"antoinette" poems
Bonjour, hello to this French revolution, where people fought against the corrupted monarchy and created a new constitution. Hunger, no rights and no respect, they could not seem to solve it peacefully, so they cut off Louis the XVI neck. Marie Antoinette was a heartless greedy ***** she stole the people's food, so now she deserves some punishment, this is a historical moment for these people which they would soon cement. They started the Reign of Terror, which some may say was a costly and unnecessary error. Millions of people were killed and most were wrongly accused, their used to be equality, liberty, and fraternity, but all people saw was death, which is something not to be amused. The French Revolution where the third class fought the monarchy, so everyone could have true equality, liberty, and fraternity. Then came a guy named Napoléon who changed their wicked ways, he founded new ideas which created the future you see today. I know he wasn't exactly the best, he crowned himself the emperor, which no one had a say on, he pretended to respect the church and have meritocracy but really he was just a con, deceiving people as if they were just a couple of pawns. Napoléon is a wimp, he cost millions of lives, he also abandoned his armies multiple times, he may be one of the, greatest strategist's in the world, but really he's just a waste of time. Napoléon should have figured out not to attack Russia at winter time, it never worked out before so why would it work this time. He may be a symbol of France and the greatest self proclaimed emperor, but he died because of his pride just like Maximillian Robespierre. That was the end of the French Revolution, they slowly lost their power but they still hold onto their republican constitution. So aurevoir for now, bon voyage to you grande revolution, till your next controversial decisions and solutions.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of
Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons
Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,
Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.
In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,
Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.
In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.
In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me
To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.
Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined
The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the
spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works
out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic
collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the
biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a
place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and
a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled
over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father
comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood
under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place
where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where
everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for
the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty
verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through
someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie
Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you
can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your
thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:
stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still
a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea
and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are
going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and
breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to
memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard
for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going
to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going
to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going
to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire
world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are
going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and
molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and
longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your
lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn
knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save
you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight
because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are
purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your
feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling
of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
Expectation hangs round my neck
It pushes me further towards the brink.
I could turn out like Marie Antoinette
If I don't take a moment to stop and think.
I feel my life looming ahead of me
Without any thoughts or plans.
People say there are endless possibilities
So where on earth do I stand?
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Antonia, it’s time to rise today
Your breakfast is ready, your tutor waits
“Time is running", mama says
There’s much to learn as a princess
Antonia, follow whatever we please
Stand tall and straight, hide your scarred knees
You’re no longer a little girl
You’re bound to be a queen of the world
Antonia, quickly, put on your shoes
Lace your corset so it’s anything but loose
If you’re short of breath, you’ll have to wait
A true royal must never be late
Antonia, there’s no more time to play
With your chin up, follow what we say
You must learn to be a trophy of France
To walk with grace, to speak, to dance
Antonia, stop laughing like a witch
Don’t be a disgrace, you’re not a *****
You’ll change your name and all in between
Marie Antoinette is who you are as queen
Marie Antoinette, with beauty from the gods,
You’ll marry a man you’ve never loved
You’re off to France, now say goodbye,
You are to leave everything behind
Marie Antoinette, you lover of life,
With your luxury and power, your kingdom’s in strife
As you live your own Versailles delusion
Your kingdom is brewing a violent revolution
Marie Antoinette, do you remember the sweet days of sixteen?
Here it all ends, with a cruel guillotine.
Antonia, free spirit, never meant to be
A girl chained by royalty, a reigning queen.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
A Parody
Brigitte my love
Our Country suffers of many debts
The people are restless
Whatever shall we do love?
Ah Macron, we must think past the cookies
The solutions are complex, answers evasive
Let me speak with Marie Antoinette, she shall know!
Queen of Navarre, By god we shall be saved!
Marie, Marie Antoinette our people are restless
Our republic is in debt. these are crazy times!
Whatever shall we do?
I am fed up, allons-y
Ah fear not, if they have not bread!
Let them eat Nutella!
Lower the prices
Nutella for the masses!!!
Marie, are you sure? very very sure of such things?
Oui oui, on with it, my father was emperor of Rome
Nutella will calm the masses
Come here Nemo. taste, see even Nemo is tres happy now!
And so France lowered the prices of Nutella
Thus began the nouveau French Revolution
Riots in the streets, brawling in the magasins
The uprising has began, we want our Nutella for free
The masses rose
Nutella for all, Nutella for sans prix
We are all somewhat fou for Nutella you see!
And so the masses fought each other for Nutella's liberty
Nutella one and Nut Ella all!
I swear to your Brigette
We should have given them Macarons!!!
People remain civilized with cafe and cookies! n'est pas?
Emmanuel my love, fret not
The revolution shall be quelled
Qh I have the perfect person for this
He shall restore order to our dear republic
Prey tell Brigette? Who could do such a thing now
Riots everywhere, the masses fight each other daily?
The streets are not safe
There is a shortages of Nutella now, we are doomed cheri
Non non mon amour, I shall call Alizee
She shall sing us out of the terrible mess
She is the mistress of Doug McMillion
This man can save us all!!
Brigitte, who is this man you call Doug?
Why Emmanuel he is the president of Walmart
He has squashed many Black Fridays rebellions
He shall save us all!!!!!!
From these unruly unsavory Nutella shoppers!!!!!
Vive la France!
Vive Alizee
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri
C'est ton droit et ta liberté
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
Mercilessly wandering through it
Nothing everywhere
Material world
"Accidents Happen Live! at 8p.m. ET"
And then I get it..
The moment I log-in
To a vapid, cheap place
Where something like
Humanity is shown
Like a shot of humanity
Morpho helena.
Honeysuckle.
Sevruga.
Followed by
A restless sigh
You-can-be-anyone Barbie:
"But what do I do with my own hair?"
I grew up in a lie.
Like a shot of *****
The realization makes me shiver from inside out.
Horsepills & champagne at midnight
My real-fake bedtime story takes flight.
But really
If you don't tell me
I'm pretty this instant,
I'm sticking my head right in the oven.
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
I want a letter written to me,
Starting with Dear and ending with my utmost affection,
I wanna be brought up during those days where guys tried,
Like not afraid to get denied,
Lets pretend the internet isn't alive,
I wanna dance ballroom style, and let a man take the lead,
I want him to pretty much just protect me,
I'm trashing all this feministic ****
Lets go back to those days when girls were respected and taken care of,
Rewind and replay the parts of Pride and Prejudice,
Or I wanna be Scarlett O'hara battling it out with Rhett,
I want a man who won't be so afraid,
Sure my face is pretty and whatnot, but why don't you say it to me?
Like grow a pair,
Grab me,
Make a move,
Don't be so **** afraid to hug me,
Please,
All I'm asking,
And I want to be dressed to the nines with ball gowns that go down to my ankles, and my hair all curled like Maria Antoinette,
Ok so maybe I've lost my mine,
But I sure wanna ride a carriage at twilight,
And have candles light the night,
Silly of me I suppose,
But still I cannot help but want those ancient times,
When men had to act right
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
darling delilah
what a pretty little thing you are
tell me,
when the philistines promised you the world for samson’s heart
did you know this was strength?
anne anne anne boleyn
what a cunning little thing you are
tell me,
when you sliced through rome with the kiss of a king
did you know this was destiny?
cleopatra my love
what a lovely little thing you are,
tell me,
when you drew caesar to your bed for the nile and for yourself
did you know this was power?
holy holy joan of arc
what a mighty little thing you are
tell me,
when you were burned at the stake for hearing god’s voice at fourteen
did you wish it was the devil instead?
golden girl marie antoinette
what a sweet little thing you are
tell me,
when your shiny blonde head rolled down the steps of a revolution
did you finally feel like a girl?
eve mother of eden eve
what a wicked little thing you are
tell me,
when you sunk your teeth into the secrets of the universe
did you feel like a god too?
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
i like the communism acknowledged by ants
and terminites,
but that brothel bit where
we plagiarise lions
just to get islam?
**** that, let’s try again,
and again,
and again... until
the rhytms of the labrador and
the tricep conincide with a society
worth living in,
the utopia of my grandfather
i wished i lived in only compensated
by achilles and hercules...
imagine! only by achilles and hercules!
only by achilles and hercules!
hell with you!
hell with you for stealing that from me
and giving me the antionette john paul ii...
that gave me a statue and not a job -
endearing as the entering applause,
hell with you, discarded western of the jeans...
i'd go back to ukraine had
i claimed justice in a society that divided me
to make justice unclaimed and literature
for worth of being unclaimed...
had such society existed... the mongols
would have conquered it by simply yawning /
as opposed to mustard stink /
what? west's the best daddy's girl hello
boy dylan **** jim morrison?
you're ahead of yourself in the electra complication
with the decided cold war no.2 originating with the
kalashnikov & katyusha in pseudo-ottoman hands;
hell with you! stay middle class and un-fuckable!
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
protesting *****
down w/ this &
that; neo-Nazis
marching waving
weird geek flags
worshiping white
people from space;
Pride Marches
celebrating golden
underwear &
too much lipstick;
macho *****
******* yelling it
out; Slutwalking
through downtown
challenging **** &
mysogyny dressed
as ugly Barbies;
gender color trans
light a joint & sit
on the grass smoking
lovely, got my kpop,
got my g/bf; Toni,
Tony, Antoinette,
Anthony; neo-Nazis
rushing headlong
back into the dustbin
of history; prostitutes
pretend to be fembots;
acting like brainless
machines unless smart
as Jeopardy contestants;
****** cosplay fetish,
no cash, no crime; no
crime, no cops; no war
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
"Pardon me, Sir..." -Marie Antoinette [to her executioner's foot]
One day the overprivileged
will be trampled underfoot
by the downtrodden.
One day the poor
will have nothing left to eat,
but the rich.
One day the homeless
will have nowhere left to sleep,
but your new marble countertops.
One day malaria
will have nowhere left to spread,
but your country club pool.
One day wars
will have nowhere to be fought,
but your well-manicured lawns,
And there will be
no one left to fight them,
but your well-manicured daughters.
One day the Bourgeoisie
will awaken to find
the Workers scaling their wrought-iron gates,
And there will be no
turning us away
like petty solicitors-
For we have a debt
to collect,
and we will accept
nothing less
than The Merchant of Venice’s
request:
a pound of well-fed flesh…
And we will rejoice,
as we warm our frost-bitten fingertips,
on the smoldering remains of your estates.
And we will rejoice,
as we dance beneath your majestic maples,
composing eulogies for the Good Ole Days of the Good Ole Boys…
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
and then we were us,
with ten fingers,
equal toes, two kidneys
and our souls,
so blessed and tan
from their sojourn
through eternity.
but you may not recognize "me,"
from underneath my burqa, my crinoline,
my mantilla,
my zoot suit or naval uniform.
my hair shorn-sheep-short,
or be it 10-foot-Marie-Antoinette-tall,
there, still, do I lie,
where once we passed, there again I will be,
and with hushed whispers will my lips part,
as they have for generations,
"how have you been? I missed you."
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 11:22 PM UTC
I love that line
'I'm a prima donna'
christ it's
like a Bonny and Clyde
bank heist
almost
perfect
always suspect,
use that raw ***
get away.
Another Sunday on the sauce.
In the realms.
My kingdom for a council flat,
keep the horse
can't live in that and
Marie Antoinette
will she forget me? not
as yet as if she ever would.
A Hyacinth in Hounslow
down low
avoids the flight paths
like the plague.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.
i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his middle finger outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.
p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
I saw a chariot
with the mare in it
making a man carry it
I saw Marie Antoinette
and Judas Iscariot
abdicate an abortion
because they weren't married yet
I saw aunt Harriet
barreled over bones in a casket
gasping
begging them not to bury it
I saw words on a page
that made no sense
I saw leopard prints
I saw tents with tenants
unable to pay their rents
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
She is quite the romantic
Classic, charming, a charlotte
A modern Jan Austen
A 21st century Marie Antoinette
Dazzling steps she takes,
Lighting a room with presence
A most exquisite escape
A most darling endeavor
Touched by an artist with
Ringlets of gold and eyes of oceans
An immaculate china doll
An irreplaceable countenance
When she descends steps
Every eye will be fixated as if she were
A once lost duchess returned
A secret lover revealed
I stand amidst the awestruck
But a mere menial commoner
Talentless
Ordinary
Empty
No jewels to wear about my wrists and neck
Just a fragile flower crown for a sandy head
I hope she can see me from where she stands
High above where I cannot be
Smitten with her grace and noble air
I cling to the thought that her eyes perhaps landed on me
Oh what I would give to befriend
Such a marvelous and enchanting being.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Caged marionette, dance for me
Your glass chains hold no reins
It's time to break free.
The Light only shows you known lanes,
I will lead you down greater plains.
Your gaze is uncertain,
You falter ever so slightly.
Fear not, lost kitten,
I am yours for eternity.
Young Antoinette, come to me
A train of sorrow ー your best dress
So throw away that leaden pedigree.
The old masters may try to oppress,
Noble heartache you must suppress.
You take one last look
As I wait for thee,
At the safe sullen rook,
A prison it will no longer be.
Naive brunette, sway with me
For the heart and soul you sold,
Was it not I who answered your plea?
Tonight, we shall step past a new threshold,
Its whereabouts ー to God and enlightened beings, untold.
In darkness and damnation,
You remain smitten with me.
With no fear or salvation,
We waltz through tragedies.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
it's late
and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell
ringing for each hour like a stab wound
smelling like salt and New York Harbor
as if i were a navyman like him
but silence washes over the room in a wave
and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind
if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space
his room is a short poem, then--
an archipelago, each island
a monolith:
near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams)
a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard
then another, even heavier and dripping
with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it
a tv crowns it, almost aggressively
simple, burying history under Technicolor
a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown
geometric paradise in brown and white
emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical)
and no extra space used (except for the bed--
large, a remnant of divorce)
and then, once again, i smell the sea
as the clock strikes something
or maybe something-thirty
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Let us share a life that others only read about in books.
A messy, half-indulged affair - The well laid plans of mice and men -
Of Brobdingnagian proportions, forever lust of Laputa and Arrakis.
Frankly my dear, I don't give a ****
If flies to wanton boys are we.
A sword unrusted is without use,
And it takes two to make an accident.
I don't want to prove anything; I merely want to live,
And suit the action to the word, for those of manner born.
History is a victor's game: vaporised was the usual word.
Let our embrace be the battle, our ****** the victory,
And our present-past shall control our future.
Let us never look into the distance and the old terror
Flame up for even an instant -
Never let our minds be full of scorpions, dear wife -
The world is our oyster, don't panic.
Let Chaucer write his tales,
Let Antoinette eat her cake;
Let us show Emma what, precisely,
It is in life that looks so fine to her in books.
Certainly not an attic facing north, I'll tell you as much.
Live with me a life worth living.
We're going to have a strange life.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
Monday:
Marie Antoinette and the Big Bad Wolf meet in the forest,
where she is idly engaged in some bourgeois pleasure.
Tuesday:
They spend all day distracted, making mistakes,
they can't stop thinking of one another.
Wednesday:
The Wolf decides he must find her again,
that tasty woman whom he can't forget.
Thursday:
Through luck or a twist of fate he finds her,
And the starry-eyed pair share a cigarette.
Friday :
The Wolf pulls stockings up Marie's dainty thighs,
while she lays tipsy and giggling at the cold.
Saturday :
They watch the sun rise out of the camp fire,
and set into the ocean, as they go with the flow.
Sunday:
Sculptures spring from the ground at their feet,
as the two stroll along hands and hearts entwined.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
Labyrinthine châteaus,
Fools in gravestone petticoats,
Chasing reflections of saints through golden hallways,
A path of hedonists and heretics in the tenth circle of hell,
An ashtray paradise where we practice the art of burning out,
Amidst the echoed Antoinette beauty,
Pearls run across collarbones,
Débutantes and flower girls,
A gallery of ceramic smiles, feed men war,
Stars hibernate upon their sleeves with golden needles outstretched,
Temptation turns slowly ready to be adored,
To be cornered in this pantheon of railway beauty,
Magdalene kisses my rose oiled eyes,
Little doll house murders laid to rest in a vigilant breath,
Countess creatures sinful with delight,
Parade in their modern Babylon running circles with saints,
Soporific siren sweet to your trade, string wishes into her mouth.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
Is your soul fabricated of The ***** Gore Vidal depicted? Is morality subjective?
Or do you find your truth in Atlas' Shrug? William Buckley's perspective
Marie Antoinette, she said without fret, there's no plight just let them eat cake
Then she ate all of it, and with her soiled wit, her head was the people's to take
James Madison's stake, was to assure we make, the rich to be the priority,
He said without them, the poor are condemned, so there's no room for quarrels morally
Yet I ask you to ask, I beg that you mind
The Guillotine falls, and that's by design
From the top it tumbles, cleaving the wicked
The evil, the malicious, and I pray the indifferent
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC