"amazonian" poems
Compliments to the baker
and so too my Barista
Smoothest crema on the tongue
juxtapose to lemon vapour.
Intense acute sensations
insist I close my eyes
Submit in rare humility
in awe of nature's true franchise.
Clarion note of citron zest
resounds on mellow creamy seas
Mediterranean sun distilled
now is witnessed here in me.
Tempered, rounded bitter hues
from Amazonian dark recess
waited aeons to infuse
and bring about this wanton bliss.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
Spanish
La princesita hipsipilo, la vibrátil filigrana,
—Princesita ojos turquesas esculpida en porcelana—
Llamó una noche a mi puerta con sus manitas de lis.
Vibró el cristal de su voz como una flauta galana.
—Yo sé que tu vida es gris.
Yo tengo el alma de rosa, frescuras de flor temprana,
Vengo de un bello país
A ser tu musa y tu hermana!—
Un abrazo de alabastro…luego en el clavel sonoro
De su boca, miel suavísima; nube de perfume y oro
La pomposa cabellera me inundó como un diluvio.
O miel, frescuras, perfumes!…Súbito el sueño, la sombra
Que embriaga..Y, cuando despierto, el sol que alumbra en mi alfombra
Un falso rubí muy rojo y un falso rizo muy rubio!
English
The amazonian little princess, a vibratile filagree,
—Turquoise eyes sculpted of porcelain, little princess—
Called one night at my door with her small hands of iris.
And the trilling crystal of her voice was like an elegant flute:
—I know your life is gray.
I have the soul of a rose, the dew of budding flowers,
I come from a beautiful country
To be your sister and muse!—.
An arm of alabaster…then, in the sonorous carnation
Of her mouth, softest honey; in a cloud of gold and perfume
She surrounded me, brash horsewoman, like a deluge.
Oh honey, freshness, perfumer!…The sudden dream, the shadow
Which intoxicates…and when I wake, the sun that falls on my carpet
In a false ruby very red, and a false ringlet very blond.
3.6k
It sketched and slapped an ombre
of crimson reds
& tangerine oranges
until it carved a comfortable atmosphere
amongst the void blacks
and howling navy blues.
Her sun bleached hair dangled over her forehead.
They were the vines that tangled
into wispy curls of tiger's eye gold that
hung lavishly in front of the youngest
temple.
Her eyes were sour,
a Blink and a whistle.
Someone coughing on the last bus outta town.
Those powerful cheek bones,
that she obtained through her
constant "according to" accordion smile,
fell off into a pair of lips
that were just pronounced enough
to make her look like she would laugh & ****
tempt or incinerate.
Intellect winked from her every word
like a whip of cold water and eggnog.
The Campfire was an artist.
It delicately plucked a scene
ripe with confidence and relaxed alcohol.
A tone that made her amazonian scowl
seem intimate and gentle.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Were there reason to suspect treachery
I do not know
mind has become lost in an awakening
thus senses dulled
were it normal such a flip flop of the senses
I would think me safe
as it were I find me tossed into the dark
wondering what curveball may my way next come
I am lost in the Amazonian jungle
waiting for venom to strike out
naught in this secluded wood could be serene
or is this my paranoia talking
but I know this game
Jumanji let us dance
it is your turn to roll the dice
I am watching afraid, confused
what intention could be that
of a python stalking a mouse
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
Down the road of the land of the baked beans,
we find this fruit wing of an Amazonian tree.
In autumn, when she turns dry and brown,
she unfastens from her mother tree and plunges down,
dwindling she begins to whirl in pain,
screaming in fear and agony but one cant hear any sound.
The winds are here to fortify that this suffering remain,
she twists, she turns, she whirls and shes headed for the ground.
With one last breath she takes one last spin,
and lands unbroken as she had always been.
Before she catches enough air to realize what a fall she had endured,
a curious soul picks her up and tosses her into the air and her misery is ensured.
Again she twists , she turns , she whirls yet unbroken she lands.
Away from family, unspoken, confused in different sands.
She endures a hundred such journeys from here.
In the brevity of its flight, here is the beauty of her plight.
Despite the solitude ,she maintains her fortitude.
She carries without letting it out that in her she carries another soul.
A seed.
A seed that will give rise to forest.
With their canopy, the trees in the forests will not only live for themselves,
they will provide for, protect and shelter many more.
tiny beings, super beings, all beings.
Her fall was only a rise, upside down.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
The smoke stacks that line the waterfront be like giant joints puffing thoughts of her into air embalmed by hundreds of rainy days
That slow burn, against the icy bay and the barges that carry their loads through them
This corner of the world gets six hours of daylight, tops
Greys seared by neon, smoke and clouds and fog produced as one
continuous substance
There's a pleasant blurryness here
floating amid the buoys and the docked ferryboats,
In the way the monorails glide above toward a 1960s dream of the space age through an Amazonian jungle of glass and cranes
in harmony with the clouds sailing overhead
Here is where you go to let off steam deferred, where you ride trains through a kind of dark that arrives early, stays up late
as shadows wander across the gum covered walls of Post Alley
like ghosts made of espresso mist
freed from lit joints protruding from the skyline
to a high beneath starless heaven
Resting into the glow of that harbor
against thoughts of her that cloud the view of the sea.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
i never understood the concept of
intellectual ************
coming from people with more than three
children.
personally i found it more economic
to sell the theory of relativity
than i cared to see three *****
telling red from blue apart...
the concept of intellectual ************
had me lost...
i could only understand the worth
of ************ intellectually
had i the capacity to breed 3 or more children...
i found that intellectual ************ always
existed in people who had the capacity to breed
Irish families... and did so... without discouragement...
inclusive of some ulterior prompt,
or some Amazonian whim.
or a potato famine.
as paddy always does: move to the whimsical
care for strata.
intellectual ************ only makes sense
if you come from large investment familial circles...
or rabbit libido. who cares?!
none of them will ever build a Coliseum
what's the bother? a pint of Guinness?! why, i can pass
that one modern bother...
i rather ********** intellectually,
than fulfil my biological obligation of a catholic
family... paddy oats.
what do you get when you scratch a potato
long enough?
CHIPS!
squatter mckenzies! limp *****
kilt prone! chequers & cheese!
cheap joke... ha ha... hmm ha:
you got to load up on the romance
to **** off what's never bound to be funny.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Oh, planet of the azure,
Cypriot sands,
Nordic beauty,
Amazonian lands,
Nile river plains,
It’s plain to see that our world
is a paradise for the
paradisiacs and the aphrodisiacs,
The business suited men,
The wedding dressed women,
The children of the soil.
But also plain to see are the
oil-stricken sands,
Viking battlegrounds,
Deforested lands,
Dry river plains.
Unknowns and ****** deviants,
Power hungry animals,
Divorce cases to be,
Already dead.
Oh, land of the azure,
Strike up a match and burn us all down,
Won’t you?
Oh, paradise world,
A giant floating blue pearl,
Cut us all down and burn our ashes?
Let us make amends,
Blue and green marble,
For we have doubted your sands,
Lands, and beauty,
We have doubted them whilst we have stood upon them.
For we are too tall to see what heaven lies beneath our feet,
And we look to the skies for heaven whilst we are among angels.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Against a dark background
On this backwater planet,
We are all just hicks and heathens
In the scheme of galactic beings.
Hush,
Don't speak so loud.
It's best to remain hidden,
Out of sight, safe and sound.
Like the lost Amazonian tribe
That rues the day it was found.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
I numbly watch a foreign man
on the train.
He talks across the car to some
New Yorkers who half listen to him
whilst simultaneously eavesdropping
on two Amazonian Jews having an argument:
one claims injustice.
The train crawls on its old, screeching belly.
Molasses moves faster in January,
but it is January and I feel like molasses
I guess the city reflects my thoughts...
The Amazons are now passive aggressive,
I duck my head so they don't know I've listened to the laundry list
of a tell tale sign of exhaustion.
Fatigued, I memorize the line of the page of my empty journal.
Wishing,
Willing
Them to fill with a lively recognizable speed of change.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
On your shoulders, slender waisted maiden,
you carried the burdens of this earth: like
Atlas of the old, you of Amazonian strength;
Yet today you sink, weighed down by
the vanishing vestige of shadows aflicker.
Shadows that consume all, engulfing nights,
harbingers dark of conflagrations rise.
Disbelief is our creed. But enough we believe
to vote them to power, our leaders we so love.
Yet in the hour of decision, we must believe
in their indisputable dishonesty.
Yes, aliens are around, Area 51 is for real,
late night appearances on Larry King live?
For the select few, sure, for a select price.
Osama did not die. In fact, exist, he never did.
Flags felled of the towers twin ? False, them false!
How belief, when Iraqs can happen?
Whither the weapons of mass delusion?
Conspiracy. In bloodlines is our interest
but not in the man who gave that blood for us.
Alas those to preach that love vested,
too are in gossip and scandal invested.
Fickle is our love, the mistletoe occupies now
the sacred space of the matronly banyan, and
the owl upside down, for the dove beloved old
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
My soil
Fertile and irrigated
Abundant water
Flowing deep and torrential
Undammed waterfall
Your wand
Poking chubby clouds
Exceptional precipitation level
Fast flowing river
Amazonian mode
Your wand and my soil
Never, I said, never
a drought
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Beyond the massif peaks of Europa,
Above the ancient pillars of Heracles
Where rain and ocean are weaving,
Lays a fabled kingdom born of waves
And noble strands, my beaten hearts
Haunting, the lost, lush sylvan lands
Of Galicia.
Where Incomparable, dark
Haired women, mythic, of Amazonian
Fairness, side the valleys and moors
Of soon forgotten dreams and secretive
Wolves slide amongst warmed runnings
Of the ram and moans of ewe, where
Way bountiful seas are over spilling,
In octopus and pearly gemmed shells,
The scalloped pilgrimages unfolding,
Where incense burns with under stars
Encased, the lost Atlantean temples
Of Egyptian sands and storied Gaels,
The clad forests of wandering Titans,
Where snow white beaches end forever
Unmapped in told footsteps, castaway,
As was the magi gift of treasured yards,
Enlightenments, of old and golden isles
Pearling the coasts, sailing the sweet airs
Crossing Iberian gates, to Elysian, eternal,
Galicia.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
It was 10pm when I decided to leave my apartment
there was snow on the ground
patchy from the dry cold half winter half sun heat
I decided to check the mail
I had been drinking three dollar wine for hours staring at old paintings on the wall
paintings of kansas
paintings of tornadoes
paintings of Van Gough
I had written a poem on the wall
dedicated to the cockroaches and lamp posts of new york city
I wrote it in lipstick and spanish
I opened the mailbox
I felt the moon on my shoulder
I saw a shadow that wasn't mine behind a fence
it was from Florida
a woman I had once fallen in love with
with her brown hair curly like that of smoke of a cigarette
it read “i miss you”
I had decided to die right there
with the half melted snow
the half grown grass that was green and brown
the cigarette butts
the broken glass
with the moon still on my shoulder
a thousand miles behind winters blanket of clouds
I decided to die there
lighting a cigarette
wet from my lips
I lied down
with the orange letter in my hand
with the orange cigarette lightbug in my mouth
smoke dancing out like Amazonian women in heat
I pictured swamps
I pictured the city on fire
I pictured her naked in my hands
giving her self up to me
letting me have her lips and her legs and her stomach and her love
in the distant
behind the city buildings ears and belly button lint and sirens and swing music and the flickering of beer bottle caps and the burning of tobacco
from lips to tongue to throat to lung
then back out
in a ball of stretched smoke
headed only to the clouds up above
which angels and the moon slept behind
It would have been good to die there
the ground felt good
I thought of Texas
rivers
cow skulls on top of lamps
I thought of Mother and her
rose bottled liquor
I hought of Father
and his eyes that were enormous with
poverty and Tommy Hilfiger sweaters
I thought of
Her
alone in florida
full of sun
full of days and full of nights
I thought of Death
and how he must envy me
I smoke cigarettes to make it easy on him
he knows I wont go
without a fight
without spit in his hollow eye
without my blood
on his fur coat
when he comes in winter on a horse
or a Cadillac from the 1930's
I thought of many brave men
drinking their hearts
their bellies
their eyesockets to sleep
with Tall bottles of gloriously cheap whiskey
I thought of war
and I thought of lighting another cigarette
but it was cold
and I decided to go inside
with my windows
with my Van Gogh paintings
with my blind cat who purred at the dishwasher
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
The monotony of a mundane Monday morning
Can be alleviated by the allure of the amorous amazonian from accounts
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,
a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…
I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…
cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee
history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****
We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.
{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}
Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks
off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,
ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.
There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed
with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…
wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?
What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.
We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:
The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.
From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74_kAhU_HjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>
and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.
From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
You are my flower I won't let die, when I see your petals starting to wilt, I strengthen your roots.
You are questioning everything, everything impacting your life, but I won't let you down. Day after day you think all the Love has vanished from the soil, and with that seeps life. But minute after minute I'll reassure your life, because there will always be Love, no matter the thoughts.
No matter the case, no matter the question, no matter the venture. If you ask for the world, I'll give you a galaxy by the end of this sentence.
I say you're a flower because now you doubt it, but soon you'll blossom into a carnation of power.
No matter the problem I will be down for you, like a soft dew drop falling from atop the tree leaves of an Amazonian jungle.
I will make sure you know I'm always behind you, like the luminous sunshine that will always come with a radiant smile, after any thunderous storm.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC
My sunbaked hands, that are worn in places, handle the grapefruit moon. Juiceless craters embellish the surface that is smooth to the touch, but ¾ it’s natural size, as it has been prematurely picked from the tree above. Flatlands an Amazonian green, resembling the most courageous leaves that journey to find the purest sunlight, with polka-dot peaks that resemble the tint of dewy summer grass in the shade. There is a hole where once stood a pylon that connected the moon to the universe it knew. The scar’s mark forms a pupil and in it’s orbit I see nothing but the incomparable eye of a chameleon. While it twitches and inspects the world, tiny white rovers scuttle across the glossy hide of their new-found planet and big black bugs invade. Bugs! I drop the moon, as it is infested, and recoil as it hits the ***** concrete floor of what is known and rolls into what is expanding.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
To the entire genophobe society, how does it feel
To never be felt from the inside rubbed from the outside,
Never ever to feel pure ecstasy as another being from another society aside from yours
Wraps themselves around you like a bandage never ever to feel explosive feelings gyrating your body
Sending your into complete overdrive coming to a complete meltdown as it slows down
Driving you madly between the silky bed sheets
Devinely driving you like a Amazonian wilder beast out on the prowl
For fresh blood fresh meat, licking the lips of sweet nectar, chomping down on tangy bananas
Riveting I think that you fear what you have never once had
Is quite maddening, so give me some insight on how this deserts you from ever having a ****** preference
From either Guy on Guy/Girl on Girl/Guy on Girl ***********
While you're the main course serving you some delights from the garden of Eden
Giving or receiving money shot, drinking the cream of chicken
Sukki Sukki 5 dollar driving away from curbs of Forty-Second streets through red light districts
Climbing ****** while knees buckling, oh Lord I think I'm about to explode Fourth of July fireworks
As the world shakes beneath our four post bed with wrists tied mouth gagged with leather bindings.
Water sports if you are into that type of thing, just not my cup preferably DD sized **** but any size works
It's not the size that countsit's the motion of the ocean that really works.
Karma Sutra, ****** positions galore all within books at libraries
*** education taught by **** luster whores...Teachers thrown away for doing the outer limits
Just so they can have a moment of limelight without dancing around poles for dollar dollar bill ya’ll.
Now what makes you afraid, paddles whips chains
“Oh my, what a time!” a sadist would say to their delightful whims.
So be afraid be very afraid of the ****** world.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
She used to run
her fingernails
down my sternum
all the way
to the bottom of my belly,
one little snake
tickling me
as she split me open,
and her jelly-smelling hair
coiled in jet-black
against my shoulders,
and her
amazonian lips
made my heart muggy,
so what I did
after she stopped splitting me open,
after she stopped
making trips from my heart
to my lower intestine,
is that I went to the coldest place
in the world,
but even then
I was warm with her constriction,
warm in the coldest places
warm without distinction.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
perhaps the europens conducted
anthropological studies on the Amazonian
tribes, niche pockets of
a quirky corporation ethics -
perhaps...
but when one european looks
at another european,
and conducts his own anthropological
study?
who says i'm not conducting an
anthropological study of the English -
who are more deluded
as islanders than the ******* Icelandic
people, with regard to shared
roots...
traveled the world a bit too much...
brought back the elgin marbles
and several minor mummies...
but then... the Pakistani **** gangs...
whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming.
what? reality is not some brick
wall you get to impose with
what 19th century romanticism movement
was... a bout of nostalgia...
to me?
the english are...
collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south,
i'm sure it's different in the north...
but the southern english?
a strange breed of ego-bloating -
megalomania,
collective solipsism,
a shogun complex...
solipsism?
just a fancy word for autism...
i've seen flies congregating
on a **** appearing more sociable than
these people...
an englishman's home
is his castle...
yet when i own a castle...
they think i live in their castle's
dungeon, rather than my own home....
weird people... truly odd...
i'm pretty sure the english didn't
expect a covert anthropological study
to be taking place,
from behind a velvety almost see-through
curtain...
it's not like they have much
to feel proud about...
perhaps the minor instances
of selected sports at the olympics...
and all of this based on one example,
but of course, outside the proximity,
there's the multiplication factor,
i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere...
perhaps not football...
but anthropology is certainly coming home.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst ********** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC