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 shibari 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 erotic 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 BDSM

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

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 dirty dirty 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 whore-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 dirty dirty 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 dirty dirty 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.

terror is feeling like you're losing everything: your mind, your friends, your family, your sanity, every single unique characteristic about yourself, and knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it

You keep your secrets from me
I have to seek them out
You keep them hidden in you pages
Tucked away from my doubt

When you think you could
and feel you should
but know you won't.

i.

i taught you
that it is okay to treat me badly
because i always
accepted and accepted it
hoping it wouldn't happen again
but that was just showing you
that you can do it
again and again
until there was nothing left of me
and i hated
hated
myself
for teaching you to treat me
like i was nothing

<font size="22">“Can’t fuck every day” is what he said
Hello, we don’t even.
Formal French frankly thrown away
Shock. No.
Scenes of SM and secret desires swirl to me
Wave of pleasure, literature of the flesh as well as poetry
All gone with the air of his breath. Breathe. No.

Can’t withdraw the ideas of fantasies
Can’t fight too long against love’s urges
Can’t deny to ignore them sometimes but
Can’t pretend to love him when his pride
As a male is destroyed, because his walking stick
Is askew, I’ve walked my path from California to here
Can’t always shush my fantasies’ atmosphere
I’m upstairs typing away my rage
On the from the start sensitive and erotic page
Wrote a book of poems full of mysteries and furies
Thought he knew it burned, bright.

Lyon, May 4, 2017

Had a fight with my boyfriend. I proposed to greet his sword, he said no, then said I was only thinking of that.
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