sediment.

Until one day,
the power within her mutes
and her canopy weakens

where it is then, the song
of her submission no longer
carries her voice

when it is said,
her clusters of brown churning
leaves counter clockwise their
dance of possibility, to
cascade upward,
accepting…

where the spirit of her
lets go, to fly.

wet messy kisses

denaceleste:

quicksilver fingers run down my body
light touches ignite every inch
your mouth on my neck, my breast, lower
i open to you, welcome you, lower, slower

wet, wanton, begging with my hips
keep going baby, just read my lips
right at the top there, and fingers inside
swift rubs and touches, i gush and you slide

i push up, you pull down, keep me in place
so sensitive, exalted, my heart’s in a race
pounding and pounding, matched above and below
i love your hot wet messy kisses down low

labelledamesansdice:

I walk for miles on a
desolate beach

each incoming wave
is only a variant of the same

and I lose track
what is noonday?
what is dusk?

As it is all nightfall
or a blinding sunrise

it is all a host of footprints
or the quickly fading ones
of my stumbling feet

The distance in stars

labelledamesansdice:

a distant star
burning brightly
eternally, it appears
outside my reach

I whimsy it to be you
always you, thus
I shall see
behind these
ceaseless tears
caught between
sorrow and forgiveness

wanting you so

mywrds:

I want to taste you
your heat and lust
your salt and rust
i want to hear you
your moan and cries
your whispered sighs
i want to make you
offer in need
accept in heat
the hunger you bleed
the craving you feel

alphonsewrites:

let dark desires
form upon the
words you write
each vowel
whispering
passion’s kiss

alphonse

prayer bed

ghostsista:

“honey, I know something about talking with ghosts.”
– Yusef Komunyakaa


My bed can always
accommodate one

more; this ain’t a threat
or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all
the stone-cold dead

fortune smiles on
a phantasmic orgy.

A gram of sin that
you can snort

down; even ghosts
can have sticky

fingers. Slack-jaw
we blame love

each time things go
wrong. I have

the host’s job of
not placing blame.

Those who slut-
shame have their

own private hell
waiting. My prayer

bed is vast, even
you’re welcome.

You’ve come from
such a far distance,

lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe

your feet with my hair.
I’ll lick you back to life.

I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash

away the dried
cum and snot.

][][

My bed can always accommodate one
more; this ain’t a threat or bet, it’s a damn

promise. Like all the stone-cold dead fortune
smiles on a phantasmic orgy. A gram

of sin that you can snort down; even ghosts
can have sticky fingers. Slack-jaw we blame

love each time things go wrong. I have the host’s
job of not placing blame. Those who slut-shame

have their own private hell waiting. My prayer
bed is vast, even you’re welcome. You’ve come

from such a far distance, lay your grave-rot
body down, I’ll bathe your feet with my hair.

I’ll lick you back to life. I’ll kiss your glum
face and wash away the dried cum and snot.

(Source: ghostsista.com)

The Tender Touch

poetrybydamonmoore:

image

How I crave the tender touch

It is the one I need so much

Through the fabrics oh so thin

Or a chance to touch bare skin

A chance to caress the hair

Or lovingly touch you anywhere

To be caressing curves so divine

Any touch would be so fine

I want to touch with gentle care

Lean in close and breathe in your air

To put my hand gently on your cheek

And have you lean in like you’re weak

I want to feel your fingers on my palm

Your touch for my soul a soothing balm

To trace the line of your lips

To feel them on my fingertips

To feel your lips brushing mine

That sweet feeling so divine

I need that feeling oh so much

To once again feel the tender touch

© 7/16/13

Your words
drip from your lips,
as though fingers
dancing across my skin
leaving me a puddle
that you can’t wait
to jump into,
though feet first
isn’t what you had in mind —
and now, the rain has settled
between my thighs
like it seems to have
settled outside my window,
dripping onto your greedy lips,
drowning those words.

by~sw (via ms-woodsworld)

Uh huh…

(via kittygory)

wordrummager:

what I’m wishing most
at this moment
is for our barely spoken
shorthand

a space for us
lean in, whisper, commune

I have thoughts
that don’t require
full explanation

tryst: in 3 parts

ghostsista:

start of an affair
basking in your heat: new stove,
new body, new fire

half-asleep in bed
listening to you telling
your wife you’ll be late

end of an affair
and beside me tonight
an empty pillow

(Source: ghostsista.com)

Carnal Desires

somehowletters:

I am no more than carnal flesh
canvassed upon earth’s offers;
I am untamed, impulsive, weak
trapped inside unwanted powers.

Though I have no such skill to resist,
since it has always been my very curse
for I am only as hungry as others,
I am only bound for what is worse.

clavichord

little-red-w0lf:

I love to watch the way
the tendons in her hands flex
and fade

as she plays the piano
of my ribcage—

her fingers gentle against
the taut flesh—

as if she knows the bones
are already broken underneath.