e-cousins
Edward William Cousins / / And then I found the love of poetry and spoken word. And I always knew or wanted to fuse the two together.and it passionately took over my life. / I was never going to give up! And have not or ever will. It's in my blood. / / All the loves I have lost.the women.the drinking and all its pains,makes for good writing.so with all i have been dealt. I can only hope that passionately I can only give the world the truest of my heart and more. / / / I get inspiration from real life, romance, pain and life's trouble in general. But at times I love to write about thee apocalypse. As I see it in my eyes. And a bit of fantasy as well as my southern surroundings. I have learned over the years through reading and other poets work. My inspirations are Charles Bukowski, Edgar Allen Poe, T.S. Elliot, Mark Twain / Elizabeth Barrett Browning, John Trudel,Robert Frost, Walt Whitman and many more.
Floating as a Taraxacum caught
On a slow mischievous breeze
I found you my little dandelion
© Edward Cousins
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
I feel the feather of hair
Across my closed eyelids
The smell of your eyeliner, Your lipstick
Ripe as apples red
Emerald canvas below this beloved brow
sharp as a diamond
A palette to a French painting
Style and grace on the river broad
I, like you! inherited this dream
Of passion and heart for
A casual stroll with umbrellas, to block the sun
Through the parks and slow strides
and thee ripples of water along the canals
I cannot just sit hear and try to comprehend
The beauty of your perfume
I try to gather senses
Of the softness of your lips
The overwhelming beauty of your song
In Paris painting a picture of a valentine
© Edward W Cousins. All rights reserved
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Old mans hands Were charmed
Balancing as a bird on tree limbs
Flowing through a song as if he wrote this for her heart
Bellowing in deep decibels he begins to shatter
Trembling in site of broken faces
Pounding hammers on his once bright skyline
Casting black shadows against his walls and ***** floors
The world is a spinning canvas of articulate brushes
Partially to blame for backdrops of darkness
Well aware of colors hiding ,behind voices
Elbows on tables of sadness, rusted or splintered
Tacked down under the dock, of high tides of self pity
Lack there of compassionate crows
on heavy shoulders of Druids
I look down and see the shadow of a pelican
Flowing and gliding across the open water
I dare to look up in amazement at His Eyes
Staring at me
I trust he is flying for me, I start to believe
His Presence of strength and Pressures to dream.
Something to fight for
For if not! Then this revolution I search for
is just a war ...
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Jolee
if I could serenade
I would portray a song
about how I never came to
Hollywood
to see you dance in a smoky, distinguished ballroom
or a whiskey saloon
the way your eyes stared at me
from across the great divide
I felt like I could not breathe
time crept down to a moment
I feel IM in the wrong place at the wrong time
IM just writing this for you
because its all I can do
sunlight in a meadow, dancing
off the tips of your hair.
your words ,smile and skin
glinting off the firelight
in a cabin room, with roof coated in snow
I create a cliche eternity
because I will never know
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body
less charming and loving
then you would expect
it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue. like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray
I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep
try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon
I get paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ruin my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged
I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****
Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia
such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this
the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below
my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark
all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC