"basses" poems
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
We are surrounded by shatter broken beer bottles, wine coolers gone to waste.
We've gone to war inside our own heads, pulling ourselves into corners and kitchens and couch cushions where all I can think is how pretty you look tonight
I can feel my heart beat to the technicolor rhythm of your butterfly gas leak eyes
"This music hurts my heart I want to leave now" is what you whisper to me under dropped basses and stepped dubs
"I know" is what I whisper back alongside the same sad forget-your-worries rhythm
So we leave, floating over alcohol puff swollen bodies left behind by unreliable boy-girlfriends sick of cleaning ***** out of the back of their pickup trucks
And we roll our sickly drunken souls to the Mcdonalds where they give you coffee to get rid of wasted smashed faces if you're underage and alcohol-laced
we sober up over cold coffee and scalding fries
We sober up,
But I get drunk on your candy stained mouth as you pour out lies you've never told anyone before
I want to let you know all my favourites, all my secrets, all my everythings
But I don't.
And after that pretty pretty night
where we sobered up
but I got drunk on you
The only time I see you
Is past someone else's head
As I smash my drunken lips to theirs.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
Transported
by the waves of sound
so transcendentally human
I am swallowed, surrounded
The basses are an ocean swell
the tenors, a hull of solid oak.
We stand upon the altos’ sturdy deck,
gaze upwards at soprano sails
swollen with song
What strange creatures we,
to join and mingle so
to vanish in the whole.
This ritual enacted
for this God, or that
has outlived immortals and still
floods with lifeblood
Anu, Enlil, Enki, Baal,
dived divinely
in the sea of song
and vanished.
Forgotten gods adrift
in harmony, in melody
And while I wish
all gods forgotten
I would abase myself
before Jehovah’s golden toes
to be a part
of this eternal choir.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
The orchestra of the night
plays in the background.
Sweet rhythms
and soft melodies
fill the dead air space
in this empty room.
The words shape shift
Into the silhouette of your body
moving around
in the room where you once were.
The soft violins, violas, and basses
mimic the tones of your voice.
The sound waves
do a poor job at replacing your touch.
The musicians
sit in the chair
you once sat in.
The conductor
embraces his performance
much like you embraced me,
before the room was empty.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
When Twilight falls the Fairies
Play gracefully upon their
Enchanted instruments
Celtic harps and violas
Join in this beautiful solo
Double basses and violins
Ring out through the calm Night
The Fairies play from Twilight
'Til Midnight
Then move on somewhere else
And play upon their instruments
'Tis the Fairies' melody
For they love living in
Instrumental harmony
With happiness and smiles
From little pink lips
They play upon the prettiest
Bells and chimes ever
Celestas and harpsichords,
Pianos and organs
Raise their beautiful
But meek and humble voices
Creating a tapestry of music
The mandolin also follows
And lifts its voice
And the flute comes next
Beautiful sounding oboes
Sing sweetly on the Night breeze
Next come the wood winds and brass winds
And their beauty cries out
A bittersweet paradise
The most beautiful music
Played while
All humans are asleep
But when Fairies are awake
~Marian~
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
everything about it
the raising waves of sound
and the pluck of the violin
the fiddling fingers on the mandolin
and the swell of the drums
his voice bows like a singing saw
and curls down into the depths of his own feeling
and art not only in the poetry
but poetry in the very sound
*i want to see the things you see
because i like the way you breathe*
it pulls a soul onto its toes
both of the mind
and of the feet
and sends it dashing down the snowy roads lined by broken corn stalks
and gray buildings
and fairy lights of the city
brings us one with the buskers
and into the hearts
of every other person
who has heard it
my god, it has made us into a pool of humanity
each soul touching
in ways deeper than this
to my dear violins
and violas
and basses
and mandolins
and drummers
thank you for the gift
of sound
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
Music is my Muse
From the funky jazz tempo
To the sounds of salsa
From the classical rock
To the alternative basses
From the Opera Lady's bellow
To the Tenors solo
From the 80's slow jamz
To them 50's swinging bands,
To them country folk songs
To those old folks blues
Music is my Muse,
My inspiration,
Being Black&Puerto; Rican
I- A NuYorican,
I've heard the best tunes,
Bahchata's & Merengue,
Bailes La Cumbias,
Like Macr Anthony &
oh how he sang to me,
My wanting
to rock with you like
Micheal Jackson-
To Vanilla's
Ice Ice Baby,
It's yo thang do what you wanna do,
Candy coated Rain drops
By Soul For Real,
& When will I see you Again-
Babyface
Until I muse
in my amusement
When Tim McGraw
Sanged don't take the girl,
Reba "Asking Does
He love me like
he's been loving YOU",
To its my prerogative
Like Bobbi Brown said,
Let not for get
Johnny Cash,
Or what About them
O'Jays
Yeah my muse is musical-
Music and thinking artfully
coincides with one another,
with breathing and eating
Rhyme & Rhythm linguistics
even as we walk down the street
or cruising
while jamming in ya car,
LL Cool J said Cars drive
by with the booming Systems-
AH Push it was
My jam back in the day
R&B; Was mostly what I liked
But growing Up
I started listening to
Rock & Hip Hop,
Got drunk off those sweet
Monster Ballads
while Making love
to Sade,
Sung All Cried Out
at my graduation party,
Tony Toni Tone
Made Us-FEEL GOOD YEAH
at all them block parties
back in NYC,
Now
I listen to everything
going on 33
heard it through the grape vine
that YOU share
a likeness in this Musing?
Music is My Muse.
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
you were there, god knows i need you man
holding the puzzle, together
while we both were dying to take our own apart
plastic six footers
your lungs are the only in one to clear the smoke
our friend mr. kool-aid is a tricky fellow
as we incinerate beautiful gifts from the earth,
let us destroy our movie collections
and flip back through them ten fold
you know them word for word dude
i thought i have skills with quotes
you were falling apart
help together we are both
both searching for something our friendship possesses
if you don't come by, i'm sure to be over before work
it seems like days haven't gone by
since BC mango and great lakes were had as fireworks celebrated.
i wanna see your face before you see maui
scared we'll never burn trees again
you are my best friend
i shouldn't be afraid
for i know you'll be there
with a tuxedo, as i start a family
i haven't met her yet
i'll be your best friend, and you shall be mine
no matter the distance, no matter the time
cause we'll still have those trips
where we didn't go anywhere
you said people might thing we were together, cause we always were,
splitting sticks of cancer
smoking each other up
dragging one another to bars or back form them
when feet wouldn't go in front of the other.
dude, you are my brother, i've never had
if you ever need anything, don't think to ask
i miss you like crazy whenever drums stomp
basses slap or guitars and voices sing
i'll listen to you and our old friends at work or with fake friends
and always tell them its the ****
for me music is something that takes me back
back to the dog days, were catch and air hockey were played,
so kick my *** at darts one more time
lets go grab a beer, have a spliff
and repeat,
i miss you!
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
Decipher the bowels
that slushes out through my imagination
Crystals and xylophone chimes
Pouring out the ink wells of sensation
Don't pivot pickets to my position
I can't stalemate this war for expansion
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
Dipped in bitterness
and ****** by the lips of semantics
I groove in the basses of basics
and grow a garden for further foundation
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
And boy is it's perfume amazing
I mean
Can you smell the awkward amps?
Pumping veins with Crayola visions
or a Chaplin transcript with deadpan humor
Are you experienced enough for social division?
My tongue is a swollen pickle
Say whatever the hell I wanna say
Crunch me when you digest this sour thought
For the reign of excitement's here to stay
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...
Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.
Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.
/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
I know the fire of your eyes
When you’re sitting,wallowing in
My reflections that you painted
In your mind
I know those eyes got blind
They’ve been opened all
The nights
persistence of my visions
Made them gleaming so wild
I know that I make your libido
Goes high ,running your body temperatures like a boiling water
Darling
I’m your twilight
I know that I could cross your
Lines
I’m dauntless as you , the day
I visited your view
The day you savoured me like
Crystal **** ,bleu
I know my darkness would make
You vague
And twirl around you like an abyss
Black
Feeding you my bones and every
Drop of my blood
You don’t Know That
I’m dreaming about
You every day and
every night
Every star every bliss
In the sky
Hear the harmonies
That have been spinning
On my mind but
You don’t hear
You don’t know
Your magic words still
Waltzing within my
Ears
You taught me
How to feel
These things I would
Never reveal
Wish you taste
Every tear
If I was you
I would kneel
it’s my
Fault , you can’t hear
You don’t know your
Phantom loomed out
Of blackness and towered Over
Me
And I couldn’t find anything
To see
Except you and me
But you don’t see
You don’t know that
I want to penetrate every
Inch of your machine
and
Breath under your skin
Let me call you
My ecstasy
You don’t know
How to sense this
Ember that makes
Me suffer every time
I miss you so tender
Iike melancholy
Lavender
You don’t know that I
Forget the words when
I see your multiple faces
Go with me off to the races
Dream wild with me like
Diving into the basses
Within your soul a million
Places
l visit you
I visit you
to the starts
To the starts
In our breathtaking spaces I will be
Your forever shades
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 10:17 AM UTC
There's a soundtrack stuck in my head.
A whispering, quiet melody.
Flutes and violins take center stage
As cellos and clarinets round out the sound.
The soft plucking of a harp shades and fills in
With the gentle support of a French horn.
And so the basses and the tubas grow louder
As the melody swells
Like a leaf blown higher on the wind.
As it begins to crescendo,
I can feel it in my fingertips--
The emotion of it all.
There's a symphony in your smile,
An orchestral accompaniment
To the twinkle in your eye.
Your laughter is the thumping of the timpani;
Your chuckle the plucking of an upright bass.
Your soft conversing is a harmonic woodwind;
Your finely crafted wit, a lively piccolo.
And your hands gently taking mine,
Cradling them and never wanting to let go,
Is the soft caress of a singing violin.
And when you say, "I love you",
I realize it was you all along.
You are the music in my head,
The soundtrack to my life.
And like we used to do in bygone days,
I would play this music cassette
Over and over and over again
Until the film is faded and cracked,
And there is no more cassette that can be played.
Then I would sit and close my eyes,
And recall it in my memory,
For the music of the heart never fades.
Just like your "I love you's"
And my "I know's".
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
That tree
it swings
and blows
and loves to show the comes and goes
wanderers and glasses cases with altruistic basses
let it go let it flow
drip drip
down
pails of silt for building *****
all of them, fending off hurricane storms and flooding waters
roll up your jeans baby it's wet out today
muggy and watery
what's the state of our affairs?
He said he wanted one
but only in his head, I think
I wanted him to want an anything with moi
just a silly old anything
that involved his naked body but
he can't do that
can he?
I don't know I'm too afraid to look
too excited to keep my eyes shut
so where does that leave off?
Frozen with hormones and confusion
anticlimaxes burning my brain
his loss
could have been the best thing he ever bragged
or regretted
who cares not me
not him
not the ones holding off the storms and the thorns
not the glint in my eye that proclaims the day is good so long as I can breathe
and then and then
it comes and goes
and so it shows
I need a better use of my rhyme.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
Rien n'est précaire comme vivre
Rien comme être n'est passager
C'est un peu fondre pour le givre
Et pour le vent être léger
J'arrive où je suis étranger
Un jour tu passes la frontière
D'où viens-tu mais où vas-tu donc
Demain qu'importe et qu'importe hier
Le coeur change avec le chardon
Tout est sans rime ni pardon
Passe ton doigt là sur ta tempe
Touche l'enfance de tes yeux
Mieux vaut laisser basses les lampes
La nuit plus longtemps nous va mieux
C'est le grand jour qui se fait vieux
Les arbres sont beaux en automne
Mais l'enfant qu'est-il devenu
Je me regarde et je m'étonne
De ce voyageur inconnu
De son visage et ses pieds nus
Peu a peu tu te fais silence
Mais pas assez vite pourtant
Pour ne sentir ta dissemblance
Et sur le toi-même d'antan
Tomber la poussière du temps
C'est long vieillir au bout du compte
Le sable en fuit entre nos doigts
C'est comme une eau froide qui monte
C'est comme une honte qui croît
Un cuir à crier qu'on corroie
C'est long d'être un homme une chose
C'est long de renoncer à tout
Et sens-tu les métamorphoses
Qui se font au-dedans de nous
Lentement plier nos genoux
Ô mer amère ô mer profonde
Quelle est l'heure de tes marées
Combien faut-il d'années-secondes
À l'homme pour l'homme abjurer
Pourquoi pourquoi ces simagrées
Rien n'est précaire comme vivre
Rien comme être n'est passager
C'est un peu fondre pour le givre
Et pour le vent être léger
J'arrive où je suis étranger.
985
It was the scent of juicy, honey dew melon,
It was the golden kiss of the sun,
It was the warm summer feel
that let me know you were the one.
It was reggae basses and baritones blessing the air,
It was your lips on the back of my neck letting me know that you were there.
It was the screech of the fan
replacing the tune of the ice-cream van,
It's funny how both joy and sadness reside with that man.
It's the gentle waves smooching the edge of the tub,
those summer nights, when we gently fell in love.
T.S.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
i said goodbye to the desert
spit out a few grains of rust and sand
as i sat in the back of my mother's grand marquis
i was bidding farewell to the long plaid skirt i wore to school every day
the school that was mercifully unmarred by bullets
the glitter on the popcorn ceiling of my grandparents' home
the smell of an overwhelming saturday evening
which stank of discarded waste and cigarettes
we were going somewhere special
goodbye nuevo laredo
eight years later
i said goodbye again
to a neat little home
nested tightly amongst the bricks of others
a hilly backyard
bluebonnets sashaying on the side of the highway
mexican restaurants every three blocks
that could never replicate what i once had
stars and stripes holding steady in the shade of a sycamore tree
a glittering city in the distance
i was in love
and i was going somewhere special
i was elated to escape
both of my previous lives
always finding myself awash with uncertainty
adrift as i committed and uncommitted to a series of distractions
from the beastly recesses of my pruned little brain
that snarled about hopelessness
abandonment
a lack of worth
and motivation
maybe i knew i was meant to run
since the moment of implantation
my new neighborhood is impeccably silent at night
no hollers to strain my ears for
no ominous pop-pop-pops
(was that a firework or could it be...)
no jovial music with thundering basses and large round drums
i eat pork drenched in teriyaki sauce
and drink green tea in the evenings
on the train, i gaze at the empty stares of other passengers
my gaze is also unreadable
i practice the strokes of a kanji
one, two, three...
my husband and i meander through temples
heavy and groaning with the weight of a thousand years
of life
benevolent buddhas and Cheshire-grinned demons
i can't help but think of the message of a western God
that my mother recited to me every night in the black of our room
sometimes i shuffle my feet in the square space of my living room
to the tune of cumbia
i used to think that i didn't have an identity
no confinement to a culture conceived by the likes of men
but i am what i am
and i never actually escaped
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
I play a game of chess with Marcel Duchamp
Stripped bare totally but with looks still in the mood
I make a final move to rook him into my moan
'You know I want to be the darkest queen of your dreams'
He lifts calm his queen as his eyebrows but without really looking at me
picks up my rook contiguously
deepens some of his penetrating basses and whispers playfully:
' You already are my sweet Rose Sélavy and shall stay so eternally but …
you know … for now...'
and that 'but...for' mutes my **** mount line
highlights a grin of an ingenious rhyme and briefs a victory
on every strategic corner he knows to reach so well to
at once turn me on at an endgame pattern of check
to mate
'... c'est la vie sweet Monsieur S' he whispers
' I want to be the lone king for my queen'
and pushes solid his queen towards my defenseless territory.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Delirious foaming sips
Fidgeting for a cigarette
I look like a raging manic
Time to whistle the time away
With strategies of how I could have spent It better
( My time I mean)
Courting disaster
A youth breathing in angst
Working out the senseless semester
Of continuous mistakes
Sinking sailboat within the space of
Sea in the back of my mind
The bubbles pop like acid rain
And I've nothing tangible to soak
Up the stain
I've perpetrated my desires into
A crisp letter that I've labelled
With a sticker of a lark
Spun out on stress
Reliving the sickness
A gush of cough suppressed in
My chest
Vladimir Nabokov's ******
Explains it the best
Contemplative in public places
With my thoughts hung like
Guitar basses
Riffs in my skull that whisper
How this phase is contagious
And I'm still the only one left of my
Peers with sweaty palms
And a sore throat
Dancing
High to a symphony of lyres
As I suddenly hit a sour note
This vast mountain road
Sliding back and forth on
Riding to a sense of home I've
Long ago forgotten
Is this tingle normal?
Is my preservation of self
Illegal?
Like that girl Lucy with
Cartier in the sky?
The leaves withered up long ago
Like dry grapes and I can't wait
Much longer in this combustible
Longing for
Someone's lies to shelter
In my soft direction
No use speaking about my
Indiscretions
Because no one ever listens till
I utter "I told you so"
I pour karma, dharma and nirvana
Into a tea cup
Finish the potion up
And start to loosen my joints
Poking along my skin in oddly
Sewn points
Walking through the doorway
From one world to another
To the waking screaming world
From a heavily dosed slumber
Seasons came and passed
Grains of sand caress the insides
Of an hourglass
Waiting for forever it seems
For some stranger I catch glimpses
Of in my dreams
Courses through my veins
As novocaine
After a bright vision solidified
In numb numbers as they said it would be
My blanket no longer fits me
As my feet stick out contorted
And my bleek sensation of safety
Seems to have become distorted
A calender left blank
I sit in a shackled ruin
I'm running on the brink
And no longer doing things
I thought knew me
Withdrawing from stings
Of the images in my fantasies
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
feeling throbbing basses
deep inside my body
your eyes locked with mine
gazing right into my mind
feeling your body against mine
as if it were a single one
song by song flies past us
still it is as if time stands still
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 12:56 PM UTC
~
In the late 1960’s
when my mother was in high school choir
a ghost sang with them sometimes in the rehearsal room
if all the basses, tenors, and sopranos joined on que
and their tone and pitch were perfect
a mysterious songbird arrived
to harmonize with them near the ceiling
octaves above their own voices.
Mr. Dougherty, the instructor, would whoop and holler
inviting their songbird, Alice, to sing louder…
and without flaw when a tone
reverberates in each of us
a ghostly phenomenon of the normal variety rises to the ceiling
to sing inside and with us all and as a species.
In those moments our collective voices join in harmonious chorus
we become one with each other and invite the natural world
to come, and sing along. /
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
There was a guy
in glee club
who was a composer
and had perfect pitch,
who wrote a cool piece
for us glee clubbers
to sing,
so, I liked it,
but there was one part
that the conductor repeatedly said
that the basses,
which I was one,
scooped the pitch,
but, I didn't think so,
so it ****** me off,
and after a performance
we had a party,
and some of us
went out back
to sing this piece,
so, right when we got
to the part
that the conductor
was talking about,
I scooped the hell
out of the pitch,
and the composer
with perfect pitch said
that he would never
perform that piece
again.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Tu meurs d'envie de moi
Et tu me dis tout de go
J'ai envie de toi
Là
Maintenant
Bande
Bande
Bande
Et tu chronomètres le temps
Qu'il me faudra pour atteindre
La taille exacte que tu désires
Et quand le petit soldat s'exécute
Au quart de tour comme tu l'exiges
Quand il pointe l'arme vers tes neiges éternelles
Tu dis : Garde à vous, fixe
Tu condamnes mes fesses au peloton d'exécution
Au clic de ton appareil photo
Tu tires à vue
Tu mitrailles à bout portant
Et quand tu es enfin satisfaite de la pose
Tu dis :
Déposez arme
Et je me dégonfle
Instantanément
Et tu exaltes, tu jubiles
De ta toute puissance
Je suis ta chose, ton pantin
Ton esclave
Tu es ma maîtresse
Et tu me flagelles à distance de ton flash.
Et tu exiges des photos explicites
Des gros plans, des détails intimes
De mes parties honteuses
Tu veux la vulve qui dort paisiblement sous mon aisselle
Tu veux la raie du cul qui se dessine dans le creux de mon coude
Tu veux la trique qui ronfle
Au coeur de la mangrove du mont de Venus
Tu veux le trou de mon cul dans le nombril béant
Que je forme de mes plantes de pied jointes
Tu veux que mon sein gauche secrète
A gogo des tasse de café chaud arabica
Tu veux tout
Tout de suite
Le tout et les parties
Sans filtre
Sans retouches
Tu dis que mains et mes doigts t'excitent
Et tu suces mes ongles pour en soutirer
Les envies et les cuticules
Et tu mordilles mes orteils
Lentement l'un après l'autre
Tu croques
Histoire de voir si je suis chatouilleux
Ou si je ne suis pas déjà mort
Et tu veux que je me batte en douce
Comme on bat la campagne
Comme on bat un cil et les cartes
Comme on bat le fer quand il est chaud
Comme on bat le grain pour le moudre
Comme on bat sa coulpe
Comme on bat la mesure
Et comme on bat son coeur
Je me bats en douce
Je te baptises de mon foutre
Je te fais des messes basses
Et je fais main basse sur tes envies
A voix basse
Je m'exécute
Je t'exécute
Car tu reignes vierge souveraine,
En sourdine, Osmose et Extase,
Dans mon royaume tantrique.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:54 AM UTC
Mon amie, ma muse
Nue et sincère
Tu cherches l'oiseau rare,
L'âme effervescente aux yeux d'eau noire,
Aux yeux sans visage
De sel, de cendre, de vin
Qui te ressemble
Et qui profusément te rassemble
Entre tumescences et détumescences.
Tu l'appelles Décébale, géant guerrier de pierre,
Tu le pries Gilgamesh, immortel héros mythique,
Tu le couves des yeux Lucifer,
Ange déchu, doux démon
Entre tumescences et détumescences
Tu les synthétises, tu les allaites
Tu les baptises et débaptises
Tu les tatoues
En femelle animale virginale
En chatonne de lynx captive
Un jour Regina, le lendemain Jao, le surlendemain Zoé.
Je l'appelle sublime élan vital,
Entre zénith et nadir, incandescence.
Il se manifeste entre boursouflures,
Dilatations, bascules,
Turgescences, érections, éruptions, bandaisons,
Flux et reflux de sang et de sève,
Marées basses, dégorgements,
Enflures, dégonflements, coulées de lave.
Alors dans cet entre-deux parfait où les eaux
Animales, humaines et divines
Se déversent en impossible amour
Ton masque entre en transe
Et tu nages jusqu'au delta lustral
Des colombes aux abois.
Tu es Dyonissia, tu es Aura, Gradiva,
Annabel Lee, Princesse Brambilla,
Tu es immortelle, tu es Tout-Monde
Entre tumescences et détumescences
Tu renais immortelle.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC