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I'm a **** in silverfoil
with an outlaw's Excaliber.
Bottle of Moet,
I'll glass 'em like a poet.
You don't seek my mad company,
but should you meet bad company,
don't woz your pretty head over secret ingredi-
ent in my  Punisher's Pigfeed.

Coz you gotcha self a guardian stalker,
gotcha back, aintcha noticed
how all of your opponents slowly
grace missing posters?
Guardian angel taking out his frustrations
on your every enemy: you don't know you need me.
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp  of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Sometimes you feel me on the night,
your own personal Dark Knight.
I firebombed Brighthouse
- why didja think that tumbledryer was on the house?
I won the war of all your stalkers,
but last code red cost me a cold blood rap.
'Cherchez la femme'
my ooh-la-la Remoaner
Knox Road tat. Reminds me ...

I'm your guardian stalker,
I went bit Christopher Walken
on your daughter's bully's father
in a black balaclava.
Guardian stalker, you know
that ****** dogwalker  
found sleeping with the ducks
- I did it for you, Fido too!
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
Emergency convening of COBRA
can't **** a man killed by love.
Even Walker, Texas Ranger
can't **** a man killed by love!
Knox Road = Norwich prison
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

She believed that
deep deep inside her

the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.

Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.

Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor

opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.

But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.

The isolation and the paint
still wet.

The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window

from a passing train
autumnal rain.

Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l

walking around  her tiny flat

except for red stilettos
red lipstick.

Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.

"Are you decent?"

"But you''re naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"

The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who

she could have been
given half the chance.

She never
stood a chance.

She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips

her one and only
party trick.

Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C

on a battered piano
her mind off key

abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.

She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time

out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.

The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.

She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.

Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.

The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.

She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******.

They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.

Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.

Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.

Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial

air as if trying to
catch time

the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.

The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind

tapping against
the ***** window pane.

Neon going green.
Then red.

Now blue.
And then green again.
Paul Hansford May 2016
~ ~ (on front of envelope)

La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur

Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.

I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.

~ ~ (and on the back)*

At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."
More expert readers may notice that this is written in pentameter, whilst a real French one would have been in hexameter, with twelve-syllable lines.

BTW, this is from the archive, so the addresses are no longer current.
Cordelia Copson Mar 2016
like demeter, my mother wept when i fell in love
she saw me folding in on myself
and grasped my hands in her
and begged for me to come back to her.

i can't stop seeing girls falling in love
and never coming back from it
everywhere i turn they are dying
or killing each other

when i was thirteen my teacher
called me a femme fatale
and i saw the wide eyes of boys
following me around after

and i was looking at her.
the love stories were telling me
that i could never be loved back.
the love stories promised me pain.

but when i was younger i begged gerda,
to let kai go. stay in the garden.
let the roses lie. let him have his loss
please persephone, wait a little while
Evan Stephens Jun 2019
Des champs de caramel dans vos yeux
la vapeur de la beauté tout autour de vous.
Le foulard de nuit vous enveloppe,
les manches du jour sur le sol.
Ville froide, ville chaude
ville du cœur
vous êtes un citoyen universel.
Je suis votre cartographe,
votre biographe,
votre poète de nuit.
Je présente votre chanson au piano.
Femme caramel
quand ton cœur s’ouvre
c’est moi qui suis là
avec une bouteille de vin
et un cierge.

"Caramel fields in your eyes
the steam of beauty all around you.
The night scarf envelops you,
the sleeves of the day on the ground.
Cold city, hot city
city of the heart
you are a universal citizen.
I am your cartographer,
your biographer,
your poet of the night.
I present your song to the piano.
Caramel woman
when your heart opens
it's me who stands
with a bottle of wine
& a candle."
S Nirmal Kumar Nov 2018
Amazing deals and discounts
Semi-clad mannequin
JaxSpade Dec 2018
On the poetic hills
Of love

We ride along


       For the world

We're building the strength

For it
    To fall

So we could get back up again
                                   And love
On the poetic hills
         Of bacchanal


              In alcohol

Naked under our clothes

We ride along


       For the world

We're going to be strong
When everything goes wrong

And smile
When everyone is back
      In eachothers arms

While she puts on
Those poetic heels of love

We ride along

Pushing and fighting
      For mother earth

On the poetic heels of femme fatale

We write along


On the poetic hills
                        of love…

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