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"bibliophiles" poems
I remember a certain cold Cold like a scalpel I remember your face Illuminated by a Ferris wheel The aquiline nose and glint in the eyes Asymmetrical ivory in the mouth We were bibliophiles Expounding upon the potency of the written word Enthralled by each other's soliloquies. I remember The moisture, texture, warmth of your lips Comforting, numbing, exhilarating The ****** effect of your flesh Delirium in my bloodstream The hushed tenor of your voice Temperate breath tickling the whorls of my ear Known to me only in a dream.
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Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
Delirium
i have an ongoing love affair with words that roll around your mouth luscious, langourous lilliputitian letters sensual syllables slick- sliding off the tongue ecstatic explosions, erupting, erogenously exciting, eager exclaimations, of enraptured exualtations organic, original orientations of teeth and tongue producing oodles, of apogeic anomolies my affair accomplishes much for little it is you see just a not so secret love of letter, line, jot and tittle. a casting eye upon a word and i am set rushing down a path reserved for those with terms, descriptive, and names. that in themselves, decry wordlove. lexicographers and bibliophiles phoneologists, linguists, polygots, jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes poets. all possess this heartstringed tangled knot, spiderwebbed feeling, for words. which, we then, endevour to spin, into inkstained beauty, to ensare ourselves ...and others.
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Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
my other love
Ode to David Cameron. This day upon a gibbet stage; there will Thoth be hung, alas no more to turn a page o' Einstein Freud; or Jung. to dance the jig 'pon corbled rig to swing there; decomposing, where bibliophiles and sacred files lament the libraries; you are a closing.
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Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 9:41 AM UTC
"Ode to David Camaron -"
Tripping with funeral stars Random friends in random bars Prowling bibliophiles Nature of caskets in the wild Can you feel the shaman’s rage? Advice from the poor man’s sage The summer sun and the winter moon The eclipsing gloom of noon This strange life of indifference Echoing athwart the earth Wading thru the sun Waiting to come undone Wading thru the sun Waiting for you to come Wading, Waiting For our funeral stars Our random friends In our random bars
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Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC
Funeral Stars
The basement compound is full of stacks. Six thousand plus books in alpha order. Welcome, bibliophiles and novice poets. The lighting is courtesy of a three-bulb tree. A balanced diet of tomes, sonnets & Limericks, prose poems in tongues. A cheval glass mirror sees Wendell Berry. The room under the stairs has anthologies. Each volume is part of a collective whole. Vendler on Dickinson & New York Haiku. This one-time coal-bin has a dehumidifier To keep it alive & free of mold. The poets are unaware of the visits of A baby raccoon who almost ate Auden. They are sleeping soundly, immune to Dog-eared magazines in the reject corner. Lorca himself rests just above the sump Pump & Yeats across from the water heater. The furnace keeps Frost warm in winter & The Lady of the Lake dry. Come & check out the underground home Of Thomas’ and Plath’s villanelles. No photo ID card needed here, just a Healthy, insatiable appetite for metaphor. There is one requirement: patrons must Leave cell phones at the top of the stairs. & they must have a love-affair with the real Thing, a desire to touch a book. Yes, all six thousand plus volumes are, or Were, in print – made of paper and glue. © Lewis Bosworth, 4-2017
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Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
Underground Poetry
Bibliophiles have there libraries ***** feeders have there dens Vincent had his paint brushes while authors feed their pens Churches have there story tellers To them it's about good and bad Asylums holding straight jackets For people who are totally mad The armies train people to **** politicians yearn to become a Lord Tower of London has it guards My chess set has lost its board. Doctor Jekyll needed mr Hyde While ice bergs feel the cold My poor old grandad needed a wig Cause he was completly bald
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Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
One needs the other