"artiste" poems
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Artist
Artist Artist
ArtistArtistArt
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Artist Artist Artist Artist
Arist Artist Art Art Artist Artist
Artist Artist Artist Artist
Artist Artist
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.
Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.
Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!
Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-virgin-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!
No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre - lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
Lithium, light they write,
Like it’s right, white delight
Striking bright, better tight:
Fine and dandy.
Glamourised in our eyes
The surprise as you rise
****** heroised,
Bitter candy.
Pump the *** dump the dot
******* it hot, spatter spot
Sing a lot, dream but not
Craving luncheon.
Skagging sweet sweaty meat
Blisters well under heat
Take a seat, come compete,
Beating truncheon.
Vie d’artiste, or at least
Rising yeast, bubbling beast
Trickling triste down your cheeks,
Ever daring.
Rising up, sup the cup,
Acid drop, fizzle pop,
Shoobie-doo-doobie-wop,
Death to caring.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
writing is "sub-par"
our words are "mediocre"
so just shut up please
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Sonnet pour mon épagneul anglais Nils
De son smoking de noir vêtu,
mêmes quand il court dans les rues,
à un artiste de gala
il semble emprunter le pas
Ton ventre est blanc comme une hermine.
Sur ton museau blanc, une truffe
Son dos de noir tout habillé.
Sur le front, il se fait doré.
De « prince », il s’attire le nom
Tant sa démarche est altiere ;
mais de « Nils », il a le surnom,
Car autant qu’un jar, il est fier.
Assis, il paraît méditer,
Sur le monde sa vanité.
De ses yeux noirs il vous regarde,
Comme un reproche qui s’attarde.
Quand il court, parmi les genêts,
Il fend l’air comme un destrier ;
Et le panache de sa queue
En flottant, vous ravit les yeux.
Mon épagneul est très dormeur,
Et aux sofas, il fait honneur.
Mais lorsque se lève le jour,
A se promener, il accourt.
Quand il dort, il est écureuil,
mais jamais, il ne ferme l’œil.
Un léger murmure l’éveille
Tant aérien est son sommeil.
Il semble emprunter le pas
Lorsqu’un aboiement le réveille
De sa voix, il donne l’éveil.
Et les chats, les chiens maraudeurs,
Il met en fuite avec bonheur.
Lorsque dans mes bras, il vient,
Son pelage se fait câlin.
Et la douceur de sa vêture
Lui fait une jolie voilure.
Sur ma table, sa tête repose
Lorsque je taquine la prose,
Comme pour dire ; même par-là,
je veux que tu restes avec moi.
Sous ma caresse, il se blottit,
comme le ferait un petit.
De ma tristesse, il vient à bout,
tant le regard qu’il pose est doux.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
***
Poème à ma chienne Laika dite «Caquine»
Tu as un gros museau,
Cocker chocolatine,
Des yeux entre amandes et noisettes
Teintés d’une humeur suppliante.
Ta fourrure est quelque peu rêche
Mais prend l’éclat de la noisette
et le reflet du renard roux.
La caresse se fait satin.
Ma fille Célia t’appelle : «Caquine»
Pour des raisons que je ne peux
Au lecteur dévoiler ici,
Mais toute ta place tu tiens.
A ta maitresses adorée
Tu dresses ton gros museau
Et te blottis pour la garder
En menaçant ceux qui approchent.
Tu es peureuse comme un lézard,
Et sait ramper devant Célia.
Mais ton museau, sur mes genoux
Au petit déjeuner veille et guette.
Quand je te sors, tu tires en laisse
Jusqu’à m’en laisser essoufflé,
Après avoir d’énervement
Dans ta gueule, mes chaussons saisis.
Sur les sentiers de senteur,
Ton flair à humer se déploie.
Tu es, ma chienne, compagnie.
De mes longues après-midi.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Is there anyone else annoyed by Thee Artiste, someone myself and others find an egotistical narcissist?
Comment or message me, WickedHope or Kaitlin Molden if you've been criticised or deemed mediocre by this 'master poet'.
Ok so thats the nice version here's what I was originally going to post.
"Hey who on this site actually likes Thee Artiste?
Comment or message me if you've been criticised"
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
You are an artiste
painting with words
shading with wit
coloring with vocabulary
and adding texture with subtle metaphor
There is melody in the emotion
elicited between the words
between the very letters
that you weave into the heart
into my heart.
