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C'est à Rouen, votre Rouen, Madame,
Qu'on brûla... (je fais un impair !)
Mais Marseille ! c'est une femme
Qui se lève, au bord de la mer !

Le Havre a votre amour, et d'une ;
Son port, et de deux ; qu'il soit fier !
Mais Marseille ! c'est une brune
Qui sourit, au bord de la mer !

Comme le fauve qu'il rappelle,
Lyon porte beau, par un temps clair ;
Mais Marseille ! est une « bien belle »
Qu'on salue, an bord de la mer ;

Les vignes où vole la grive
Près de Dijon n'ont pas le ver ;
Mais Marseille ! est une « bien vive »
Qui chantonne, au bord de la mer ;

Bordeaux, avec sa gloire éparse
Sur vingt océans, a grand air !
Mais Marseille ! c'est une garce
Qui vous grise, au bord de la mer ;

Le beffroi d'Arras se redresse
Comme la hune au vent d'hiver ;
Mais Marseille ! est une bougresse,
Qui tempête, au bord de la mer ;

Laval est un duc, ma Mignonne,
Dont le poiré n'est pas amer ;
Mais Marseille ! est une « bien bonne »
Qui se calme, au bord de la mer ;

Toulouse est un ténor qui traîne
Où frise peut-être un peu l'r...
Mais Marseille ! est une sirène
Qui chuchotte, au bord de la mer ;

Clermont a ses volcans où rôde
Le souvenir d'un feu d'enfer ;
Mais Marseille ! est une « bien chaude »
Qui vous baise, au bord de la mer ;

Grenoble a Bayard, la prouesse
Faite homme et l'honneur fait de fer ;
Mais Marseille est une déesse
Qu'on adore, au bord de la mer ;

Toulon aura l'âme sereine
Quand on aura purgé son air ;
Mais Marseille, elle, est une reine
Qui se couche au bord de la mer !

Elle adore Paris, Madame,
Paris est l'homme qu'il lui faut,
Car Marseille, c'est une femme
Qui n'a pas le moindre défaut.

Paris, le lui rend bien, du reste,
Il lui dit : Si tu t'asseyais ?
Car Marseille n'a pas la peste
Et n'a plus l'accent marseillais !
John H Dillinger Nov 2019
I miss Marseille,
today,
though I can still see her,
I know I'll soon be on my way.

The dusty rock,
the hills embrace her,
the wisps of mist,
I miss Marseille,

her way, an understanding that:
if you can't, you don't pay -
prix libre they say -
associations of the worlds strays.

I miss Marseille
and hearing what she has to say,
on walls, from squats,
saying what's often neglected, forgot.

She's frank and clear
and has time for every kind of queer,
I long for her to lead me astray,
to change; I miss Marseille.

Always. The Sun,
the passage of the days,
anticipation at reaching ever corner,
a confluence of culture, Marseille the forum.

Tunis, Algiers; I can smell
the North of Africa,
hear the sails of all the boats
that traffic her,

I see them line the shores
of every bay
that twist and turn along Marseille,
Swigging from my bottle of beaujolais.

****, I miss it.
Just the thought, I can barely resist it,
I could pack it all up and leave today,
For Le Plein, Cours Julien, For alive Marseille

It belongs to all it's people, to us
and if you try to take it
watch the fuss,
the fury and the disorey,

****, I ******* Love Marseille.
Everyone's on the cusp of Love & Hate,
either knocking on or burning down the gate,
all indulging in their collective fates.

Now, a Picon beer with a slow sunset,
please know, I have not one regret,
just lessons from my passions
and ideas from everyday chic/schlague fashion

I will miss your elevator kisses,
your smile in the stormclouds,
the lightning,
so exciting and frightning.

I loved it when you hated something:
The tourists, Men suffocating the street.
I loved seeing how you could eat,
you will always be an inspiration

So, it will be fine, okay?
So long, Marseille,
with your West facing bay,
you are forever blue in my memory, never grey

But, I will miss you, Marseille,
and that's okay.
For a cosmonaut..

It's a tail of growth and passion, a love affair with a city and a special person

I will always miss Marseille, that's a special feeling that doen't happen with many spaces, it's something to cherish..
aloadhar Jan 2015
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aloadhar Jan 2015
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De Marseille, moi ? de Marseille ?
Tu veux que j'en sois, c'est trop fort !
M'entends-tu dire qu'il « soleille » ?
Je ne suis pas né dans le Nord,

Je dois en convenir sans honte ;
Mais on peut venir du Midi,
En chair, en os, et même... en fonte,
Sans sortir de Lonchamps, pardi !

Si j'en étais, m'en cacherais-je ?
Au contraire, j'en serais fier :
Il y tombe aussi de la neige,
Et comme au Havre... on a la mer.

Je ne vois pas la différence ;
Affaire de goût, de couleur.
Du reste, Marseille est en France,
Sur la carte, aussi bien qu'Harfleur...

Voyons ! qui ferait des manières
Pour en être s'il en était,
La ville n'est pas des dernières,
Foutre non ! car Elle existait

Déjà, depuis belle lurette,
Qu'on ne parlait pas de Paris,
Et qu'aucune autre n'était prête
À loger ça... de ses chéris ;

Oui, Marseille était grande fille,
Que toutes les autres, comprends,
Les moins gosses de la famille
N'avaient pas encor de parents.

Elle est antique !... oh ! mais !... pas vieille ;
C'est au contraire la cité
La plus jeune et la plus vermeille,
N'offensons pas la vérité.

Les femmes y sont !... Valentine,
Tu les aimerais, comme moi,
Si tu voyais la taille fine
De Valentine, comme Toi ;

C'est ma cousine... elle demeure
Ma foi ! par là, pas **** du port...
Ce que je sais, ou que je meure,
C'est qu'elle aussi l'a beau... le port !

Toutes les autres sont comme elle,
Et sans titre, ou sur parchemin,
Des reines, jusqu'à la semelle,
Avec du poil... pas dans la main.

Après ça, vois comme nous sommes
Encore, en France, inconséquents :
On vient médire de leurs hommes !
Serait-ce qu'ils sont tous marquants ?

Il se pourrait, car on les chine,
Tiens ! surtout de votre côté,
Où l'on dédaigne la sardine ;
Ah ! le hareng... a sa beauté !

De temps en temps, on entend dire :
« Oh ! le Marseillais ! » Eh ! bien, quoi ?
Le Marseillais ! il aime à rire.
Prises-tu les gens tristes, toi ?

Il est brun, n'a pas les dents noires,
Il sait lire, écrire et compter ;
Il a toujours un tas d'histoires
Crevantes à vous raconter :

Poli, galant avec les femmes,
Il n'accepterait jamais rien
D'elles, que leurs baisers de flammes :
Il fait, ma foi ! bougrement bien ;

Qu'on le critique, il n'en a cure,
Pas plus que de savoir son nez
Au beau mitan de sa figure
Ou de ce que vous devinez ;

Il est propre, ses mains sont nettes,
Leur gant n'est pas mis à l'envers,
Et surtout, elles sont honnêtes.
Que voulez-vous de plus ? Des vers ?

Des vers qui ne soient pas des versse ?
Il peut vous en faire... en français...
Vous me jetez à la traverse
Qu'il est ?... Hâbleur?... Ah ! oui, je sais,

Il se vante... d'être modeste,
Ça, c'est un tort... il ferait mieux
De se vanter de tout le reste,
Mais nul n'est parfait sous les cieux.

Ainsi, vous voyez bien, Madame,
Que si j'étais, comment ? encor ?
Moi, Marseillais ! mais sur mon âme.
Si je l'étais... j'aurais de l'or,

Je n'irais jamais qu'en voiture,
Avec un train à tout casser,
Tout serait en déconfiture
Partout où l'on me voit passer.

Je leur montrerais ce qu'on gagne
À nous Han-Mer-Dé... Troun-dé-l'ér !
Puisque je suis de la campagne
Où l'on respire le bon air,

Donc, je ne suis pas de Marseille.
C'est vrai, que je suis né si près,
Que j'en ai l'accent dans l'oreille...
Oui, na, j'en suis... et puis après ?
Jonathan Keeley Apr 2015
what would you say. if i said. that i thought. that you loved me
just for a second in time. but for now you’re above me
picking chrysanthemums by the lake never felt so appealing
teaching me how to speak cause you're a decent human being
those peachy rose cheeks would you mind if i picked one
surrounded by that soft tan from playing in that big sun
and your name should be Pooh cause your persona is honey
my queen bee yessiree she makes the stickiest worries funny
though hey. yes i know. that you don’t really love me
but one day. it will pass. like the spring. blossom lovely
s/o to my hot french teacher she's dope
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
He was taken into custody on Friday
After he got off a bus in Marseille
That had come from Amsterdam
By way of Brussels,
According to police.
The manhunt began
After he opened fire
At the Jewish Museum
In the center of Brussels,
Killing at least 3 people,
Obviously: an anti-Semitic attack.
He was taken into custody
“As soon as he set foot in France,”
According to François Hollande,
Congratulating himself
For an efficient round up of
The usual suspects, all Jihadi
Round trippers from Syria.
He was taken into custody in a mere 6 days--
A magnifique display of French efficiency,
A sublime achievement by
Our furry friends in
Police-Protective Services.
The swarthy perp was carrying a Kalashnikov--
That’s AK-47 for you NRA gun nuts--
A handgun, ammunition, a baseball cap,
A small video recording device, and a
Copy of The Koran,
All items matching
Descriptions of the gunman,
And, even if not, a known-terrorist
Named Mahdi bin Laden,
Carrying an assault rifle
Would have been enough
To fit the profile,
Justify the profiling,
Sufficient to stop anyone
Passing through Customs,
Except, of course
The French Corps Diplomatique,
Wreaking most of the havoc in the EU these days.
There was once a time when any Thom, Dieter or Heine
Could get outta town on a ratline,
Blessed by the Pope,
Assisted by the OSS.
A white linen suit and a Panama hat:
Was all it took any Schutzstaffel
To pull off another Argentine makeover,
Melt into the landscape,
Speaking Spanish with a thick German brogue.
It’s nice to know
Jew persecution is criminal,
Socially frowned on these days.
There's this air in South France
So alive you can almost touch it
Soft enough, it blows away the candles
Numbered seats, train wagons, I wish I had taken with you

Warm hands on my frozen nose
a memory in red burning
Your arms, your hair, my cheeks

There's this air they call it Mistral
So loud and you can almost hold it
Light enough, it carries the grains of sand
Kaleidoscope films, sad endings, I wish you'd wipes away my tears

A stolen kiss in a forgotten dream
A wheel in Marseille, spinning
My scarf, my gloves, your lips
Lawrence Hall Oct 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               The Crescent Moon over Marseille

Let us now employ those cliched old rhymes:

Moon
Spoon
June

To ask if over Marseille there ever sails
A waxing or waning croissant moon!
A historical footnote of little significance: In late 1945 my father, Sergeant Hebo Ogden Hall of the 602nd Tank Destroyer Battalion, was posted along with other American soldiers to assist the city police in patrolling Marseille. His armored car was the "Razzle Dazzle" and had a picture of a naked lady painted on the side until an officer ordered her covered up. His war included Fort Leonard Wood, harvesting wheat in North Dakota, New Jersey, to Scotland on the British ship GOUCHER VICTORY, London, Normandy (the second day), France, Belgium (Battle of the Bulge), one of the first Americans into Ohrdruf, a sub-camp of Dachau, Munich, Zwickau, and a circuitous route home. There he was pretty much forgotten by a thoughtless nation.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you sure a death sentence is a threat? i've been having this terrible head-ache for the past 10 years, and it's like listening to television static... it's not death that scares me: it's ageing to be 70+ years old.*

i wouldn't have minded your typical gay ****, but by attacking the orthodoxy of language? now... now you have my interest... my full attention... i couldn't give two toss' care of you with a *******... but you giving it the daesh treason of smashing language like that... i'm listening...

i really could have understood, stripping people
from their ethnicity, their countries,
their cultures, their cuisines,
and leaving them pristine, as pure
pronoun users...
but, ha ha, thing is? the transgender canadian
rodney plonkers came along...
why did they suddenly make pronouns
the anti-neutral ground-work
to get rid of ethnicity, nations, history,
colour, whatever...
    i liked the idea of using ethno-neutral
pronoun conversations... oh look:
they let out the nag hammadi retards outs...
'ere we go, back again to ethno-centric
discrimination: clap, clap... clap... clap...
gentlemen of the prime maple syrup
export... well done!
      i'll accept genuine *** changes,
like in that film *manhattan... night
:
brody, and the fat cat who had his ****
butchered after falling in love
with a ******* in marseille...
  no, i was really o.k. with reducing people
to pronouns, not minding their ethnicity
or nationality,
  but something terrible happened,
i had to suddenly join a grammatical circus...
soooooorrrry... can't do that...
   once upon a time i didn't have a problem
stripping a kenyan male to a german
female on holiday to a he and a she...
but with this abuse of pronouns?
   sorry...
                sieg heil! mein wenig führer!
i was fine with bleaching everyone
to merely adopt a noun neutral status
encompassing globalisation -
i was fine with the informal pronoun
use, but?
  ******* canadian butchers had to come
along, and create a bunch of C16 nazis
                               squad teams;
that maple syrup wasn't good
enough a lubricant
you bunch of obscuring perverts?
i wish you shoved that ***** into
all his cavities, than your grammatical
"innovation" into my head,
         hence the C16 "death" squads;
it was just working out...
why did you have to invent
                              the C16 groups?
Brian Oarr Aug 2014
Seafood stew
A basil, saffron brew
Sea Robin, Congre, Scorpion Fish

Pernod provides a hint of flavor licorice
Vegetables and shellfish help complete the dish

For authentic travel to Marseille
Ambrosia's put in play
Bouillabaisse
Ô temps miraculeux ! ô gaîtés homériques !
Ô rires de l'Europe et des deux Amériques !
Croûtes qui larmoyez ! bons dieux mal accrochés
Qui saignez dans vos coins ! madones qui louchez !
Phénomènes vivants ! ô choses inouïes !
Candeurs ! énormités au jour épanouies !
Le goudron déclaré fétide par le suif,
Judas flairant Shylock et criant : c'est un juif !
L'arsenic indigné dénonçant la morphine,
La hotte injuriant la borne, Messaline
Reprochant à Goton son regard effronté,
Et Dupin accusant Sauzet de lâcheté !

Oui, le vide-gousset flétrit le tire-laine,
Falstaff montre du doigt le ventre de Silène,
Lacenaire, pudique et de rougeur atteint,
Dit en baissant les yeux : J'ai vu passer Castaing !

Je contemple nos temps. J'en ai le droit, je pense.
Souffrir étant mon lot, rire est ma récompense.
Je ne sais pas comment cette pauvre Clio
Fera pour se tirer de cet imbroglio.
Ma rêverie au fond de ce règne pénètre,
Quand, ne pouvant dormir, la nuit, à ma fenêtre,
Je songe, et que là-bas, dans l'ombre, à travers l'eau,
Je vois briller le phare auprès de Saint-Malo.

Donc ce moment existe ! il est ! Stupeur risible !
On le voit ; c'est réel, et ce n'est pas possible.
L'empire est là, refait par quelques sacripants.
Bonaparte le Grand dormait. Quel guet-apens !
Il dormait dans sa tombe, absous par la patrie.
Tout à coup des brigands firent une tuerie
Qui dura tout un jour et du soir au matin ;
Napoléon le Nain en sortit. Le destin,
De l'expiation implacable ministre,
Dans tout ce sang versé trempa son doigt sinistre
Pour barbouiller, affront à la gloire en lambeau,
Cette caricature au mur de ce tombeau.

Ce monde-là prospère. Il prospère, vous dis-je !
Embonpoint de la honte ! époque callipyge !
Il trône, ce cokney d'Eglinton et d'Epsom,
Qui, la main sur son cœur, dit : Je mens, ergo sum.
Les jours, les mois, les ans passent ; ce flegmatique,
Ce somnambule obscur, brusquement frénétique,
Que Schœlcher a nommé le président Obus,
Règne, continuant ses crimes en abus.
Ô spectacle ! en plein jour, il marche et se promène,
Cet être horrible, insulte à la figure humaine !
Il s'étale effroyable, ayant tout un troupeau
De Suins et de Fortouls qui vivent sur sa peau,
Montrant ses nudités, cynique, infâme, indigne,
Sans mettre à son Baroche une feuille de vigne !
Il rit de voir à terre et montre à Machiavel
Sa parole d'honneur qu'il a tuée en duel.
Il sème l'or ; - venez ! - et sa largesse éclate.
Magnan ouvre sa griffe et Troplong tend sa patte.
Tout va. Les sous-coquins aident le drôle en chef.
Tout est beau, tout est bon, et tout est juste ; bref,
L'église le soutient, l'opéra le constate.
Il vola ! Te Deum. Il égorgea ! cantate.

Lois, mœurs, maître, valets, tout est à l'avenant.
C'est un bivouac de gueux, splendide et rayonnant.
Le mépris bat des mains, admire, et dit : courage !
C'est hideux. L'entouré ressemble à l'entourage.
Quelle collection ! quel choix ! quel Œil-de-boeuf !
L'un vient de Loyola, l'autre vient de Babeuf !
Jamais vénitiens, romains et bergamasques
N'ont sous plus de sifflets vu passer plus de masques.
La société va sans but, sans jour, sans droit,
Et l'envers de l'habit est devenu l'endroit.
L'immondice au sommet de l'état se déploie.
Les chiffonniers, la nuit, courbés, flairant leur proie,
Allongent leurs crochets du côté du sénat.
Voyez-moi ce coquin, normand, corse, auvergnat :
C'était fait pour vieillir bélître et mourir cuistre ;
C'est premier président, c'est préfet, c'est ministre.
Ce truand catholique au temps jadis vivait
Maigre, chez Flicoteaux plutôt que chez Chevet ;
Il habitait au fond d'un bouge à tabatière
Un lit fait et défait, hélas, par sa portière,
Et griffonnait dès l'aube, amer, affreux, souillé,
Exhalant dans son trou l'odeur d'un chien mouillé.
Il conseille l'état pour ving-cinq mille livres
Par an. Ce petit homme, étant teneur de livres
Dans la blonde Marseille, au pays du mistral,
Fit des faux. Le voici procureur général.
Celui-là, qui courait la foire avec un singe,
Est député ; cet autre, ayant fort peu de linge,
Sur la pointe du pied entrait dans les logis
Où bâillait quelque armoire aux tiroirs élargis,
Et du bourgeois absent empruntait la tunique
Nul mortel n'a jamais, de façon plus cynique,
Assouvi le désir des chemises d'autrui ;
Il était grinche hier, il est juge aujourd'hui.
Ceux-ci, quand il leur plaît, chapelains de la clique,
Au saint-père accroupi font pondre une encyclique ;
Ce sont des gazetiers fort puissants en haut lieu,
Car ils sont les amis particuliers de Dieu
Sachez que ces béats, quand ils parlent du temple
Comme de leur maison, n'ont pas tort ; par exemple,
J'ai toujours applaudi quand ils ont affecté
Avec les saints du ciel des airs d'intimité ;
Veuillot, certe, aurait pu vivre avec Saint-Antoine.
Cet autre est général comme on serait chanoine,
Parce qu'il est très gras et qu'il a trois mentons.
Cet autre fut escroc. Cet autre eut vingt bâtons
Cassés sur lui. Cet autre, admirable canaille,
Quand la bise, en janvier, nous pince et nous tenaille,
D'une savate oblique écrasant les talons,
Pour se garer du froid mettait deux pantalons
Dont les trous par bonheur n'étaient pas l'un sur l'autre.
Aujourd'hui, sénateur, dans l'empire il se vautre.
Je regrette le temps que c'était dans l'égout.
Ce ventre a nom d'Hautpoul, ce nez a nom d'Argout.
Ce prêtre, c'est la honte à l'état de prodige.
Passons vite. L'histoire abrège, elle rédige
Royer d'un coup de fouet, Mongis d'un coup de pied,
Et fuit. Royer se frotte et Mongis se rassied ;
Tout est dit. Que leur fait l'affront ? l'opprobre engraissé.
Quant au maître qui hait les curieux, la presse,
La tribune, et ne veut pour son règne éclatant
Ni regards, ni témoins, il doit être content
Il a plus de succès encor qu'il n'en exige ;
César, devant sa cour, son pouvoir, son quadrige,
Ses lois, ses serviteurs brodés et galonnés,
Veut qu'on ferme les veux : on se bouche le nez.

Prenez ce Beauharnais et prenez une loupe ;
Penchez-vous, regardez l'homme et scrutez la troupe.
Vous n'y trouverez pas l'ombre d'un bon instinct.
C'est vil et c'est féroce. En eux l'homme est éteint
Et ce qui plonge l'âme en des stupeurs profondes,
C'est la perfection de ces gredins immondes.

À ce ramas se joint un tas d'affreux poussahs,
Un tas de Triboulets et de Sancho Panças.
Sous vingt gouvernements ils ont palpé des sommes.
Aucune indignité ne manque à ces bonshommes ;
Rufins poussifs, Verrès goutteux, Séjans fourbus,
Selles à tout tyran, sénateurs omnibus.
On est l'ancien soudard, on est l'ancien bourgmestre ;
On tua Louis seize, on vote avec de Maistre ;
Ils ont eu leur fauteuil dans tous les Luxembourgs ;
Ayant vu les Maurys, ils sont faits aux Sibours ;
Ils sont gais, et, contant leurs antiques bamboches,
Branlent leurs vieux gazons sur leurs vieilles caboches.
Ayant été, du temps qu'ils avaient un cheveu,
Lâches sous l'oncle, ils sont abjects sous le neveu.
Gros mandarins chinois adorant le tartare,
Ils apportent leur cœur, leur vertu, leur catarrhe,
Et prosternent, cagneux, devant sa majesté
Leur bassesse avachie en imbécillité.

Cette bande s'embrasse et se livre à des joies.
Bon ménage touchant des vautours et des oies !

Noirs empereurs romains couchés dans les tombeaux,
Qui faisiez aux sénats discuter les turbots,
Toi, dernière Lagide, ô reine au cou de cygne,
Prêtre Alexandre six qui rêves dans ta vigne,
Despotes d'Allemagne éclos dans le Rœmer,
Nemrod qui hais le ciel, Xercès qui bats la mer,
Caïphe qui tressas la couronne d'épine,
Claude après Messaline épousant Agrippine,
Caïus qu'on fit césar, Commode qu'on fit dieu,
Iturbide, Rosas, Mazarin, Richelieu,
Moines qui chassez Dante et brisez Galilée,
Saint-office, conseil des dix, chambre étoilée,
Parlements tout noircis de décrets et d'olims,
Vous sultans, les Mourads, les Achmets, les Sélims,
Rois qu'on montre aux enfants dans tous les syllabaires,
Papes, ducs, empereurs, princes, tas de Tibères !
Bourreaux toujours sanglants, toujours divinisés,
Tyrans ! enseignez-moi, si vous le connaissez,
Enseignez-moi le lieu, le point, la borne où cesse
La lâcheté publique et l'humaine bassesse !

Et l'archet frémissant fait bondir tout cela !
Bal à l'hôtel de ville, au Luxembourg gala.
Allons, juges, dansez la danse de l'épée !
Gambade, ô Dombidau, pour l'onomatopée !
Polkez, Fould et Maupas, avec votre écriteau,
Toi, Persil-Guillotine, au profil de couteau !

Ours que Boustrapa montre et qu'il tient par la sangle,
Valsez, Billault, Parieu, Drouyn, Lebœuf, Delangle !
Danse, Dupin ! dansez, l'horrible et le bouffon !
Hyènes, loups, chacals, non prévus par Buffon,
Leroy, Forey, tueurs au fer rongé de rouilles,
Dansez ! dansez, Berger, d'Hautpoul, Murat, citrouilles !

Et l'on râle en exil, à Cayenne, à Blidah !
Et sur le Duguesclin, et sur le Canada,
Des enfants de dix ans, brigands qu'on extermine,
Agonisent, brûlés de fièvre et de vermine !
Et les mères, pleurant sous l'homme triomphant,
Ne savent même pas où se meurt leur enfant !
Et Samson reparaît, et sort de ses retraites !
Et, le soir, on entend, sur d'horribles charrettes
Qui traversent la ville et qu'on suit à pas lents,
Quelque chose sauter dans des paniers sanglants !
Oh ! laissez ! laissez-moi m'enfuir sur le rivage !
Laissez-moi respirer l'odeur du flot sauvage !
Jersey rit, terre libre, au sein des sombres mers ;
Les genêts sont en fleur, l'agneau paît les prés verts ;
L'écume jette aux rocs ses blanches mousselines ;
Par moments apparaît, au sommet des collines,
Livrant ses crins épars au vent âpre et joyeux,
Un cheval effaré qui hennit dans les cieux !

Jersey, le 24 mai 1853.

— The End —