"baptiste" poems
*"I call people creatures sometimes
That may not
Be a good sign"
-mikecccc*
I can't help but wonder what the writer's trying to convey,
And in my mind I picture one of the creatures who say;
"We're much more like people than humans are anyway,
As proven by Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet,
Inheritance played a part in changing human DNA,
Which caused you to view every creature as prey,
So next time you blurt out a line so passé
Remember it's us you're insulting today."
And with that the fair creature returned on it's way,
Whilst the humans returned and lined up for their pay,
Earned from the torn earth and the creatures they slay.
I ask my fellow writer a question if I may;
Was it your intent to insult creatures that day?
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.
My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.
I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.
Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.
Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.
A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.
The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free
A homeboy, my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.
Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean
Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy
Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
The adventurer returned home years later,
Carrying bags of seeds, stones, and rarities.
He found that his house had been painted
Green and white.
He didn't like it.
He found that his son had been born,
And named "Jean-Baptiste."
He didn't like it.
He found that his wife had figured him dead
And remarried.
He didn't like it.
He planted her the seeds,
Built her gardens with the stones,
Gifted her the rarities,
Then smiled and left her to her happiness,
But he didn't like it.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Mrs Jean-Baptiste Grenouille
*“I promise not to tell your perfumed secrets
There are countless formulations for pressing flowers.”*
Nirvana - ‘Scentless Apprentice’
His love caught me off guard.
I’m dressed in black; veiled.
Mother’s sewn bustier, each stitch
caressing gentle curves, ribbon
drawing in the inches,
lace ornamenting my *******
Perfume weighing heavy in
the air, clinging to my
porcelain skin.
I watched him.
He strolled towards me
maintaining a dignified silence.
He closed his eyes, & took a breath
as if his life depended on my scent.
Was this who I thought it to be;
the Devil himself?
Had father invited him,
to Laure’s funeral?
I knew little of him then.
I knew he stalked the naked human –
killing young girls, barely fourteen,
making perfume from hair & clothes.
I knew he was abandoned
by his mother – leaving him
in piles of fish.
He was born scentless - I senseless.
I knew Laure wasn’t the first,
& certainly would not be
the last.
I sit tonight, & I remember certain
nights. How he’d leave the house
meeting a new lover, & return home
speaking of his conquests.
I would smile.
“You are my muse!” he would whisper.
“I no longer want to be, the Scentless Apprentice,
I want to be Grenouille the Great!”
Each morning he would speak to me.
I would wake soon after; dawn breaking.
He & I,
we compose a morning sky.
© Sia Jane
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
i've been washing myself
in John Baptiste's fury
more precipitation
of our seasons
saturated by the come'n'go
wait and see
the white swans before we die
crashing naked bodies
in a ***** L.A.
swimming pool
we succumbed
to their glamorous scartissues
carving our egoic existence
that time when you
soaked your hate in
the summer sun
died over and over
like a fish jelly scattered
on the hot sand
we still remembered
our mother's womb
the development of
the caterpillar
butterflies only lived
in our stomach
reproduced on rusted
trains towards
divergent universes
towards
the infinite self.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
Things you need are that hard
To find.
There, over there, outside your window, not the breeze. It is a disease, who waits outside that window. Inside growing groaning please please come and play innocently come please play. Forget about everyone and anyone you love.
Lubricious ànd concupiscient
There are things that are not that easy
To find.
Say; Love, Friendship, Absence of pain, A feeling of hope-unfueled by any dope. A monster which waits outside your window while you groan and moan for these things, inside blow your window.
Not that easy to find.
Lubricious ànd concupiscient
There are things that are easy
To find.
A blade of grass, a crumbling building, war, hate, and mallace. Yet look harder and may also, easily,
Find beauty.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
It's good to leave yourself looking unfinished. It gives off a sense of urgency to most common people. That way, no one will bother you and everyone will be awed by you.
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
To Patrick Süskind, writer of The Perfume,
He leans over her
Admiring the fire of her rebellious hair
Asleep, sweet child
Her body, temple of the most exquisite perfume
Getting drunk on her delight
He tries to **** this about to live madness
Rising up, oh cruel
He plans to lethally hurt her!
Another desire, inside, gushes
For he doesn’t want her to suffer
His lips burning of her, madness!
He’d rather be lenient…
She rolls over, for her he fell
He drops his hammer and her grave
He leans in closer, lover
Her eyes open, he looks at her, charmed
Mouth tight shut, lost inside him
She knows he’s the thief of the night
Three feet away from her eyes
He has to possess her for his tragic project
Lull settles in, she says:
“You’ve come to take my life’’
He smiles, she grabs his hand
And brings him to her red-hued lips
“Laura, I am Jean Baptiste
Senses will be my tomb
I screamed, organic, garbage from the market…
Broken, born almost dead, scattered like schist.’’
“Jean Baptiste, come here’’
“Sweet ****** I’m only sombre ashes
My body only knows the twig
By your perfume only can my heart rise…
No love is that strange.’’
“So I’m yours, divine
Drink my wine to the hilt’’
“Angel, forgive me for what I must do’’
He throws his vest on the ground
Unveiling his skinny self
He is stark naked, she is dreamy.
He lifts the covers, dreading his own gestures
As soon as he’s laying next to her
She softly skims his chapped lips
He answers, babbling
The moon is above them, entangled.
He can’t stop his fingers
On her naked skin wanting him
For no cloth, no silk
Can’t protect her, she isn’t escaping
Her scream in his kiss he takes her
She’s a woman in a blasting fury
On some supple Asian cushions
Her blood slides, fertile, drunk Muse…
He’s already asleep on her hip
He equally adores her curves and her sip
He caresses her white gorgeous chest
Swiftly slays her and,
Lays her down waiting for the blame
Crying, but he has to leave her.
Translated on August 8, 2015
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC