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Nýmphē
POEM
BY C
DEAN
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Nýmphē
POEM
BY C
DEAN
colin leslie dean Australia’s leading erotic poet free for
download http://www.scribd.com/doc/35520015/List-of-
Erotic-Poetry-Books-by-Gamahucher-Press Gamahucher
press west geelong Victoria 2024 P.1 Paul-François
Quinsac - Jardin japonais (1895) P.2 Nymphs in the forest by
Paul François QuinsacP.3 Paul Francois Quinsac 1858- Diane P.4
Mercury Instructing the Nymphs in Dancing P.6 William-
Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905) - The Nymphaeum
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PUBLISHERS
INTRODUCTIO
N Ahh what be this

Nýmphē
well lets say I I say it be
a Potpourri of gorgeous
scenes taken fromst the posey
of Keats juggled inst the
softess part of this poets
mind thenst shaken to let
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drip uponst the page int the

ways they they themselves
arrange where doth inst paint
inst vivid colours upon the
colour of the page scènes of
sexual delightfulness with
the figures outlined inst ink
where be But this poesy be
But more a decorative art a
painting more thanst poesy be
to be enjoyed not perhaps by
those ensnared to a
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utilitarian ethos wealth the

markets shares the “Two
“Nations” the GDP But
Ahh more enjoyed by the
o’ersexualised immoral
“unmanly” Bohemians that
be that counter culture of
beauty for beauty sake “art
for arts sake” to be indulged
by those young dudes with no
exercise andst too much of
too much beauty Ahh this
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posey be a bricolage stolen scenes

fromst Keats to paint Ohh to paint
new scenes wet Ohh wet with the
poet dreams his froth of lust-foams
that splash o’er the page with those
ejaculations that spontaneously flow
that refract the poets minde to splash
his affectations inst his fog-land
dreams which embody eroticisms inst
pictorial details sexual obsessions
feminized linked graphic pornography
for pallid anaemic flesh where sound
be superior to sense expression
superior to thought that extols
fleshiness thru the fusion of the
visual anst literary read recite
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PREFACE Ahh what be the

Poet a Poet once said “who alive can say “Thou

art no Poet-mayest not tell thy dreams”? since every
man who is not a clod hath visions would speak” But
Ahh how canst he tell his visions whenst he
doth writ andst not to speak Well I willst
tell with poor wit for no Poet be I so how
doth a real Poet speak well the Muse thru he
or she doth flow andst his or her identify doth
But go andst out his or her minde fine
inventions fine wit fine words fine rhetoric the
numbered lines with form doth But flow But
be writ by themselves do fall uponst the page
ast leaves that shower or fruit to drop fromst
the minde that do not age fromst a Muse
kissed brain all that be writ to entertaine like
perfume that fromst a bloom blows the Muse
thru he or she the poesy throws whenst the
Poets identity individuality doth go
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Ahh what be inspiration perhaps the

answer doth require inspiration But let I
say if the minde be empty thenst there be
naught for the Muse to be taught to
bring forth those flights of inspirations
for creating seem to be But to need
things with which to create new things
with so Oh so if the minde be full of
things thenst the Muse canst perform
her magic andst create thru you new
creativity So read read andst fromst thy
minde to see what doth flow whenst the
Muse to feed doth produce for thee thru
thee some new thing
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Ahh midst sweet perfumed airs the breeze

that thru mine hair didst sweep didst soak
I inst fumes of poppies that didst inst to
I didst breathe midst flowery blooms lay
I uponst a granary floor with at my lips
Ohh delightful Keats ast I inst half
sleep didst with the breath of I onst that
winnowing wind that thru mine hair didst
sweep thru that light ast a “painted veil”
that didst lift a mask fromst that sight of
I splendour rolled tingling thru the eyelids
I those orbs of I seem to burn ast
censures with odorous fumes ast incense
the poppies scent thru the minde of I
visions Oh sent scenes that naught of fact
of reason meant mysteries uncertainties of
sense no truth need I But sensations that
did leave I with no identity anhilated
individuality be this that not be me see
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Scents perfumes odours sweet that

didst flow fromst those fruit that to
mine eyes didst hang bloated to puff
to ooze Ohh to ooze that down the
throat I of I didst upon to gloat to
sniff that nectareous ooozze-born
draught of air Ahhh the bliss of
that Felicitys abyss to into to
which didst I Ohh to But seem to
flow away away away to go to float
uponst those odours sway uponst
the gulfing swirls that didst along
mine senses didst prolong that
delight those fruit Ohh those fruit
that But be gorged cunts to mine
sight that drip Ohh drip uponst mine
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flesh to But tint mine breath with

the breath of that air that to mine
little death didst fromst mine limbs
seem to enflame with ecstasies fare
of such exquisite Ohh such exquisite
Oh bliss Oh pain doth I gain
raptur’d onst that kiss that kiss upon
mine limb to doth to my toes to go
that doth to cause my woes to go to
flow around along mine limb ast love
spangles that curl andst furl andst
dance to cause to foam to along the
limbs tip to burst rillets of oooze
the tip doth freshet yields that Ohh
not the flesh to cool But But ast
ripe grape doth burst against a
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palate so fine that the flesh doth

blush for wont of more andst blush
for the thought of that burst forth
of the froth that be going to blush
at what be done to blush at what
Ohh what hast began for mine
flesh hast tasted the breath of those
cunts inst the delight of mine flesh
its amorous lickings uponst that
pulped fruit that doth mine limbs tip
to make to bloom a touch alight to
light all darkness to too light all
that wast once But gloom now
bright ‘neath trellis hung with cunts
ripe sprout glossy inst that bower
streaked with dew-berries tendrils
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were laced intertwined trammelled

flesh bloom with damask mouths
that ravened doth pout with lips ast
leaves velvet that about the head of
I doth a coronal doth make ast lit
light bright marigolds andst eglantine
those cunts lips gold-tinted with that
suns light with curve of flesh Ahh
liquid ooze ast squashed peach juice
that doth gurgle to flush the flesh of
I with crimson blush at Ohh at
those bugle-blooms so Ohh so divine
that like ivy along Oh around mine
neck doth But gordian twine
surround Nýmphē they But
smothered ‘neath green luculent
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gleaming leafs where pleasure didst

But reigned they garlanded inst
chains tendrils that around their
cunts Cupids empire onst fire those
cups fromst which loves nectar
didst But run glittering perfumed
juice fromst fountains didst But
flow to glow ‘neath sun that fluid
didst But run down thighs to mine
eyes flesh of fruit ripeness plump
flesh gourds of nectareous oozes
well puffed flesh large hazel nut
shells curls of fleshy lips to sip
those budding sweet kernels that
flowers forget the bees that to those
blooms doth swarm that be
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o’erbrimmed those clammy wells of

Ohh Ohh those temples of delight
that Ohh Ohh mine eyes those bee-
mouths that sip the pleasure nigh of
mine eyes ast strenuous tongues that
lick those slits to glut my sight
uponst with joyous delights uponst
those lips ast some morning rose that
doth spangle the dew-ooze to rainbow
hues that glint andst gleam thru the
eyes of I within the fine airs inst
this season that be so of so much
beauty now not with temperate
sharpness But the fire of desire that
flickers upon the stubble of the fields
more beauty thanst the chilled green
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grasses of spring that doth make

the scene to mine eyes a picture to
bring so warm ast some summer
days walk that these poppies fumes
doth thru mine minde these visions
doest But churn that this thing that
be not me doth it be awake or doth it
dream Ohh so real ALL doth
But seem the meadow o’er which
these gorged cunts scent doth float
along to ripple those still streams
that lay deep within valley-glades
inst indigo hued shadows shades that
flicker waves uponst those temples
of delight that doth to I bringeth
such joys of happiness where doth
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coat those ripe cunt-fruits inst

trophies of crimson berries that
wreath those cunts hairs ast
rosaries that hang to iridescent
beams thru that juice of fruit that be
But wine to the lips of I that
alight inst my limb joys mysteries
that throb andst tremble with
palpitations whenst I looketh inst
those pools ast a dream like moons
with moon-beams that gleam to seem
to ast a dream within the the water-
world that be Ohh that be so deep so
deep where doth sparkle glints ast
like gold to behold to the eyes of I
those lily shells of flesh impearled
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drops of milky-white light bright

those cunts gourds ripe fruit to their
very core budding clits Ohh Ohh of
so gorgeous fruitfulness to smell
those scents that waft winnowing
thru mine hair ast lay I uponst he
granary floor careless of all But
those cunts soft-lifted by my breath
to ripple those bubbles of fruit juice
along those Oh Ohhh pink-stained
mouths that along their brim that
blushes ast winking to mine eyes
drips that scented juice that dewy
wine that runs around mine feet
soft incense to mine flesh hangs
fromst my limb fruit-tree-stem Ahh
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Come Come to I Ohh to I fly ast

Bacchus andst his pards inst that
frenzy that doth my lips to the sky
doth float Ohh my posey uponst
wings of my delight fevered frenzy
sip I those draughts of that vintage
that fromst those cunts that be ast
some opiate that doth mine minde to
stimulate with visions numberless
be mine joys tasting I of that juice
that Lethes-wards be But leave I
be happy I that the feet of I doth
dance with joy of mine happy lot ast
if ast of light-winged Dryads my
sighs float thru the trees ast if be
some Provencal songs by drunk I
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fromsts those cunts that be But

fountains of Boeotia that Hippocrene that
be doth mine lips violet-coloured fromst
the kiss Ohh the kiss of those cunts that
doth the Muses doth to I inspire with
voice of articulate sound Ahh such
happiness be mine bliss the very words that
hath I spoke doth tell of mine joyness
Ahh Adieu Adieu those woes of I for
the joyous anthems of my joy But kiss
those cunts that with their fruitiness doth
But spread ast blooms of perfumed juicy
scent o’er the meadows along still streams
rims up all hills inst all valleys deep buried
inst valley-glades Ahh Ohh these visions
be they dreams or real or phantoms that be
these scenes of bliss is life itself But a
poppy dream thus what be it to awake this
thing not me be IT a dream it do seeem