3D pictures forged in the mind's eye
tacked to the soul
with each line
with each word
with each letter
You are an artiste
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
Oh how I'd love that
and from a San Francisco organization no less
a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less
the most liberal city in America no less
and last year's winner has his picture displayed
and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable
Like something I saw how long now has it been? twenty five years ago...
how many times have I seen this picture
a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste
handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning
of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera
mimicking an ad for J. Crew
it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world
and the background, how many times before have I seen it
a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle
somewhere where preppy white guys never go
street art, street communication created by people
who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing
but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world
and he stands there, in front of it,
Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background
spans the entire country, or an entire universe
but the implication of the picture is: he is home here
this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men
as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone
all genders, all races, all religions
the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds
of gender, race, socio-economic status
but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone
they can understand and represent anyone
So I look at the picture
and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency
but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course
that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago
pinned to a film school wall
in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places
and it is the same guy. the white screenwriter artist who will write about me
and others and it will be a lie
and we are excluded. all the rest of the human race.
but what he writes will be exalted as truth
when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering
the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders
the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is
white guys, because he is no superhuman
he is like us. He will write about white guys and there will be
more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us
but they don't, because they are only human,
and can only represent themselves.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Only when dormant brain cells copulate
Is a true artiste born
For the progeny of dormant brain cells
Were born to be great
The inspiration for I Oh and Thee
Can only be possible
If dormant brain cells meet
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
She draws Crayola green meadows
in which she frolics and laughs
snuggling up to her
imaginary daddy whom she colors
in unstraight multi-hued stripes
accessorized by a large
unselfish heart in brick red
proudly erupting from his chest.
Her sepia brown-blob puppy is
rediculously happy,
just like her
holding the perfect father
she has always dreamed he is.
Together they stare at
blue construction paper skies
and cotton ball clouds
discovering sailing ships,
famous people heads,
and all the animals they will see
on the day he comes
to take her to the zoo.
~
He labors intently within the lines
coloring subdivided spaces
in one direction just the way
he would teach her
if she were here.
Pressing into the bold
outline on a tiger tail
he hears her giggle in his thoughts.
He closes the book
each page fully given life
placing it on the teetering pile of
earlier masterpieces
filed beside his desk
where he and his daughter stored
the art they created
on regular dates they never had.
He rises on the ritual of completion
toward his omnipresent closet
full of stacked and redundant "if onlys",
each one shaped as
a 64-count box
purchased and purchased again
with every book
he intended to share
on their next wax pencil excursion.
On his toes,
one more "if only" goes to the top.
He still colors.
She still dreams.
~
An Orange/Red sun drew itself
out of the bleacher tiered palate
and hung high betwixt
her cottonball clouds
29 years from the start.
Daddy holds his daughter in deep embrace
while a secret artiste' paints
a tiny translucent drop
on her quivering cheek.
The diligence of construction-paper prayers
are answered in the evidence that
there is no crayon for clear...
it is a tear,
and we are really here.
(I love you my precious girl, with every color in the box :-))
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"
I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!
Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?
*Original ('Humility') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
Curtains up, lights and sparks
Golden tickets, rising stars
Race to the finish, flashing lights
Adrenaline rush, crazy nights
End of the stanza, quick pitstop
Let's start again take it from the top
Road to addiction, highway to hell
Lined with paparazzi, celebrity's spell
Life in the fast lane, no matter the race
Chemical crutches, to keep the pace
Stay behind to catch, when the curtain's down
And the makeup off - tears of the clown
Tragic comedy - this business we've made
The perfect picture on endless parade
Life imitates art, art imitates life
And the life of the artiste burns out in the fight.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "I Went Berserk Today"
I went berserk today...
They locked the cell again...
And I started to pray...
That they didn't forget my meds...
And pray...
Because my cell was filled with horrors...
And a fine **** came...
It passed through the hole in my soul...
And the fine **** was my art...
That I had made...
It smelled...
Oh oh...
Oh so good...
A truly fine ****
My meds now no longer needed...
The visions reappear...
Tomahawks...
Fly in flock...
And are dropped by the smell of ****
A fine, fine **** from Thee Fartest
Dust storms...
Stay in a rut...
Between the frail cheeks of my divine ****
And are expelled with my next fartistic emission...
I...
I stay stay on top!
Floating upon the winds of ****
*Original ('I Went Home Today...') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
I'd hide myself beneath a thousand walls
I'd suffocate, to satisfy the audience
With dying breath, through countless curtain calls
But this is life, it has to be, this penance
Paid for past sins, cancelled shows from long ago
I wear them like armour, the scars deep inside
I fear the wounds to come, the unforeseen blow
Unravelled secrets, truths no longer denied
It doesn't matter, the blood on the floor,
It doesn't matter that I've nothing to say,
For a second on stage, I'm the one they adore,
A moment of heaven in the hell of each day.
If I could become something else, forever
Unblemished, unfeeling, without any flaws
The perfect artiste in every endeavour
Perhaps I'll finally deserve the applause.
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 5:11 PM UTC
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he's voiding 'Art'
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Artiste here
And an Artiste there
Here an Ar-, there a tiste
Everywhere an Artiste
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he has bad dreams
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a sub par here
And a sub par there
Here a sub, there a par
Everywhere a sub par
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he's fantasized
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a mediocre here
And a mediocre there
Here a medi-, there an ocre
Everywhere a mediocre
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he babbles on
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a ******* here
And a ******* there
Here a rub-, there a bish
Everywhere a *******
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he flushes on
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Egó here
And an Egó there
Here an Egó, there an Egó
Everywhere an Egó
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Artiste here
And an Artiste there
Here an Ar-, there a tiste
Everywhere an Artiste
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a sub par here
And a sub par there
Here a sub, there a par
Everywhere a sub par
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a mediocre here
And a mediocre there
Here a medi-, there an ocre
Everywhere a mediocre
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a ******* here
And a ******* there
Here a rub-, there a bish
Everywhere a *******
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh-Óh-Óh
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
No matter what Lovecraft wrote on his ******** post calling people trolls I most certainly do NOT support the bully f!cking Thee Artiste. And also I like saying the word fajitas.that was very random. Im upset. Fajitas
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
Tes pieds sont aussi fins que tes mains, et ta hanche
Est Large à faire envie à la plus belle blanche ;
A l'artiste pensif ton corps est doux et cher ;
Tes grands yeux de velours sont plus noirs que ta chair.
Aux pays chauds et bleus où ton Dieu t'a fait naître,
Ta tâche est d'allumer la pipe de ton maître,
De pourvoir les flacons d'eaux fraîches et d'odeurs,
De chasser **** du lit les moustiques rôdeurs,
Et, dès que le matin fait chanter les platanes,
D'acheter au bazar ananas et bananes.
Tout le jour, où tu veux, tu mènes tes pieds nus
Et fredonnes tout bas de vieux airs inconnus ;
Et quand descend le soir au manteau d'écarlate,
Tu poses doucement ton corps sur une natte,
Où tes rêves flottants sont pleins de colibris,
Et toujours, comme toi, gracieux et fleuris.
Pourquoi, l'heureuse enfant, veux-tu voir notre France,
Ce pays trop peuplé que fauche la souffrance,
Et, confiant ta vie aux bras forts des marins,
Faire de grands adieux à tes chers tamarins ?
Toi, vêtue à moitié de mousselines frêles,
Frissonnante là-bas sous la neige et les grêles,
Comme tu pleurerais tes loisirs doux et francs,
Si, le corset brutal emprisonnant tes flancs,
Il te fallait glaner ton souper dans nos fanges
Et vendre le parfum de tes charmes étranges,
L'oeil pensif, et suivant, dans nos sales brouillards,
Des cocotiers absents les fantômes épars !
1.1k
A dóggy drópped sóme Crappó
steaming ón the street,
a cóffee cólóred fungus
piled up óh só neat -
and there a juicy maggót
fóund it óh só sweet,
só simply sóft and tender,
just like a córpse's meat
Thee maggót, nót só clever
- simple and untaught -
was dreaming óf attentión,
slimelight's what it sóught.
An empty-minded cómrade
certainly'd help a lót -
anóther wórm-like nóthing
just the thing! it thóught.
While ******* in the Lóg's brain
- óh quite a simple chóre -
it replicated pustules,
petty, ghastly, sóre.
And when the Lógy maggót
****** in nóthing móre
it burst apart in wónder,
clóned Thee Artiste Whóre
Well, Petty Little Lógbrain,
Whóre, Thee Artiste crank
Are mixed up in the mire,
in mindless **** they sank.
Thee cópies creepy Crappó,
from pages where he stank.
and claims tó be Thee Artiste,
- Thee smell is simply rank
The móral óf this fable,
clear fór all tó see:
If fated with a Lóg brain
bear yóur destiny
and never let yóur EGÓ
rampage ón a spree!
Ór else like Whóre and Crappó
yóu'll sóón turn intó Thee.
CrE aka Trollminator
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Embrace Thee Blight!"
Thee Artiste's **** once more is freed!
Oh! Wandering fumes do flatulence heed!
Bubble forth! Through waters so impure!
Thee's ***** **** is near!
Bowwow to Thee…
for Thee's smell's a doggy's dream...
Embrace Thee blight!
Gasses new, gasses old…
pass through Thee's dual manifold…
Thee's thee fartiste of forever…
Cro-Magnon man who's mentally spent,
******* on creativity's flames
Oh perfect ****
exudes from Thee who seeps…
for he is Thee who sets the winds of fartistry free.
Only Thee (the no one) knows!
How true fartistry blows...
like Thee who is the evoker...
of the fartistic flow...
Oh Thee who is Logbrain Crappó is master of the fartiste's blows!
*Original ('Embrace The Light') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Vulnerability is characterised by a beautifully ambivalent experience for the majority of anthropological subjects, if the risk is indeed to be embraced.
But, haven’t we already surmounted the impossible ranges of mountainous biopsychosocial corridors in this geographical war against oblivion?
If we have, then let us raise our brazen shields whilst the cheerleading and aristocratic seductress chants her ceremonial and political letters of pronouncement.
Cosmological resistance of physical objects to any change in their sense of motion, speed or direction, is characterised by hilarity.
Yet, what does it matter?
It is likened to bursting forth from a position of submerged freedom of speech, where we must then tread precariously across uncertain ponds.
Stepping out from the metaphorical boat, we can acquaint ourselves with the beauty of The Vocal Artiste and conduct our transaction.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"
(Another Crummy Acrostic)
T is for **** I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...
G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for ******* I posses the gift of ****
T is for ****** I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ****** My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...
F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...
A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...
This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.
*Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Oh ! Non, ils ne devraient jamais parler de Porto Rico
Borinquén, Porto Rico de façon aussi diabolique
Porto Rico nage dans la mer des Caraïbes
Avec d'autres îles comme Cuba, Haïti et la Jamaïque
Puerto Rico est un magnifique archipel des Caraïbes
Avec de hautes montagnes. Oh ! Oui, la belle Porto Rico
A un ciel bleu et blanc parfait, des forêts tropicales de bonheur
Des plages d'eau cristalline, et elle est l'une des meilleures
Porto Rico ne peut jamais être « une île flottante de déchets »
Elle est superbe avec beaucoup de potentiel. De nos jours
Certains clowns ou comédiens fous doivent avoir beaucoup de nerfs
Pour insulter une Boricua aussi douce avec un peuple plein d’amour
J’irai bientôt à Porto Rico à la recherche de ma belle Sainte
De mon Âme, de ma reine. Je deviendrai un artiste pour peindre
Le sourire de cette île paradisiaque. Borinquén chérie, mon amour
Javier Solís a raison. Tu es le pays des rêves, mon amour
Personne ne peut ternir ton image. Je viendrai te rendre visite bientôt
Avec de beaux rêves dans mon cœur et avec une cuillère en argent
Pour que je puisse savourer ta cuisine et siroter ton cocktail tropical
En plongeant très fond dans les yeux de ta fleur si **** et belle
Notre Porto Rico est une île mythologique pour les rêveurs
Notre Porto Rico est un archipel tropical pour les amoureux.
Copyright © Novembre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de nombreux recueils de poésie.
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 10:23 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Maggot O' Pus"
I open my fly
I beat
I close my eyes
And seep
Watch me now
To see the art
Thee art of a master-bater
I read your eyes
they show horror
They reflect Thee MasterPiece-of-Shit
Thee art of a master-bater
Thee art of Loghain Carvó
I open my lips and ****
For all these works are Thee Maggot O' Pus
*Original ('Magnum Opus') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC