Long Fetish Poems
Long Fetish Poems. Below are the most popular long Fetish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fetish poems by poem length and keyword.
In numerous locales countrywide, they hold sway
Pirouetting at intervals like ballerinas from Bolshoi
Beauteous, feline and very feminine
Slender to the point of emaciation, not quite
Cultivating the undernourished look on a frugal diet
Decidedly austere for a longer tenure in the limelight
Basking in the fleeting warmth of an adulatory audience
A gathering of the doting kindred and the upwardly mobile
Some dirty old men on the sly, dirty young men too
Glued to their seats craning for a better view
By and large captive by choice, a handful perforce
Sitting through to pen their weekly column
Giving those they fancy their due in the sun
Witnesses to a parade of demure eyed lasses
And a few with flashy looks walking tall on stilettos
Essentially female and contoured though not prominently so
At least not to a marked degree, yet with excellent muscle tone
Opulence, no longer deemed a career necessity
Once considered right stuff, now rejected as wrong size
An hour-glass shape belonging to an age bygone
But hardly so, from the viewers’ mind, in retrospect
Enchanting and alluring yet not overtly titillating
Each in a state of dress and undress
Willing tools of designers flaunting their creations
Sporting dresses and hats and shoes, and lingerie too
In black or white and loud or subdued hues
Displaying formal wear, casual wear, swimsuits and sleep suits
Some scanty and figure hugging, others flowing and loose
A bony look required for some, others fulsome
A voyeur’s paradise, to be sure
Indulging a fetish without stooping too low
Chilly weather was never reason enough to cancel a show
Heat of arc-lamps taking care of goose pimples
Or brandy taken neat infusing the needed heat
Harbingers of tomorrow’s fashion and pall-bearers of today’s
The strobe lit platform of the pageant
Serving to launch new faces or is it legs?
The leggy look personified by Twiggy of yore
Carried through in the interim and sustained by the new genre
Captivating without doubt, and thorough professionals
Displaying unruffled demeanour and tutored bearing of thoroughbreds
Exuding confidence with every graceful step they take
Cool as ice despite the harsh glare of stage lights
And callous catcalls from boorish males
Performing in a backdrop of future fashion trends
Money and fame finding some, eluding others
Be it centre stage or in the shadows
It is bread on the catwalk for all
Rubber lover, Zipperella,
is not a brother or a fella.
He has false **** and kitten heels,
not a chest and ankles made of steel
His spiky rubber bag is old,
cleverly patched with a Marigold.
It’s been so long since he wore cotton,
and only zips, never a button
Zippy is a Tube commuter,
six foot tall in his Transmuters.
Lots of people stop and stare,
even more when he had pink hair.
Being a girl was such hard work,
every day another jerk!
Better to dye it back to brown,
play his fetish lifestyle down.
A little less attention is better,
when all he wants is bread n butter
Down to his local corner shop,
in skin tight leggings and a belly top.
He could blend if he wore a sweater,
or maybe brown corduroys would be better.
That’s what a woman would ask,
it had happened in ZIppy's past.
He’d had a wife who he'd loved dearly,
but she couldn't understand him...clearly.
Take off that dress, put on some trousers!
What about mother, think of the neighbors!
It went on like that for years,
lots of heartache, floods of tears.
Even though she was his lover,
he felt like they didn't know each other.
Then on a bight and sunny morning,
came the last, the ultimate warning,
‘Zippy, I want you as a man;
you’re turning me into a lesbian!’
He was forced to wisely choose,
the rubber-wear would surly loose.
He had made his vowels for life,
how could he just leave his (darling) wife?
The only decent thing to do,
was to be loyal, to be true.
But then depression set right in,
when all his beloved rubber was thrown in the bin!
Time stood still for a couple of years,
lots more heart ache, stress and fears.
For he missed rubber in his (now) sad life,
more than he would miss his nagging (dear) wife.
This could not go on forever,
he needed a friend not a jealous lover.
Maybe she didn't’t like his feminine side,
but Zippy loved dear Zipperella with pride.
So one sad day they said goodbye,
with no questioning or reasoning why.
It was how it was meant to be,
she was free, and so was SHE!
Alone again but not as much,
much more honest, much more in trust.
For Zipperella loves all things feminine,
now the woman he holds dearest lives within…him.
(Author Notes
fella: man
Marigold: washing up gloves
Tube: london underground
Transmuters: a brand of boots with frankenstein style heels with big studs)
The huge sky overseeing the emerald and bluish earth...
wouldn't be the only sky in our incredibly diverse Universe,
if limited sight weren't the obstacle to the awesome images that surprise couldn't conceal;
but many more galaxies hiding their splendid suns and planets,,
are still unknown and Man, overtaken by such a magnificence, expresses
himself in more atheistic ways not to compromise his own foolishness!
If we declare faith non-existent, cupidity can become our fetish...
filling us with more rampant pride to enforce its hypocritical seal!
More universes, like ours, lay dormant in their stillness,
" And will life be found on them? " is a question too inconclusive
that we can only answer by being so compellingly delusive;
more universes await the discoveries of the intelligent mind,
to lay out their awsomeness and beauty to discard the thought of finding life,
impelling us to preserve ours, not to destroy it by valiance or insanity!
Search history's events, are we capable of pursuing happiness...
without conquering and proclaiming our power with mighty armies?
In ancient days, they created unrealistic gods and goddesses...
not conceiving that the Supreme One wasn't a god in human form,
but rather the Invisible One, who often scolded them for their wickedness;
so in stone and marble they continued to sculpture divine faces
that the common people hailed and worshipped, and would they refuse
to obey their tyrant's wishes: their worthless lives would be taken...
and did Paul, the follower of Christ, go back to that cult so perverse?
We know, from the Holy Scriptures, he was converted and put down his sword...
More universes more magnificent than this one,
can be discovered and inhabited if they are livable;
and scientists are working hard along with astronauts to accomplish our dream,
and who isn't excited and show interest to take a voyage into the outer space?
Navigators ventured on perilous seas to attest that their concept was solid and real;
we, with more sophisticated computer science, are groped by the unthinkable!
Persuaded or not, discouraged or doubtful, researches must continue at our expense;
and what if we were successful, wouldn't everyone be taken by shock?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Shall I relay a sidesplitting hoot from my “care-free” on campus fun phase?
It entails a laboratory session involving three mystic world colossal oafs.
One had an unerring penchant for Laurel and Hardy mishaps, the other this beautiful dreamer whose attention span rambled for miles.
a meandering focal point tourist with no yen for one spot or one task.
As for me the fault-prone narrator I had comic book deficits too.
Pulitzer Prize petty fog pinpoint, fastidious fat head by gum!
At the hearth of this tale is a chemistry prep that was doomed from an innocent outset.
It was aptly enough “Anodyne,” this soon to be splitting head bushfire.
From uproarious weighing scale howlers, to starter material gaffes, to say nothing of sequential missteps, Mount Everest blunders galore.
Our ill-fitting glassware threw tantrums, miscellaneous beaker’s burst dams, reactants rose up, a calamitous farce, they shed buckets of organic stuff down the sink.
For all my precision I seemed a right goof with this risible maximum brownie point fetish.
My beautiful dreamer close comrade who by turns Walter Mitty pale stand-in now immune to chaotic abandon at large.
That accident-prone other pal
would be every insurer’s worst nightmare.
Nearby class mates could barely restrain widespread glee at us laughing stock hapless quaint bunch.
The poor teacher in charge had a seizure, quite gormless, green faced and gobsmacked.
“I wonder what next can go wrong.”
“Quite frankly I shudder to think as you merry buffoons soldier on.”
This thunderstruck teacher was known as the “doyen of do it right down to the dottiest detail.”
After a humorous pause his eyeballs rotate in jocular mode then made a ginormous grand gesture.
“Put this jinx ridden self-destruct day in some tuck away memory file.”
“Write a one page report, say the gremlins prevailed and I’ll give you an average mark.”
“For goodness sakes don’t blow this offer like you’ve nearly blown
up my whole group.”
On an ironic note “doyen do it right” gave a brief safety course start of term.
It seemingly fell on deaf ears.
I’ll be blowed as my parents once said when life took a damned awful turn.
We three “Einsteins” in technical garb almost were, blowed that is!
Posted ; 11th January 2022
All these racists with their lies,
filling the airwaves with propaganda and strife,
Stalins with soundbytes, Magellan their drivebys
the pasts dead end street -topically jacknifed
like it was the only course for a heading, point A to point B.
We pedestrians to lame a detour again, hobbled by peasantry.
But yevolt! Herr Commandant! the halt needs to screech,
only, the rich like you aint in the inner city!
we aint all nazis,
rich republicans or democrats of opportunity
those tobacco cotton czar b*tc**s aint got nothing to do with me
But for you angry youngbloods I see that your blinkers is on
,
flashing inequality, white privilege, and the radios singing that song-
"and the beat goes on and on and on", sheeples, 8 mile,
single file through Babylon.
yes we see you getting pulled over, and aint done nothin wrong
didn't join a gang or messover someone
How would you act if you were the privileged of hip hop and R&B
Say there's a lack of opportunity?
Like a cat coloring the kettle black, while the cauldron is full of Crystal bubbly.
No, you know love and understanding is a two way street
Now about Mr. Cam Newton and his claim at being a "different breed"
Sounding a bit like a young hitler, a complex of superiority
Now I know there's 31 flavors choco-malatto- San gusto consuella-injustice- demingo-......
so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap,
make people suck on your chocolate dipped cone of invincibility,
pop cultured froyo with extra cream
bet it makes the taste of vanilla a fetish treat,
out of spite, cause African got some ultra fine honeys
how do you think they feel when you got a fetish for something not a bit more sweet
leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality
too much high flying, smack talking,
mainlining, cult of punk personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
I think you better stick with a spoon,
dig your way out of the backstabbery
a silver one for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle, big man blue
"but they never considered me"
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously, just you?
Finally
Doctor, it's been 7 months
The MEDs aren't kicking in
My dreams are getting stronger,
The blood remains to run code red
It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed
Dark images keep taking place inside my head
The voices - The voices, are not all right!
I no longer lay laughing
The screaming never stops
In irons, my mind rattles
Theses thoughts are all I got
In slow motion, my mind plans the perfect plot
Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
Counting every single second on the clock
At first, I could not breathe
I felt, I was left alone,
Broken down --- Incomplete
In your eyes, the schizophrenia spoke loud
In my eyes, everything is dark and gray
Doctor, now listen closely, open your eyes
While the walls slowly close in on you
I have my hands around your neck
Finally, I feel my arms, the needles are gone
Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
The tightening of the chest is clearing
Today I possess a little more than yesterday
Knowing exactly what needs to be done.
DOC YOU AREN'T LISTENING!
Was it all for nothing, the bloody wrist?
The faucet constantly dripping every night
The voices I call my friends
Deep, deep down,
I'm still a child, painting bedroom walls
Setting fires after my mother's death
A crazy peril in its most threatening state
Doc, here you are again,
No longer will I allow you to waste my time
With your fetish lies, trying to make me better
The problem is not me, it was always you!
Painting pink butterflies and white skies
Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
Don't you understand she's dead!
Pills aren't going to bring her back
Padded rooms aren't going to help me,
Help myself --- grieve the proper way!
Straitjackets aren't going to restrain me,
--- from wanting to hurt badly!
Psychologically, I'm perfectly sane
Expressing my emotions a different way.
Doctor, you're not saying nothing
You're not moving,
You're just sitting there pretending to care.
Doc, I hope you aren't mad?
The voices explained it had to end this way
How else could I make you listen?
Finally, the impulse is gone
Finally, I'm going to be alright
by: Pd
I think, there are ghosts.
They stay quiet, the ghosts do. Mostly quiet and invisible. You would hardly know there is one there in the room with you. They are there though. Watching, haunting really to think they linger on, just to be voyeurs. I don’t feel like I’m being watched though. They don’t even have real eyes, they have ghost eyes. I think that’s why they are lost, they can’t see where they are going, not in any discernible way. But they do follow. I can’t talk to them because their vocal chords are much worse than their eyes. They are quiet, mostly.
I hear a clang, a splat, squelch and a bong. It’s like the chimes of a clock striking but it’s a clock that has forgotten it’s a clock. Maybe it woke up too soon and thought it was a tomato today, or perhaps a lima, I can’t be sure. That sound irks me, only it’s, I don’t know what it is they are trying to say. I don’t speak ghost and ghosts don’t speak.
You may wonder why, I believe in ghosts. You may, if you don’t. I don’t need to believe, they are there with my knowledge or not, watching. It is, as if something happened, or will happen. Well things happen whether you believe in them or not.
You never saw a tree fall in the forest when nobody was around but you believe it makes a sound? Perhaps you don’t. You believe in gravity and in the sound mathematical equations you can preform to accurately predict orbits, acceleration and tension? Perhaps you don’t. You believe in oxygen and the carbon cycle. Perhaps you don’t, but that no more stops it than a finger stops a running tap. By any means, belief is not important. You can believe yourself to be a monkey and still believe monkeys capable of writing Shakespeare. You can believe you are a woman, and so you should.
We are not living in a time of truth. We live in a time where the truth is second to nature. Or maybe just second. Second to politics, second to wellbeing, second to matching socks. Where did those socks go? I can’t imagine ghosts have a foot fetish. Don’t suppose they get some thrill embarrassing those caught with odd socks. No, ghosts don’t steal socks, it is the washer that is the real kingpin in that racket.
CHAKRAS BOLD
HE designed root red via
a laugh so raucous creating
world wild rumbling random
rubies rolled ruling red
thunderous winds whirling
shimmering shocking floods
Emperor Supreme spearing
stimulate Mother channels
birthing babes to cuddle
sword sheath bloody
red is my beneath !
HE designed my womb
occult oracle orange
oceanic openings obliging
receive that which swims
into the deep to hear
obituaries or observe
creation’s octahedral
cathedrals octaving to
behold bold olive and oak
OM is where I rest divine
operatic orange sublime
HE designed my navel
with its surrounds golden
solar yellow mighty ignite
magnetise miracles for
better sight savouring
power for hours exuding
fires roaring pouring will
enduring strength for miles
and miles adoring gold
burnished bold plexus
platinum yellow nexus
HE designed my Heart
full blown DaVinci art
Picasso could not compete
green moss spring soft
therein pirouetted daisies
in swirling whorls fading
Mozart’s maddening
crescendoes crying
veils upon veils to
enticingly whisper
‘Come, bride, come’
HE designed my throat
a singing topaz blue
so true to cobalt hues
anew each teal
dolphin silent sprang
Truth trout sighed
sky blue signal smoke
softly sowed sweet
royal kaleidoscopes
herald harmonic hopes
pop songs wrote
HE designed forehead a
deep indigo isle circled
in vintage fashion
twisted ivy presented
EYE of all eyes an
empress ringlet ruffle
to and fro pondering
pupils so deep diving
turbulent storms to keep
in comfort who adores
my adorings roly holy
On my head Valentine
Supreme valanced a
valuable vortexed venture
vaned a thousand petals
a halo not exposed to
winged shadows shady
so my wondrous wispy
wisdoms you may emit
from this lotus crown fast
feather ferns fathom to
fit fetish dream atoms
O ! Lord of Lords !
in red orange gold
green blue indigo
white to sight heights
I bathe in your colours
behold arms embrace
so chaste to post my
poems in coloured
posies haste so
comely these chakras
choralling
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2025
After a wonderful late afternoon walk in the park,
my wife and I moseyed over to the Japanese Hibachi Grille for some dinner.
What we got into was some good old fashioned drama down at BeniHana...
You see, I got me a fetish for shiny cookware,
so as the patrons' eyes honed in on the iron chef
dicing up onions, shrimp, and chicken...
mine were busy fantasizing about concealing Ginsu knives
clankin' in the kitchen.
"Brew Silly began his routine with the hot fire volcano bit
atop the flat grille.
In the distraction, my sticky fingers began reactin',
slippin' utensils inside my zipper, for a thrill.
Things started heatin' up as folks were eating up;
Spatulas started flyin'!
Mushrooms were a fryin',
My conscience stopped trying...
tired of getting beaten up!
Now, if I told you I was lookin' at what was cookin'...
I'd be a lyin'.
I mean, I was really tryin',
but the devil had me by the klepto-hands...guiding me.
Riling me up.
He said, "Go for one of them Wok's! Do it now Big Dog!
Get yir rocks off! Knock yir socks off!
Quick man...sly like a fox, Hoss!"
My heart said, "No", but my head said, "OH HELL YES!"
Sadly, I was in cahoots with the devil,
bass mixed with treble,
trouble poundin' in my chest!
So guess what came next?-
I grabbed one of them big brass bitches,
signaled Jessie's ass with a quickness,
and started gunnin for the door!
Of course, my good hearted wife started whinin',
"Honey, I wasn't done, now what are we leavin' for?"
"Listen baby, I'll explain later.
Right now it's time to go!"
As we passed the pretty little hostess,
she banged the gong and said real fast,
"AHH, Tank-You Berry Much F'wor Cummean Fwolks!"
We jetted towards the park, but it was getting dark.
My legs began to fail. The cops were on our tail.
We tried to walk and play it off, but it was no use.
We should have stayed and ate our food,
and drank our brews with "BREWS!"
The pigs threw me to the ground,
then began to squeal and bark.
They tossed us in the County Jail,
twenty thousand bail...
____________FOR TAKIN' A WOK TO THE PARK!!!
~"True story ={WinK+Wink}
They said a ticket to a man's heart is his stomach!
seduce him with a hearty meal and a strong drink and you have his attention and maybe,
possibly, friendship for life. I know many of them, men that is, I know many for life. They
search, they hunt, the lurk like trolls too sometimes, but I see the innocence within them
and they try and they struggle.
When a man is pushed, he can make some crazy choices, many he can't reverse... and for
what? the high? his pride won't let him bow? to admit he is not always strong! and mostly
weak and he beats himself up hourly, daily, what has he done wrong, how can he live that
dream? how can he live out his desires.., his little dark secrets from whence he was a BOY.
BOY or man... what the hell does it matter? The time is now, he can only think for the
moment because nature has him this way. Is extreme his choices of fun? Exotic meat on a
grill? burnt black on the edges and aroma of it in the air... or a slab of curves and with dark
hair on a table. All one in the same.
Does he search for a mate or a ****, a whore..... what do you call them.... the one with no
strings attached and she lets you do what you want? perfection? or have you found a
computer that has welcomed your virus and now you are in control. For even if you let her
lead you very well and know that you still have her in your control.... it's okay, I would
have done the same or more had I been born with balls.
So now what? Well... you will never have the skeleton key for all these locks, Walk or Run
to each door, open...close...open..close.. Don't look down the end of that hall Sir, it gets
further and further. Turn around and look behind you, you can't even count all those
doors...
So what to do? nothing you can do, it's in your nature. Your mind will only give you so
much information, just like a search engine on a computer, also invented by your kind. you
will have to carry on with the game of Breast, men in vest and fine SUV's, Curves and
****** round-a-bouts and fetish delights.
P.S: try flipping your meat on the grill more often, it helps too with spice.
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