"breeches" poems
Amazing it was what Grandad would do
with a drop of oil or a bit of glue
Stopped watches, sticking locks
Faulty switches, zips on breeches
Kettles that wouldn't sing
Bells that wouldn't ring
He'd say let me have a look my dear
Touch the pencil behind his ear
Adjust his specs, stick out his tongue
And in a jiff it was mended and done
But now he's not here to save us from sin
Anything broken goes straight in the bin
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.
now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.
we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.
she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.
a day of rearrangement.
as you were.
sbm
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
I'm downing
endless darkness above and below
I'm drowning
my body corrupted by the waves
I'm drowning
a puppet to the ocean deep
I'm drowning
amongst the wild of the sea
I'm drowning
water breeches my swollen lungs
I'm drowning
pain engulfs my whole
I'm drowning
just like any other day
I'm drowning
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their ******* were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging *******
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
3.5k
Moral pulls herself up
by her own bootstraps
on her high horse boots
with stir ups when I visit
and the rocking chairs
throw down newspapers
and stand to attention
in the name of Moral support
looking like we might be game
who holds the whip hand in this sport?
I straddle the fence
with her strict father
Duty
Duty gives the orders here
we try to carry them out
they're no heavy burden
not keeping mum Mercy
from being close
to daughter Moral
Duty is of higher rank
and gives Moral
direction
Duty sets the boundary
Mercy's bound to
follow
while Moral
carries the compass
and the compassion
of a conscience
Me?
I'm loyal
love enough
and
light enough
to jump the fences
with my own defence
Moral permits
This defence is
good for morale
but Duty is always on guard
for Moral
a perfect match
that can have
a deadly when ignited
bite to catch
those who are free spirited
When Duty's asleep
alone
he leaves a stern
guardian
off the safety catch
in Duty of care
for Moral
- Discipline
I must steal
this care
away
from the arms of Discipline
when Moral's involved
because Discipline
in the hands of Duty
would explode in the face
of neighbourly straying
should Duty do what he sees
fit
without Mercy at his side
But should Duty awaken
alone
to his Moral's
dilemma
I fear
his Moral Discipline
can be Merciless
Did we burn our breeches?
almost
we rode a city of them
chaste
off racecourse
to show
Moral Italy
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
A sneaky glance here, a forbidden love ignited
Your stamina driven by a fire un-blighted.
Our limbs lock, intertwine like puzzle pieces
Our chests pressed together, hands loosening breeches.
I can feel you under my skin
Ebbing and flowing to my whim
And your hair feels like the stars I’ve longed to touch.
Your eyes are closed, no dreams are here
We’re breathing in the here and now
I never thought I’d want someone so much.
Your grip makes me feel safe
My arms can’t let you go.
My hairs stand rigidly, at a pace
We’re putting on a desire rid show.
I can feel nothing but fingers and skin
Exploring and groping to whim
And your hair feels like the stars I’ve longed to touch.
Your eyes are closed, no dreams are here
We’re breathing in the here and now
I never thought I’d want someone so much.
You leave me breathless and gasping
My fantasy fulfilled, and rasping
Your sweat is sweeter than water
Our limbs never falter
I can feel nothing but fingers and skin
Exploring and groping to whim
And your hair feels like the stars I’ve longed to touch.
Your eyes are closed, no dreams are here
We’re breathing in the here and now
I never thought I’d want someone so much.
Boys can be boys, but not you and I
We go far back to the very first time
That you wanted me and I craved you;
This wasn’t merely a *****
5th August 2016
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
Abstract blond's reality turned abstract Roma;
Beat women win over scientists' flaming fingerprints
weapon origins feminine economic women wearing
lace knee breeches; violence desert yeh, Satan swallows
their bottom winds tiny tournament witch sight poor,
saints poor, skin thin, her widescreen walking;
Jewish teens drinking spirits began to spread a blanket
and take down the facts on audio as entertainment
******* wet track Gothic love gig moves to cool,
cool foreign watch is simply corporate leaves & sunny socks,
an opposite example of a system,
sitting dead, hey, no back after meeting
live streets strange **** workout
for the goddesses never pointing out porn's bar porridge -At Tina's,
laptops are rare medicinal parts, non-invisible ******
invisible football; We can imagine a straight pid...
Isaiah 4:1 King James Version (KJV) 4 [ ];
And in that day seven women
shall take hold of one man, saying,
We will eat our own bread,
and wear our own apparel:
only let us be called by thy name,
to take away our reproach.
blonde bright abstract astonished
Rome beat older women scientists
flaming fingers hairy economic
girls *** dawn violence knee
desert Yeh! Satan kissing winds
witch competition thin low tone
slim vision poor saints skin La
Isla teens Jewish wide discernment
drank spirited starter planet;
super good dug wet track meat
wolf love moves to watch
just the company of alien cool faces,
for example, the system is wet socks
sitting drying they do not belong on
the counter; on the street lived a strange
***** Iodine without the goddess, u
can also show porn's semiconductor
*** to the elderly as rare medicines;
parts invisible football, ******
looking there, I was able Imagine
| a straight *****
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 8:41 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
It’s a witch hunt
Donald Trump insists
But listen closely
And then dig this
You don’t hunt witches
Where none exists
Despite the President’s anger
And him balling his fist
It’s a witch hunt
You’ll hear him shout
At various rallies
But there is no doubt
He runs the coven
And they’re all about
In his administration
As well as out
It’s a witch hunt,
That Mueller probe
But Trump lacks the patience
Shown by a Job
The investigation
Stays on his frontal lobe
And he appears naked
Without a bathrobe
It’s a witch hunt
And Mueller’s caught witches
He’s indicted dozens
Of those sons-of-bitches
The president needs to
Be kicked in his breeches
Because the emoluments
Adds to his riches
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 6:48 AM UTC
the recycled song
that repeats in the throats of the lovers that came so many times
they were invisible on death's radar for just one night. Is it possible
for the same two people
to live in that kind of
perpetual amazing-ness?
A white flag of surrender in the nose of scolding lips--her lips--those wonderful lies.
The best beard no one will forget. That last sentence makes no sense
without the breakfast it went down with. My eggs over well, the bacon still moist with grease, the toast over golden, the grits sloppy, the hashbrowns like a fried sandwich. I need a fantastic cup of coffee. with her perfume. I'm not sure
if I am what she wants, but the alcohol in the
wine I had for New Years still lingers in my throat.
I still feel the burn of loss in my esophagus. The white banner starboard,
blood in my teeth and an opera on my fingers--
what a beautiful world for this day to begin on and this night to end on. I am a man
and woman
My feet are hairy--my heart is bruised and young, like crossed lovers in heels and breeches.
The faith of a white flag--a serpentine
coast in my suitcase. The world awaits,
death can wait--and thanks to Hemingway,
I begin, end, and live my life around the word
'and'.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
My love lies 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine, within yon stand of trees.
Where upon a bed or ferns he did deeply drowse,
whilst locks of hair were tickled by the breeze.
I sat near to count the seconds pass,
till he would wake and espies my vision there.
Then into his arms I would fall at last,
loving away the longing of these past years.
Silver moonlight contrasts a God like form,
in leather breeches and shirt of linen.
Four years he was gone, I had been forlorn.
There he lay so close to home and kin.
Lashes rest upon sculpted cheeks of bronze,
hiding from me eyes of liquid brown.
Eagerly I awaited the sun of dawn,
to show me more of the marvel I had found.
Yes, my love lies now 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine within yon stand of trees.
Now eternally he does drowse,
as I fatally grieve down upon my knees.
For as the sun rose upon his stubble face,
I saw the lines of pain and of bloom erased.
Of life, my frantic hands, could find no trace.
What game is this so cruelly played by fates?
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
where a dollar separates you from being broke
or rued some fellar' stealin' your broad.
down the blue collar road in the land
of Alabam' ?
ever been a shill for a thief or the cuckolded
ole stooge standin' in the wake of the love
hurricane?
Ever noticed another man's woman?
Or tried to pet his dog when he was gone?
Stole a glance at some beauty,
way outside your reach?
Been immobile no phone or
wherewithal wet breeches and droopy
jowled, alone in Mobile?
But the skies are so blue,
the song said it true.
Down in Alabam'
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
slow the wind dost blow,
a sadder light hath the morrow
brought for me;
colour of crimson fire breeches
over the expanse,
a boiling sphere;
the embodiment of wrath,
beauteous is her sky,
as the lips of the days light
kiss the darkened lips of night;
cold, forgotten is her cornerstone;
the reflection of her soul,
rested upon the heavens, it sits,
Solar Flares
&
Moon Beams
Oh, this forbidden love, I dare to breath in!
bristles tender bristles,
birth a soft touch beneath my fingers,
like that of a fine silk brush,
driven to a blissful land,
walking upon this field of grass so simple, it driveth the painter mad,
t's the break of dawn
which begets the fall of night,
this equilibrium stop; its twilight,
the moment draws ever nigh,
whence the heart of Colour shall rest within the Soul of her reflection
once more...
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
As his hand held the horn
Advancing in the flow
Guided by the gold glow
The scent of a black thorn
Caught his courageous core.
Bravely, his blade he bore
The callous cave calling
The evil and lurking
Mischievous monster
The mourning, mad mother
Of the deceased Grendel.
The ghost of the rebel
Haunting the silent rocks
Bones, brides, breeches, in blocks.
And his hand held the hilt
For no demon will spilt
His burning and blessed blood.
Blue and bright was the sweep
His body sinking deep
In this felonious flood.
He shuddered as he shone
“ Look, I could light your lone”
What a wielder, my woe !”
“ Show yourself, filthy foe
I thus swear, your demise
Will be swift, I promise…”
“ Sweet sayings, o slayer
Come closer, commander,
Epic epitome
Of grace and of beauty
I reckon you royal
I do know you, kind knight
I have been, from afar
Whilst you were with Hrothgar
Beholding, in the night
Your might and your madness.
I praise your pure prowess
Until my dreaded den
You have disturbed my dawn
And slaughtered my fine fawn…
You must be Beowulf
Son of the bees and wolves. “
“Silence, seditious sin
You are not from my kin
Let alone from my line
You will never be mine !
March, woman, bow your nape
Under my trusted blade
Let your light crimson cape
Fall to the fallen floor
This shelter you have made
Your marooned murky moor
In this stretch naught was found
Your kingdom and your mound
Shall be your last torrent
The moon will be crescent !“
His eyes devoured her
Dear delicious posture
He pondered, standing there
Over her tempting tone
This soft gift of nature…
He wanted her dead, gone
She cursed him with a kiss
Basking in a pure bliss
His sallied sword collapsed
As the time sighed, elapsed
She skimmed him in the sun
With her dark divine dun
Seducing and soft sight
And he had lost the fight
He left her shining side
When the tedious tide
Swallowed his strong structure
As a King, with no cure !
September, 18, 2013
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
antidotes become a long walk home
after leaving everything you used to know
the swaying trees speak in tongues through leaves
and roses become chloroform
tied to a a mast i'm set to outlast
sirens on horizons, harmony intact
this boat becomes a home for everything still unknown
as the hull breeches from impact
can't complete what i'll never believe.
been forced to deny what makes sense to me.
and while the tired are now wired, and begging to flee
i'm still addicted to whats worst for me
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
In this garden,
This beautiful creation I've blessed with my wisdom and experience,
I see in dimensions no one else can.
My third eye gleams in the sunlight, glowing and glistening like a perfectly cut jade.
In the distance, I see my goal.
It breeches the soil and reaches for the sun's warm embrace,
Escaping the mortal coil without ever leaving its vessel.
I approach.
Through the travel, the soil beneath me turns to salt and cracks.
The bees turn to wisps of a time once forgotten,
The butterflies, ghosts of a forgotten era.
The sun and Moon become a single entity forever fused in a dance older than time itself.
The sky turns dark and bleeds attempting to warn me of the horrors protecting my ambitions.
My claim to my destiny becomes shaken.
I power forward, blinded only in the physical world.
And as I approach the apple hanging gracefully from the tree
The snake will whisper its temptations,
And God will scream and tear the heavens asunder, seeking my cursed flesh and blood.
And as I pluck my ambitions and wisdom, digesting it and the truth whole,
The corners of my stone eyes will crack,
My third eye will screech,
And I will watch as both God and the serpent battle over my intentions.
I am The Prophet.
My destiny is written by me and me alone,
And all those who take claim to my soul will be cut down by my power.
I am The Prophet.
Where my gifts and talents, ambitions and goals, and curses and vices originate
Is unknown
But these are answers that do not matter.
I will tame the serpentine prince.
I will take claim to the power your God once stole from me.
I will refuse the sun its moment to set, plunging myself in eternal sunset.
I will embrace the moon as my lover,
And I will not allow you, nor anyone, nor anything power.
I am The Prophet.
I will scan the horizon with my peripheral vision
And blind myself with the sun's direct effects
To strengthen the sight of my soul.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
Gathering her speed through my dreams,
as eyes close she breeches again and again,
the barriers of my subconscious never there,
she has always roamed freely.
My pacing brings her forth,
she becomes the fight in me.
She, who animates my character through ancient calls from deep,
I, named to reach beyond time,
I conjure my own awakening,
she gives my voice a power of conviction,
my roar is a contagious whisper.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
My girl likes little things
not the big things of value
or baggy big like Jeans
But short skirts and tight tops
Little shorts and flip flops
with high hopes,
but little dreams
My girl likes little things
Not big things or deep
Little things like lipstick
The comments on her self pics
The brand of her breeches
The right lace on her sneakers
My girl likes little things
Not the things
too heavy to keep
My girl likes little things
Not the big and the weighty
Just the little things shiny
like an iPhone glittering
the right tone on the dial ring
a cover case with the right bling
Almost everything
And anything
not significantly big
My girl likes little things
nothing seriously grand
little things, like small talk
A nice sweet short walk
Even holding hands
among other little things
If there’s room for my fingers
beside her diamond rings
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 5:14 PM UTC
just let me go
just for a minute
ill be
right back
come with me
or stay right there
ill be
right back
if i could stay
away for good
i would already
be gone
but when a dolphin
breeches high
with the intention
just to fly
it comes
right back
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
Chiara, Arturo's wife, approached them together with
Lucca and Francesca, the other Italian pair
Saying, ''Was Quare's invention real? I thought it was a myth.''
'' His barometer measures the pressure of the air.''
Chiara was wearing a red gown, with lace trimming the low,
A green velvet mantel, which was lined with some ermine,
Square neckline and sleeves, which were gathered at the elbow.
She spoke well Italian, Spanish, and German.
Italians wanted to disembark at Syracuse.
Bella and Miguel traveled to Barcelona home.
To find a new home, Naimah and his son had an excuse.
Out of their Turkey's limit, through the storms, they would roam.
Tia, Athan, Megan, and Karsten would disembark
At Selanik, an Ottoman province, where Ahmed
The Third was reigning while his war was a fire in the dark.
They were Greeks being born during the reign of Mehmed.
Marco and Rosa, Cruz and Pedra, Pedro and Carla
Were Portuguese pairs coming home from America.
They had bought from the Pueblo Indians some ollas.
They gave one to the Russian pair, Ivan, and Erica.
Ivan said, ''Tell me something about these Indians.''
Carla said, ''Their belief means dualism; they eat corn.
Some became Catholic due to the Spanish civilians.
They think they emerged from underwater to be born.''
Carla wore a black cap, having a veil, and a green gown
Patterned with acorns and flowers, and her sleeves were caught
With jeweled clasps on lace at the elbow; her eyes were brown.
''The water is fresh in the ollas, I like them a lot.''
She asked Ivan’’ Now, where do you go? ’’ ‘’We left the war.’’
''Ahmed and Peter the First! '' replied Cruz, '' tell me something,
How could you reach Constantinople after coming from far? ''
''I do trade with them, but this war destroyed everything.''
''Did you lose everything you had? '' Marco asked Ivan.
''To make business in Turkey, I sold all my Russian goods.''
Erica tried this conversation to enliven,
''In Portugal, we'll search for a job in cities and hoods.''
Marco wore a banyan with a patterned lining; his cuffs
Were embroidered in gold; his justacorps and stockings
Over his breeches were red like Rosa's shoes and muffs.
All of them wore periwigs and talked a lot while walking.
( To be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
Run Rabbit, Run,
Alice is after you,
Alice, The Madman, or
The local federals-
Given the chance,
All would take a leg for luck,
The hand of fate,
Has passed you up,
And here you stand,
Hips in tuck,
Saved in passing,
granted luck-
it turns out that I’m the Rabbit
and you the Madman in the tall hat.
You've poisoned the tea and spiked the punch with ACID!
Oh Absalom! Absalom!
Grant me safety in your smoky blue carousel,
My legs have gone gimp,
I've been running for days-
The beast called Alice,
Is drawing near,
Her thundering steps,
Are all I hear,
This short-bread cake,
Will quell my fear,
Though the smiling cat,
Will forever peer-
His eyes are gleaming,
Bright and blue,
Iris sharp,
Focused on you,
No blinking, no moving,
That cheeky grin,
His frozen face,
Softened by the gin-
Brass buttons clasp,
The muddied breeches to my belly,
An everlasting coat,
That drags in the dust-
The smiling cat stoops his head,
“To get beneath the branch”, he said,
But really what I think he wants,
Is to get a better look at my watch-
If Alice were to find me,
The game would be up,
The treasure I've found,
The sword, the watch, the cup,
Lost to the ether,
They would be found,
By the big headed queen,
In her rouge hearted crown-
“Save me! Save me Queen!” I pleaded with the *****
No longer needing,
My help or my time,
She had found the gold, found the sword,
And taken the crown-
My uses were up,
I was kicked to the side-
“Oh Absalom! Absalom!”
Will you help me now?
Have I shown you my worth as a runner?
All I need is a bite,
Of your spotted toad-stool,
A puff of your pipe,
And I’ll be on my way-
No help from the slug, I return to the tea-party-
To sit and drink and make merry with the wood-folk-
The Hatter has tricked me into his game,
It has rendered me blind,
His sweet tasting tea,
Is playing with my mind,
He says to relax,
Take it easy,
Close my eyes,
He’ll see me again,
Once that Red Queen has died-
I like it right here,
In my world of light and colour,
I can’t hear anymore,
Or at least I can’t hear the fuss-
Though I know when I wake,
That Alice will be gone-
When morning comes round I must be prepared to run-
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
I am often afraid of the way my heart dismantles empty war zones.
The way it forms artilleries, lines up its soldiers
And decides to plan attacks on everything it falls in love with.
The way it breeches the soil below it,
Holds dear to it the sergeants of loss,
Creates dissembling amongst individual cavalry's
And plants land mines in itself that only my thoughts can ever walk over.
The way it's destined to stop beating, and still transmits a blood
That I already wish was killing me slowly. The way all the arteries around of it
Never cease to stop the crave to ascend away from it. The way they
Pull and pull, as their tugging increases the heaviness of every external
Touch. The way the memory of intimacy cascades in its battlefield, and
Is only implemented when love is destroyed in its clarity. The way the solidity
Of 'happiness' is created by its blindness and movements. The way a hand
Could reach upon it and violently caress it's edges without allowing
It's substance to feel a thing. The way an empty transgression could induce
Hell-fire in its perceived paradise and still allow it to exist in the flames. The way
Hundreds upon thousands of men could lie with it in a pit of oblivion,
And still be cautious of the way it still beats even after it's life is over.
It is petrifying to think that my heart is an atomic bomb set to
Possibly detonate over and over again
And, I am often afraid that it never will...
It may one day surrender,
...
But I am often afraid, that it never will.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
The fresh-faced youth, dagger on hip,
is possessed of many secrets.
Spy, chameleon, a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
accustomed to the shadows,
indeed, he is not a ‘he’ at all,
but a woman in service to her dauphin.
The drape of her shirt and breeches
hint at her curves, her muscle,
the delicate arch of her feet
in her red court shoes
long and well suited to
slipping across foreign marble
to do what she must.
She has played the man-at-war,
the page boy and the cupbearer,
the mistress and the catamite,
in the bed of men and women both,
their pillow talk treason carried away
while she still bears their bruises and love bites.
Servant of the state, the empire,
her lord and her god-
she is Madonna, Joan of Arc,
a thousand women unnamed,
her king’s blade, steel under velvet.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
“Get over here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk
The revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
That shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy,
From that beam through the door,
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.
You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.
Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
As it gets darker and darker.
The pairs embrace, kindling a passion halo.
The glow of the embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of the warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.
By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire;
Are you part of the revellers?
Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
Capsules
Lozenges
And queer pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.
I join you on the moonlit balcony
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf, lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray
My dear the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
Such is the paradox, for I am longing
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I ***** on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!
Time ***** her wings fast my dear, time flies
Even my colts cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed
My puritanism and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC