"bijou" poems
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sweet Butterfly, with wings now dry 'tis time to break away
and light upon the leaves of dawn while weeping willows sway,
not reminisce 'bout chrysalis discarded yesterday,
but treasure life, with colors rife in nature's cabaret.
Sweet Butterfly, you sometimes sigh "terrene so strange and new”,
but take a chance, with winged expanse of fairy-like bijou,
to taste delight in random flight, to drift beyond the blue
and then collect her naked nectar, sipped in morning dew.
Sweet Butterfly, you question why the breeze is seldom soft
when swirling you, your wings askew, while floating free aloft.
Some seem to find their peace of mind believing gods have coughed,
but others, downed, have often found more freedom when they've scoffed.
Sweet Butterfly, you needn't cry, the fields are full of clover,
and meadowlands bare braided strands that winds in waves flow over -
but if you fear that, more than here, another mead is mauver,
just flutter by, beneath the sky, unfettered flitting rover.
Sweet Butterfly, farewell, goodbye, you've left this world behind.
I oft gaze back along the track of flowers that you've mined
recalling days of light sashays and movements unconfined
that complement the firmament where beauty lies enshrined.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Our first date at Rise
Holding your hand at the Firehouse Theater
Eating bagels you brought back from Montreal
Having lunch at Salata
Going to the Arboretum
The way you peeked out children’s house
Cuddling on the couch
Watching Game of Thrones
When you fell asleep in my arms
Drinking Amaretto Sours
When you would be silly
The sound of your voice
The maraschino cherry stem you tied with your tongue
The Forget Me Not Flower Kit you gave me
Exchanging texts
The sound of incoming WhatsApp messages
Diner at Howard Wangs
You wearing bunny ears during Easter
36-28-41
When you posed for me
Your blues eyes looking up at me
Seeing your smile
Touching your lips
The way you smell
The secrets you would tell
Showing how you care
Hugging me tight
Letting me take care of you
When you cook Arepas
The gluten free Clafouti
The time you had the flu
Wearing Calvin Klein underwater
Your dainty feet
Your goddess like figure
Your cute accent
Typing in the door bell code
Hearing you answer
The emoji of puppy heart kitten
Knowing you are my Bijou
Calling you Minou
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
~
*Holding court at the Zanzibar,
they looked on good nights
like Egyptian Queens, like Ancient Babylonians.
On not so good nights,
they resembled Brassaï's Moma Bijou -
"fugitives from Baudelaire's bad dreams",
and even then they looked magnificent.
Identity wasn't something you nailed
yourself into in late adolescence.
It was a trick of the light,
and if you were to avoid
burning yourself out,
then you simply let the flames
lick over you
and turned the ashes into kohl.*
~
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 11:47 AM UTC
I have been living in these huts lately,
As this life seems aimless and desultory,
Slowly flowing like the splash of drops over the board,
Hallelujah . For me, it's still our God's handwritten story.
Two cents quietly sit in my little pockets ,
And they still fit perfectly in each,
Same as our feelings, as they huddle around our hearts,
Occupying the bijou portions and trying not to leach.
I will hold on till the day, staggering away,
In my tattered clothes, till the color withers and my story stales,
Lingering in the huts, with a hue of nostalgia,
Ailing but not wailing, after a series of massive fails.
Before God finishes writing my story,
I believe he will hand me the pen, its a fact, not a lie,
And with you by my side, I will scribble my glory,
I'll dress you your Gossamer, and myself a Suit and a tie.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
(1)
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is my Hob-goblin.
2
At dead of night she called me
I fell into oblivion
She came off with flying colors
I was impressed by her green eye
She was a pack of lies
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
I sailed, I sailed under her false colors
3
These are the hows and whats of my love
Waiting to pay the debt of nature
Waiting for the call of my creator
Living to write my swan song, living to write my swan song
Expecting to write it ere long, expecting to write it ere long
4
I am the huckster of love, bibulous in love
She is my bijou, she is my billow
She is a hob-goblin.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.
Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:
Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
Another poem from the pen of my alter ego Barry Hodges
Half asleep, I sense you rise from the bed
Where we have shared love's passion,
Your sweaty body glistening as the dawn's early light
Peeks through the curtains of our ensuite bedroom.
O! To think that our great love affair must end
Now that your husband has threatened
To asphyxiate your six dear children
If you do not cast me aside like a worn out shoe.
And when I awake fully I find you gone forever,
The only souvenir of our last night together
Being a small squashed **** lying on the stained bedlinen.
O! How can I ever forget such a tragic awakening?
*FOOTNOTE
[I knew from bitter experience of similar occurrences that dear old Mrs Bloggs (Seaview Bijou B&B;, The Esplanade, Ramsgate, Kent) was bound to make a hefty surcharge to disinfect the bedding thoroughly. What an unromantic old ***** she was, may she rot in Hell forever.]*
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
A silhouette leaned back
Grey smoke distorted features demure;
Swirls riddled—smooth jazz syncopation
Her rouge lips cut through
The darkness.
She took a long drag on her
Cigarette, smoke rings evaporated
A halo around her.
Midnight blue eyes surveyed
The Bijou Café
Carpet pooled on the floor,
Blood soaked with wine,
Enclosed by onyx sheets,
The far wall a mirror.
A reflection of the souled and soulless.
Bar welcome strangers, friends,
The lonely.
Sharing drinks and memories
Vines intertwined customers
A perchance meeting;
Rendezvous of sorts.
Nameless faces and acquaintances
Dotted the room, a familiar skyline.
Lonely tower missing.
Smooth black fedora
Hearts sank ships as
Waves of embarrassment
Enveloped her; disappointment.
Crestfallen her eyes downtrodden
Soared with a door creak.
Black fedora entered,
Smooth—slick as oil
Eyes were hidden beneath
A veil of night;
Silence became him.
Hush fell on the crowd
As the shadow took the stage
Light pierced through,
Illuminating him.
Orbs locked
Reservation started to pass,
Voice velvet smooth
Played every heartstring
Notes of excitement
Tantalized her veins,
Pulse quickened;
Echoing every tempo change.
Music coursed through her being
Sensual; seductive
Notes caressed curves, valleys
Spaces in between.
Emotion—chord dependent
Voice penetrated skin
Music flowed through her.
A mountain peek high
Mind clouded—
Breath escaped her lungs.
Quiet murmur answered her comedown
An empty stage; stalwart eyes
Fingers replaced music
Lips brushed hers; taste—electric
Smile turned smirk; hollow presence
Musky cologne in wake.
Magnetic pull forward
Fedora exited
Midnight eyes transformed to dawn;
Abandoned beneath the awning
Familiar skyline flowed liquid.
Bijou Café
Neon sign loomed dark
Save for a letter
I illuminated.
Heart tendrils retreated,
Back to roots; betrayed
Tears turned to water
Liquid guilt—love died.
Fingers loosed
Memory;
Small matchbook of shame
Lingering of once upon a time
In the gutter; pouring rain.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
Laisse-moi vagabonder dans le désert de mes pensées
Et verser mes larmes nostalgiques
Tu sais bien que ma vie sans toi n'est qu'une mort attardée
Insignifiante, mon existence hélas, des plus dramatiques
Viens, fais-moi la cour tel jadis sous d'autres cieux
Récites-moi tes bon vieux vers théâtraux. Je le sais bien, tu le veux
Ces mots-là, qui n'existent que dans mes rêves les plus fous
Oui, ils valent tellement plus qu'un simple bijou
Tu ne me laisses pas le choix, à moi d'assoupir cette flamme
Et de faire mes adieux à cette presqu'existence
Je ne suis hélas qu'une simple femme
Mes émotions vont s'enfouir dans le silence
Ame impitoyable, je languie de toi, j'en meurs
Et seule désormais je resterai rembrunie
A vivre de mes maintes douleurs
A respirer de ton amour, autrefois infini
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
faded,
stretch marks specking
skin, lines etched into thighs
and chest.
minuscule,
bijou ruby acne wounds;
concealed behind bangs,
not makeup.
hidden,
crescent fingernail indents
in palms, holding a fist
too tight.
unavoidable,
bumps on the backs
of legs, almost as if crinkled
paper *****
temporary,
blood red threading and
seams on waists, after
shrinking jeans.
saturated,
sangria and eggplant sunsets
ache to touch; swell slightly
before recovery.
these are my organic tattoos.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 4:20 AM UTC
From the moment I saw you
I was in love with you.
I watched as you floated around the room, like a butterfly collecting nectar, your eyes sparkled and glittered like thousands of facets off a diamond
As you moved, your hair undulated back and forth as if caught in a gentle ocean current
Your smile was magnificent, powerful, and awe inspiring, like the rising of the sun over a steamy exotic jungle
Across the room, you turned, our eyes met, and I felt a jolt, I had been harpooned through the heart. I could have fallen to my knees
I went from numb, stunned, to being on fire, with love and lust. I wanted you, wanted you so much. I could feel my primal urges and visceral needs rising and overwhelming me
I wanted to protect and provide for you, to build a house and hearth, to keep you safe and warm, a place to have and raise children, together
I wanted to hold you, feel you, in my arms, your head lying on my chest, snuggling, cuddling, purring like a newborn kitten
I wanted to look eternally in your crystal blue eyes, mesmerized at their depth and breath, like a endless desert sky
I wanted to kiss your lips, red, full, and moist like a rose on a French summer morn
You are a bijou, a jewel, like no other, rare, priceless, and precious, a gift to gods and men alike
I am grateful, for our brief, intense, and tumultuous love, like a shooting star across a darkening evening sky
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
LIVEN ON THE RAZORS EDGE
Remember how we used to dream
the things that we were not
I was your knight in shining armor
in our concrete Camelot
We played so many different parts
like actors on a stage
We’d escape through picture magazines
just by turning page to page
Back when we had nothing to lose
by taking a chance by breaking the rules
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
and I was King of the streets and you were queen of the avenue
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
our castle was a run-down candy store our kingdom the theatre Bijou
And it’s good seeing you again
though it’s been so many years
Since I played your Lancelot
and you my Guinevere
I’m glad to see those special times
neither one of us forgot
And that we no long need to dreams
the things that we are not
Back when we had nothing to lose
by taking a chance by breaking the rules
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
and I was King of the streets and you were queen of the avenue
When we were dead end kids living on the razors edge
our castle was a run-down candy store our kingdom the theatre Bijou
sp-theatre / English / theater American English
By VjKelly 1993 © for my song RAZORS EDGE
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
"O my dearest,
darling, bijou,
*born the silver
worker's daughter*,
"*how so fortunate
mine eyes
to witness thine
palatial wonder*!
"Mine pleasure t'*would
to take hold and
to pick the fruits
among your vine*—
"*the shyest heart
of rose hips what
has pewter cruxes
bold t'shine*!
"*And as eyes and
I pay credit
to a distent,
nearing nimbus*..
"These gem'*nate
tongues b'twine as
oaken staves—
the Brav'ra Lingus*!"
(..she responds,)
*"Mine auburn falls
for thee*, my dove,
but thy fervence, *once
to mine*, abates?"**
"Quite, my dear..
"tho, *ginger trapped
in tantric bond
what's sweetness*, *rare
n'a boon*, belates!"
*"..well*, *then
please use a ******
she said*.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
i.
Cryeth not mine unearthly floret, for thou art good enough
Cryeth not, thine tear's art mine tear's, thine fear is mine fear;
Cryeth not mine pet, thine bijou vision's art met with mine own
Cryeth not holy apostle, thine anguishing jostle's across interweb.
ii.
Frowneth not mine protector, thine room awaiteth me to arrive
Frowneth not O' ethereal ressurector, I'm stuck sweetly in mind;
Frowneth not core of mine existence, thou art mine daily bread
Frowneth not, thine Thorn's art off, now they sit upon mine head.
iii.
Smile mine delicate sweet, I'm begging at thy feet for one laugh
Smile mine elegant treat, I'm more than happy, with thee blessed;
Smile mine earl Jane nagley, soon to taketh mine hand, two ring's
Smile mine dandy, we shalt meet soon, in ourn room, Bell's ding.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
À Max Jacob.
Vers le palais de Rosemonde au fond du Rêve
Mes rêveuses pensées pieds nus vont en soirée
Le palais don du roi comme un roi nu s'élève
Des chairs fouettées des roses de la roseraie
On voit venir au fond du jardin mes pensées
Qui sourient du concert joué par les grenouilles
Elles ont envie des cyprès grandes quenouilles
Et le soleil miroir des roses s'est brisé
Le stigmate sanglant des mains contre les vitres
Quel archer mal blessé du couchant le troua
La résine qui rend amer le vin de Chypre
Ma bouche aux agapes d'agneau blanc l'éprouva
Sur les genoux pointus du monarque adultère
Sur le mai de son âge et sur son trente et un
Madame Rosemonde roule avec mystère
Ses petits yeux tout ronds pareils aux yeux des Huns
Dame de mes pensées au cul de perle fine
Dont ni perle ni cul n'égale l'orient
Qui donc attendez-vous
De rêveuses pensées en marche à l'Orient
Mes plus belles voisines
Toc toc Entrez dans l'antichambre le jour baisse
La veilleuse dans l'ombre est un bijou d'or cuit
Pendez vos têtes aux patères par les tresses
Le ciel presque nocturne a des lueurs d'aiguilles
On entra dans la salle à manger les narines
Reniflaient une odeur de graisse et de graillon
On eut vingt potages dont trois couleurs d'urine
Et le roi prit deux œufs pochés dans du bouillon
Puis les marmitons apportèrent les viandes
Des rôtis de pensées mortes dans mon cerveau
Mes beaux rêves mort-nés en tranches bien saignantes
Et mes souvenirs faisandés en godiveaux
Or ces pensées mortes depuis des millénaires
Avaient le fade goût des grands mammouths gelés
Les os ou songe-creux venaient des ossuaires
En danse macabre aux plis de mon cervelet
Et tous ces mets criaient des choses nonpareilles
Mais nom de Dieu !
Ventre affamé n'a pas d'oreilles
Et les convives mastiquaient à qui mieux mieux
Ah ! nom de Dieu ! qu'ont donc crié ces entrecôtes
Ces grands pâtés ces os à moelle et mirotons
Langues de feu où sont-elles mes pentecôtes
Pour mes pensées de tous pays de tous les temps.
1.3k
One morning, I met and ate with Sappho, and
as we watched the baited ducklets come and go
described to her a calming Violet i had found
within where seeded crops of crocuses grow
who strapped the sunlight as its belle bijou
and subtle symmetry that provided words
to break the heart and warm the blush skin of you
I told her of broken morning birds
simple songs robbed by her brushed deviled tips
I cried of endless pages cast in ink
to describe her perfect purple lips
of desperate letters to help me understand how her love thinks
All other stem of Violetta fail to me
to remind of the shadow cast over flowers then
or to undermine those bright pink cheeks i could see
in its petal hues - usual rhythm couldn't convey to pen
this wild moss of a creature that heavn's sink....
a smile, and she replied
"a picked and pressed flower
for a Violet of my own", said the Girl.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
(À une jeune étrangère.)
Quand tes beaux pieds distraits errent, ô jeune fille,
Sur ce sable mouillé, frange d'or de la mer,
Baisse-toi, mon amour, vers la blonde coquille
Que Vénus fait, dit-on, polir au flot amer.
L'écrin de l'Océan n'en a point de pareille ;
Les roses de ta joue ont peine à l'égaler ;
Et quand de sa voluté on approche l'oreille,
On entend mille voix qu'on ne peut démêler.
Tantôt c'est la tempête avec ses lourdes vagues,
Qui viennent en tonnant se briser sur tes pas ;
Tantôt c'est la forêt avec ses frissons vagues ;
Tantôt ce sont des voix qui chuchotent tout bas.
Oh ! ne dirais-tu pas, à ce confus murmure
Que rend le coquillage aux lèvres de carmin,
Un écho merveilleux où l'immense nature
Résume tous ses bruits dans le creux de ta main ?
Emporte-la, mon ange ! Et quand ton esprit joue
Avec lui-même, oisif, pour charmer tes ennuis,
Sur ce bijou des mers penche en riant ta joue,
Et, fermant tes beaux yeux, recueilles-en les bruits.
Si, dans ces mille accents dont sa conque fourmille,
Il en est un plus doux qui vienne te frapper,
Et qui s'élève à peine aux bords de la coquille,
Comme un aveu d'amour qui n'ose s'échapper ;
S'il a pour ta candeur des terreurs et des charmes ;
S'il renaît en mourant presque éternellement ;
S'il semble au fond d'un cœur rouler avec des larmes ;
S'il tient de l'espérance et du gémissement...
Ne te consume pas à chercher ce mystère !
Ce mélodieux souffle, ô mon ange, c'est moi !
Quel bruit plus éternel et plus doux sur la terre,
Qu'un écho de mon cœur qui m'entretient de toi ?
1.2k
Son visage se reflète sur mes yeux désenchantés
Qui versent des larmes nostalgiques
Il sait bien que ma vie sans lui n'est qu'une mort attardée
Qu'une existence au destin le plus tragique
Je voudrais qu'il me fasse la cour tel jadis sous d'autres cieux
Les vers théatraux comme les chantaient nos aiieux
Les mots qui existent seulement dans mes rêves les plus doux
Les mots qui valent tellement plus qu'un simple bijou
Le seul moyen d'éteindre cette flamme
Est de dire à Dieu à ma vie
Je ne suis hélas qu'une simple femme
Je ne puis supporter tout ce mépris
Sur le désert de ma vie je demeure
Certe, déplorable et rembrunie
Mais je vis malgré mes douleurs
Malgré mes blessures infinies
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
i.
Buoyant, as bubbly toddler's, giggly as drunkard's on a midnight
Swoon. Though sober, ourn limb's limber, high as we osculate;
Her countenance is seductive, her saliva reproductive, none to crosseth ourn citadel; a playground carousel, ourn kid's to relate.
ii.
O' crème de la crème, the kalinaw that thou hast brought
The solace that I hath sought, awaiteth in thine intellect of light;
Beyond the grave's of death and fright, on a train, or just one
Flight, I shalt meeteth thee mine amare, between the bijou veil.
iii.
In novel's, In tale's, on bookshelves, in robust detail, when the fall
Arriveth, and the winter enter's, when Hades breaketh loose;
As the universe loses it's center, and the Cosmos goes to blood, as the planetoid's faileth, a letter in the mail, mine heart sail's.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry founder.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Je n'ai pas pour maîtresse une lionne illustre :
La gueuse, de mon âme, emprunte tout son lustre ;
Invisible aux regards de l'univers moqueur,
Sa beauté ne fleurit que dans mon triste coeur.
Pour avoir des souliers elle a vendu son âme.
Mais le bon Dieu rirait si, près de cette infâme,
Je tranchais du Tartufe et singeais la hauteur,
Moi qui vends ma pensée et qui veux être auteur.
Vice beaucoup plus grave, elle porte perruque.
Tous ses beaux cheveux noirs ont fui sa blanche nuque ;
Ce qui n'empêche pas les baisers amoureux.
De pleuvoir sur son front plus pelé qu'un lépreux.
Elle louche, et l'effet de ce regard étrange
Qu'ombragent des cils noirs plus longs que ceux d'un ange,
Est tel que tous les yeux pour qui l'on s'est ****
Ne valent pas pour moi son oeil juif et cerné.
Elle n'a que vingt ans ; - la gorge déjà basse
Pend de chaque côté comme une calebasse,
Et pourtant, me traînant chaque nuit sur son corps,
Ainsi qu'un nouveau-né, je la tette et la mords,
Et bien qu'elle n'ait pas souvent même une obole
Pour se frotter la chair et pour s'oindre l'épaule,
Je la lèche en silence avec plus de ferveur
Que Madeleine en feu les deux pieds du Sauveur.
La pauvre créature, au plaisir essoufflée,
A de rauques hoquets la poitrine gonflée,
Et je devine au bruit de son souffle brutal
Qu'elle a souvent mordu le pain de l'hôpital.
Ses grands yeux inquiets, durant la nuit cruelle,
Croient voir deux autres yeux au fond de la ruelle,
Car, ayant trop ouvert son coeur à tous venants,
Elle a peur sans lumière et croit aux revenants.
Ce qui fait que de suif elle use plus de livres
Qu'un vieux savant couché jour et nuit sur ses livres,
Et redoute bien moins la faim et ses tourments
Que l'apparition de ses défunts amants.
Si vous la rencontrez, bizarrement parée,
Se faufilant, au coin d'une rue égarée,
Et la tête et l'oeil bas comme un pigeon blessé,
Traînant dans les ruisseaux un talon déchaussé,
Messieurs, ne crachez pas de jurons ni d'ordure
Au visage fardé de cette pauvre impure
Que déesse Famine a par un soir d'hiver,
Contrainte à relever ses jupons en plein air.
Cette bohème-là, c'est mon tout, ma richesse,
Ma perle, mon bijou, ma reine, ma duchesse,
Celle qui m'a bercé sur son giron vainqueur,
Et qui dans ses deux mains a réchauffé mon coeur.
1.1k
If you think you're lonely now, you probably are
Do you find yourself wishing upon stars?
Friends and family are mere garments for your soul
When the night falls, you're still left feeling cold
Do you find yourself more busy than usual?
Are you occupying your mind with things that are trivial
Will you drown yourself in poetic verses
Let me say this again I don't think you heard this
Will you drown yourself in poetic verses
If you think you're lonely now, there's no app or service
Do you place yourself in a crowd of people
Do you bow your head and pray under a steeple?
Praying your soul to rest and that God may keep you
Yet still among the masses no one can see you
Love lost love never found, the loneliness is equal
When you tap on your keys and reach out overseas
looking for someone to greet you
If you think you're lonely now
You'll feel lonelier knowing they'll never meet you
Oh the disparity of it all, the pain to just be you
Are you praying again, for life to just leave you?
Or will you occupy that single seat at a matinee at the Bijou
if you think you're lonely now, I believe you.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
A strawberry red bale
that gratitude was dale
but her waist ran a bijou
a chestful day in May
and her thigh was derry with such a motif
that was ye trumpet from Sunnyvale tonight
where her sweet tooth went ravishingly bare
while incredible vibration she'd shareware
indeed, a variation hypnotically sound
like her chestnut roasting bonfire where
tactfully dressed in love attire
we happen to know that travel so far
with the web now our thoroughfare
and dire by dawn fit her ankle again
that entail her sprangle
though her selfie is the grandeur soon
with foetuses In her bottom.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
You toss a coin
or turn a card
anyway you throw the dice
you know that life is hard
so you want to take it easy in some nice bijou apartment
but you know that 'heaven sent'
is just a figment of imagination.
Creation's just a spirograph
it makes you cry
it makes you laugh
and in the end
someone will send an 'etch a sketch' to wipe you clean.
So fetch your dream tied up in bows
tie it to the arrows of the discontent
let them fly off to our parliament
and then forget,
that we were once the future that was told
but now we're old
we are expendable.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Madame
A sorrowful phantom
w/ all these meaningless suitors gifts
she wears them through the ages
Rubies and diamonds
Bijou
cannot contain her french spirit
Madame
They say love cycles
and the love will live again
She shies away from eternity
waiting for her lost love
For him
For him to come
once again
a million years away
For him
For him to turn her around
arms spread
flying full breeze
at the edge of life
and all that is
Just a million years away
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC