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You’ve published your rhymes in print


That’s the shortest way to put it

On a shelf. Now the book proudly lives

Through the eyes of those who read its lines



I wonder why some saw some sun in my blue night

After I did. Darkness and light where? always here

Unequally balanced, always starting a fight

The aesthetics of my mentors, my atmosphere



From France to Bei-

Jing to the Sea

Ty by the Bay

I write swell





The ocean is organic

Odyssey, *******

With the liquid it lifts

And lies back down

Both an eden and an abyss



So is my soul, swerving

In the current, red like,

Redcurrant

Poetry is debased

That is, recurrent.



August 30, 2017

Lyon
https://squirrels2poet2queen.deviantart.com/art/All-is-s-well-701737550
Craving the crack of the whip possessing the flesh
Before it hits the air, the breath of the bound captive
Hearing in the silence of the caressing hand a touch
Pored out behind the shackles, the feathers, the rules
Trying to make sense of the frustration and delusive
Desire of the entangled ******* rough and intricate mesh
Taking off all misunderstanding, embracing your blush
A sort of rituals of carnal, Sir, Mistress, Save Our Souls.

Bound to love the feeling of expectancy in a dark room
Dealing with all traumas and successes bending a knee
Savoring the exquisite or frightful balance of pleasure
Muttering an ****** language known by all yet dreaded

A scene in which your persona stages a fantasy
With a consenting partner or in your mind, it is easy
There is no self-help book for this topic, it all takes place
In your body and your heart, you decide if you keep pace
Power plays challenge your equilibrium, your lust
Whether you believe in a prophet or in flesh and dust
The beginning is near and she carries all your hidden rites
If only you would disrobe and lie down in many of your nights.

Lyon, July 28, 2017
11:04 pm
A discussion on ****
Marine stretch of many mysteries
Dome of underwater dreams and miseries
Home of many a shipwrecked ship
Score of a mermaid, the waves her luscious lips
I bathe in the salty swerving swell:
My ocean and sea, I know you all too well.

The Atlantic and the Pacific were adamant lovers
They made my head and body spin
The rolling waves made a tumbleweed of me
On a bed of pebbles, sand and broken shells.

The Aegan was cold but inviting
A pathway of black urchins paving
The way for the deep and intimidating graves
Of many foreigners Greek gods and runaway slaves

I answered the call of the Indian Ocean years ago
A normally peaceful lagoon had a wave hit my thigh
I remember the rising and falling of life wherever I go
I most cases it is, of mindlessness a sigh.

July 17,2017
Onboard a train from Chalon to Lyon
Memories of your heartening smiles
You are an Angel of America across the screen
Of voyages. I’ve pinned your words
Papers and thoughts of the utmost kindness
On the window of my soul, of a one-of-a kind gentleness.

I remember your office and that smell of Christmas cookies
Permeating the air. In the middle of March, silly senses
I believe meeting you was like stopping
In the middle of a mythical glade, embracing a wild wholeness
Your voice, like Virgil’s through this dismembered (s)hell, second circle
Guided me.

Last night, under the canopy of Zeus as Taurus, beloved
Europe, I let my guard down and Orpheus handed me to Morpheus
You were here, alone in a bare room, I joined you, I just knew
It was you.
You wore a tight grey shirt and I put my head on your lap
Relief of the dream state
Queer, good, silent, compassionate.

In that dream, drained, dreary, I desperately donned your tenderness
Raiment of an enlightened being, soothing.
When I woke up with this odd sensation of well-being
I just knew, it couldn’t be otherwise
That I had seen you, your keen, wise
Eyes
And I arose anew
I just knew
It was you.

June 28, 2017
5:08 pm
Lyon
A poem I wrote to my Media Studies Professor, James Tobias, who's given me all, at the University of California, Riverside.
Dreamy thoughts I indeed had in a dream, last night.
To Allen Ginsberg and Frank O’Hara


Come out, ye boys of my literary dream
Frank, stop discussing this Rembrandt painting
Take a good drag like I never did, and come out
Down the street, down the ***** ***** days of madness
Allen, talk some sense into these selfied statuses
Come out, ye boys and talk into the microphone
Loosen your tie, Frank, show us some real art
Lose it on the sidewalk ye boys and let’s break
The rules, the locks, the prisons of the soul
Addictions, fears, anxieties, inanities.

Come out, ye boys and throw some rhymes to us
So we can think about ourselves while worshipping you
So that some people out there can stop *****-shipping
Sending our lukewarm bodies and fluids against the wall
What would you say Frank, of all the Rivers who
Try to reproduce the beauty of the human body on screen
Without the aesthetics, without the knowledge
Of what love means. Garter belts and welts, is that all?

Come out, ye boys and let’s be graphic, let’s be artistic
Teach us how to spread your love your legs and your legacy
Pass on this fearless gait, this adamant will to keep on
Despite the junk of our cities down the ***** ***** streets
Come out ye boys, admirers of poetry and people
Come out under a rainbow or a ring, SM fans or prudes
Let’s march on an on an on down our ***** ***** streets
With ye, boys.

June 21, 2017
Lyon. 10:36 pm.
Writing a Master's Thesis on the queer poems of Allen Ginsberg and Frank O'Hara. Couldn't write poetry for a month
Desperate to grab the grail of words
we decide to share our joint thoughts
to introspect our vision together
of what it takes to write two at this hour

Pen and paper, one
writes witness into the mind of the other
and meets the timid point of punctuation, followed by
the exasperation of words
it only follows

rules do not apply
nor does a simulacra of similes
the enjambment is our language
that we create we can
misplace
is it our native tongue so much so that
poetry never needs to be learned?

The friendship of thought to process
Relays poet to poem
to poet
And poem again

It's with you now
          I walk
Our eyes along the same path to troth

It's truth is spoken
Between lines, it's in the heart
Our paths, alone, come together
Its friendship Is art

Dialogical process fill in
the blanks at  1:01 4:01
p.m, hey aim
For the sweet link we proudly
discovered and shared in eyes and ink
Both black.

It's lack of light
Where the sun of the one seeks the night of the other
It's days and nights; mark hours... asunder under calendar
And daydream of once and again seeing the same sun face the marvel of the other

We are time traveling, air traveling through words
book a seat at the airline company of poetry
What the other sees in the sun sky above her
the other thinks of under his night sky
the thought of one never cancels that of the other
We trod on the same path
Me with Ginsberg, you with Plath.

Written jointly by Appoline Romanens first, third, seventh and ninth paragraph  at 1:00-1:27 pm, Lyon, France and by Jesse Altamirano, second,  fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth 4:00- 4:30 am, Riverside, California
May 23, 2017
A little writing experiment I proposed to my fellow poet Jesse. Title of the poem is due to a class we took together at the University of California, Riverside, in 2015.
Life
Baffled.
What befell
Our civilization
Is hell. There is no heaven
When religion is mistaken
For a token of radicalism.

Death
Rejoiced
What brought her
Our people
In a living inferno.
There is no pourparlers
With terrorists and benighted
Souls.

Manchester
These people are heathens
No virgins await them up the heavens
But the cold-blooded sight of a bleeding earth
Stigmatizing those out there who protect their hearths
In tears, facing the West
This is a waste of our so called civilization

Jews
Muslims
Christians
Buddhists

We aren’t.
We are humans.

In the aftermath of the deadly attacks that befell Manchester Arena, May 23, 2017.
Lyon
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