"baroque" poems
He forgot his soap
What a dope
No one here can cope
He's worse than campfire smoke
He could of brought it on a rope
So he wouldn't have to *****
Instead he'll mope
For friends he's got no hope
They run when they scope
The boy without his soap
Rolling down the slope
Singing baroque
Like the pope
He tried a bath in coke
Oh what a joke
Because the sugars provoke
Mosquitoes to bite and poke.
Still he stinks like BO and oak
Smells like a singer of folk
Whose hair is matted into rope
Cause he won't use soap
What a dope!
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
8.8k
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
submerge their trembles
the intoxicated stars of the night
into the arresting allure
of moonlit seas
under the shimmering cloak
primal flames of passion lovers invoke
revel stars in moonbeams wet
yielding liquid baroque
crash silver waves
on compliant sands of submission easy
gather bliss-tinted surfs
in starry ecstasy
flow tranquil waters
in the envelope of dawn's golden fill
glow in embrace of gratitude
souls two in fulfill
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles
And she loves the Rolling Stones
She wakes up to David Bowie
And she dreams of the Ramones
She goes out to dance clubs nightly
Till her ear drums both get blown
But, she has a deep dark secret
That her friends will never know
At night when she is by herself
When the room is nice and dark
She slips beneath the covers
With Johann Sebastian Bach
She's a closet classic ******
And her name is Amber Clark
She just loves orchestral music
The rock and roll is just a lark
Her friends think something classical
Is something for your folks
They cannot play an instrument
They cannot read the notes
They think that chamber music is
What people play on boats
But she has a deep dark secret
She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote
At night when she is by herself
And her friends have gotten ******
She slips beneath the covers
And she listens to some Liszt
She listens to it many times
In case there's things she's missed
She's a closet classic ******
She has "Baroque" upon her wrist
She listens to the music
That her friends like to be cool
If she told them what she listens to
They'd laugh her out of school
So, when they go out clubbing
She will join them as a rule
But...ah that deep dark secret
This girl is no ones fool
She listens to Beethoven
And she knows each piece by heart
She knows where one bar ends
And another one will start
She can play most every instrument
And she knows most every part
She's a classic closet ******
But she still knows Boyce and Hart
She has cds in her library
And most sit there untouched
When her friends are gone they don't get played
She doesn't like them much
She would rather hear a symphony
By a composter who was Dutch
But there's that deep dark secret
And she won't use it a crutch
At night when she is warm in bed
She listens to Mozart
She needs a little Nacht Musique
To open up her heart
It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze
It hits her like a dart
She's a closet classic ******
And she keeps her worlds apart
By day she sings Bruce Springsteen
At night she listens to
Composers that her friends don't know
They're so old they're new
So she keeps her world a secret
For she knows what they would do
If they found she didn't know
Where were you in sixty two
But at night she is a ******
And she listens to Mozart
She needs that piece of music
To shoot an arrow through her heart
Eine Kleine Nachmusic
She conducts every part
She's our Closet Classic ******
shhh.....the song's about to start...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
Standing resplendent in a baroque topiary,
Under a florid arbour as an arched canopy,
Her pulchritude in moonlight, is the plenary
Picture of, the muse, the Goddess Calliope.
My heart’s reminiscence of our first encounter,
Like a fragrance in my mind wafts around,
Whose Pareidolia in every-thing sketches her
Face, to which it is entirely spellbound.
Were the Fates to keep us apart,
As the sculptor Pygmalion I would be.
But Aphrodite won’t breathe life into my art,
For not my Galatea, I love my Calliope.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There are no crowds to cheer him on.
There are no opportunities to pass him by.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
His head is bowed, no longer strong.
His heart no longer knows what's right.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
He can't remember for how long.
He can't remember what it felt like
to live
carry on
to be strong
to fight.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There is no one here to hear him cry,
alone in the ring, as baroque music flies
through the air; through his soul,
and at last lets him sleep.
There is not a soul left there that cares to cheer him on;
When he passes, there is no one left that deigns to weep.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
The artist evokes his tormented psyche
Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality
All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.
whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me
They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter
Royal
Baroque
Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist
I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
*Like the alarming abandon
& disarray of Jackson Pollack,
equally beguiling disciplined
skills in the classical baroque
airs of Antonio Vivaldi,
midst the wonderment and
wanderlust of a child,
I'm awe inspired, unfurled betwixt
your captivating demeanor*
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Psst
Hey man
You looking for a boost?
Some bud? Molly? *****
I gotch you
Let's be out
Let's look forward, shifting eyes
Thick blunts, welcome to The Court of Miracles
Where no ones ever dry and everyone's good
The whole place was flooded with music
Pounding, pulsing, entrancing
thump thump thump thump
Laser lights flashing neon colors
Multicolored creatures of night dancing to the whimsical noise
The DJ was young
Attentive to his machine that dispensed exuberant sensate explosions
Rocking back and forth, flipping switches, turning knobs
We are, we can, we will live forever
Then it all went silent and the whole place shot out with a feeling of anticipation
WE ARE IMMORTAL
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
The bass caused everyone of us to vibrate and pick up the vibrations of one another
Hey bro
Take this
Molly
Nerves become fervent
Now meet my other friend
Lucy
Mind is widened
Now you're candy flipping
Hippy tripping
We met a girl
Her dad was a record producer
She was way out there
She was out of her head
We met an artist
He used different types of wood
And carved shapes and patterns in to them
Then painted it with acrylics
Then smashed it with a sledge hammer
People bought it
He was brilliant
He was ******
I was dazzled
She tasted like *****
He tastes like cigarettes
***** devils
Looking for a time
I saw veterans from Iraq letting loose
Thank you
A sea of sweaty smiles going for miles
Under a baroque moon
Sleeveless shirts
Minuscule skirts
Beads, glow sticks
Unity
Altogether
Under one universe
Dedicated to this single moment
And what it means to us
One mind
Joined
For equal freedom
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Maelstrom of emotion emboldening an eye opening betokening of an attitude full of alluring arousal
Walking thesaurus as fluid as a notable chorus playing in accordance with an authentic Baroque performance; silver-tongued eloquent deliveries enthusing an amusing musing
Roaring reassurance of being on the prospect of procuring central evidence - the preciousness within choosing a gained conscientiousness approach promotes an unadulterated antidote
Introspection of one’s predilections stirred the modern, robust direction toward the recollection of a pristine, internal haven nurturing relaxation and crystallization.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
You know they had to do it
I mean, you could see it from the start
You could see it wouldn't last long
They set the apple 'fore the cart
He was redneck country
Driving trucks and wearing jeans
She was old school classical
Jane Eyre type, a girl of means
Her family were descendants
His was only kin
He liked country fiddle
While she liked violin
She liked Bach and Handel
Vivaldi and Corelli
He liked Jones and Jennings
and thought Corelli was spaghetti
She spokes in terms of red and white
Meaning wine...and which to choose
To him one word was missing
And that word was the blues
Polar opposites at best
There was no other way to say
We couldn't see them ever lasting
One hour...'nor a day
She would listen to her Mozart
He...to Ronnie Dunn
They couldn't see it till it ended
We saw it from day one
Two divergent kinds of style
It was wrong right from the start
And in the end, when it was over
She had a truly, Baroque - n heart
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
War of the worlds,
men bartering money
Dollar bills left abandoned,
blown to smithereens
Battling dusts of torment,
acceptance of surrender
Waging a money war,
business men flee
In the shadows rises,
a fallen angel
Akin to a phoenix,
from the ashes
She symbolizes a renewal,
dying in fires
Sparks burning a nest,
immortality supplying coffins
Diabolical legacies of past,
bow & arrow
Punctured wounding broken heart,
wings disallow flight
Stumbling a splintered hip,
reborn a chance
Of independent determined autonomy,
la Cuesta Encantada
Fallen at the gates,
an enchanted hill
San Simeon seeking redemption,
death awaits her
Carrying body & soul,
Santa María Maggiore
Of Roman baroque temples,
small cascading pools
Death releases her body,
the Neptune pool
She floats without dissension,
sinking in grace
In all her glory,
Hearst Castle will
Entomb body & soul,
memories of her
release release release
Absolution.
© Sia Jane
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
I would like if I could, to venture out
into a baroque cave where the walls are translucent
and all that surrounds it are rivers of coherence
and incoherence
where I can scream, and when my echoes
radiate they bounce off on me and touch
the spaces in between my fingers
bizarre and ornate
rococo chimes lift my spirit
progressive, regressive
subliminal rising, into the sea of whispers
and final decisions
and crazed hands
and melting lips
and bruised knuckles
and fighting wrists...
I subsist to consist
of the fluid that makes me up
lavender barely breathing
flowers/continue/endure
hang tough, low by lakes of conspiracy
and hate/ block eyes/ shed those ill states
I carry this entity/essence/life gentely
in my arms like a ancestor. mother .
press its head against my skin and give it everything
in my blood filled hands, sinful/blessed/ tiered creatures
I feel beautiful in these worlds.
eyes closed in sleep, palms spread forth
oceans cleansing, I feel like an infant
stomach twists and hearts bat burnt wings
and learn to fly
I radiate.full hearted. eminence spoke to me
through her portal of solid grass and dieing trees
in the outskirts of the vagabond, slowly unraveling
like a child speaking
slowly growing like new love
stricken instantly
I am in
between Cleopatra and Mark
between Orpheus and Eurydice
between Odysseus and Penelope
between Elizabeth Bennett and Darcy
between Salim and Anarkali
I shiver in that love
that breathes in determent
and breathes out fragrance
temperate plasma hooked onto
the grind of my woman I beat like
the robins breast/ trembling in awe
like a living leaf blowing in the winter wind
resisting/giving in/ perishing/ breathing
to the sound of this beautiful life
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 5:53 AM UTC
an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Published by Erosha, The Eclectic Muse, Muse Apprentice Guild, Nisqually Delta Review, Erbacce, Poetry Life & Times and Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: warming, pearls, necklace, ******* belly, rotund, Rubens, Rubenesque, **** painting, art, bath, bathing, seductive, sensuous, baroque, full-figured
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 3:37 AM UTC
***Little nightingale,
wings of white and gold.
Little nightingale,
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
You are very brave,
and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then...
- Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave***
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:20 AM UTC
Your sigh—flute’s trill upon my waiting neck,
Awakens chords that hum beneath my breast.
Melodies where naked spirits—erect,
Notes wild and free, where passions seek their crest.
Each touch, a whole note, bodies, andante, coalesce,
A prelude to a symphony of our scents,
Where songs of pleasure swell, we gently press,
Our emotions we softly bare—no consent.
Your skin, a sun-warmed drum—hands descend,
We resonate in rhythms—smooth and deep.
Exploring with you, lost in sweet desires, ageless spent.
I taste the salt where gentle currents seek sleep.
Our inner music flows, a tide without a name,
In Gaia's Soothing Haven, our bodies, unashamed.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 5:46 PM UTC
sort-of falls in line with
a certain sense of humour;
a certain need for extravagantly epic Music;
Truest of Metal
is an extension, an expression,
of the disciplines of:
Practice, Patience, and Study
in the realm of Music
as well as whatever Instrument;
some of it is, indeed, simply noise
but, then again,
Music is but ordered noise,
is it not?
I see little separation
from Classical and Metal;
though Classical came first
Metal learned what works and why
from what came before;
a sort-of Musical evolution
a sort-of Cognitive evolution
a sort-of inspiration;
Metal music has great potential,
Metal is akin to Blues and Jazz
Metal is akin to Spanish Classical Guitar
Metal is akin to Baroque styles
Metal is akin to Gregorian chants
as well as rhythmic elements
derived from the Music
of various Cultures and Tribes
worldwide.
Metal
is a moderately tongue in cheek
melting ***
for lots of styles,
and, honestly,
lots of Drugs,
such as :alcohol and nicotine
and high-energy Music;
Truest of Metal
is an Art and a Science,
and, to some,
even a Religion.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
.
B
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r oq r
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q e B q
u a r u
B o q B
r u e r
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Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
Lonely
I'm burning under your skin
I'm drowning in a tide of your blood
I love you with my fingers, with my teeth,
With coral hollows of my neck,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know
That I'm eating you
Like unwashed strawberries.
Quietly, I'm spreading you
Over my lips,
I'm melting you on my taste buds,
I feel you gliding down my throat,
And ruling down my bowel,
You are twitching of surprise with
My every bite.
Covered with coconut flour
You are resting on my thighs,
You do not read my mind because for that
It takes more than a touch
Something decorated with Baroque epithets,
Hidden in the meadow with dandelions,
Something that is not ours and should not ever be spoken.
I drink you like wine left in the sun,
I sleep in the corners of your moves,
And
You don't even know it.
Maybe you don't need to know.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
When the timing's right
As the violins ring
We will all delight
As the angels sing
And the end draws near
With a timeless Ode to Joy,
But there's nothing to fear
O' when the beautiful
End is here
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC