"brusquely" poems
It begins brusquely in the dark, a hoary noise,
a tune which all the cats in town enjoy.
Yes, they stare at the stage for a sparkle of gold
to come forth from the shadows, the sound will take hold.
Rippling through the room, a devilish groan
rises, spirals high from an aged baritone.
The other musicians join in this depressing affair
and the men in their fifties are still fused to their chairs.
The sulky cello, whining trumpet slither into the mix,
the sadness fills the ears of several dozen beatniks.
Then with no caution comes a madcap flow
of music from the star performer, frantic yet mellow.
And it slows, then picks up, goes on for what feels like a year,
this rugged Jazz, no words but my, **** sincere.
Like something so eccentric that can't be left alone,
everyone captivated by the golden saxophone.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
as rain brusquely clears a
window's record, and a screen
grays the glinting heads of
drops.
as the bacon-brittle bars of a
fire escape press against the
dully scratched green of
distant trees.
melancholy skims the ears,
sews shut their fetal-shaped
holes.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
The underground monastery,
a feat of such majesty which imposes on me a sense of tranquility
until the Koltsevaya line to Komsomolskya tube rushes in,
they
push past me quite brusquely
as if I'm just a part of the tapestry
while they're making history in
the underground monastery.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
I've only written poems about love.
Most of them-
filled with angst, overflowing
not unlike
a flooded river,
maybe the Nile
in spring.
I don't really use lipstick,
or mascara for that matter,
because makeup,
is just something to hide behind
a shield that people are trying to cast off
every day.
writing a poem without inspration is like
trying to describe a chocolate eclair
without taste buds.
Maybe that's why
this is so hard to write.
But I had pleaded for another wish,
on a birthday candle, one day in May
Blowing the little flame out,
I rode my hopes on that little spark,
making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes.
Maybe I missed one,
I'm not sure-
because that wish still hadn't come true, to today.
The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear
my only comfort
against this dismal highway.
And my earbuds are unbalanced
the right one louder then the left
and no matter how much I tilt my head
it's still uneven
Someone once told me
"Tears taste like the ocean"
that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying,
"Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow."
I held that as an act of kindness,
one of the few close to my heart.
The taste of coffee is too **** bitter.
Yet I crave it,
holding its warmth against my hands
and blowing the excess steam off.
Starbucks, in winter.
When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered
do angles really have halos?
do devils really have horns?
Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all?
"Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut
and getting up to get another book
called
Lord of the Flies
The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now
4:45 a.m in the morning
I couldn't sleep.
So I check my email-
it says
You have no messages.
For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone.
I wonder
if people these days would ever write something,
just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews
or compliments
of others.
I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact,
writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments,
telling me
"You're worth it"
and
"amazing."
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
On the precipice of something great
they stood--or, rather,
sat--weaving hopes
into their palms and throwing shadows
just to find the ground.
Whatever they never were
fell from the soles
of their swinging feet and clattered
as it struck
the sides of history.
For a moment,
they let the madness
of memories
overwhelm their senses.
They could've gone so astray.
They could've been so static.
A half-written screenplay.
A near-forgotten attic.
But they had escaped
the ever-churning wheel,
the silicon bubble of this reality,
and burst brusquely and permanently
into possibility.
And they were exhausted.
So the rainbow-chasing was left
for another day.
A fervently promised tomorrow.
For tonight
they collapsed side-by-side
back into the present darkness.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
I sat idly waiting,
watching her through her bedroom window.
She indeed was the one,
and how happy she would be when I told her
she would be my first.
Coming down the steps
and
walking out the door
I watched her still,
anxious for the moment to come
when I would hold her in my arms.
It was snowing out;
*the contrast of her dark skin*
against
the white snow,
a mere smudge she would have seemed
if not for the golden glow that surrounded her,
it made me to recall
a single chrysanthemum struggling in a field of snow.
I closed my eyes
imagining the taste of her,
wondering if she would have the scent of a flower,
or
if she would smell of fear
when I took her,
sliding myself into her gently
-never brusquely-
but in a way that would supersede even her
if only for a moment.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC
i have coughed a small star
from my throat it tumbled
by all love though littleand
frail it charged urgently for
reckless girl things sinking
deftly into sweet crimson
parting miles of sound it
brusquely twained still blood
pushing rush(hearts clamped
)it pried from hinges doors
singeing crisply all downy
things and it though unfurled(
small; by all love)a fist of
hulking lust
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
If we were a perfect hook and latch
Where one fell for the other abruptly
We would but miss our target catch
A few millimetres out
We clash quite brusquely
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC
i swiftly, will into casually skies, wade fire into them and they alight on me cut like
sharp little eyes those heavens got such brusquely painted vaults all blue and slightly
they swim with whiteness in them are so puffed and drifting lazily on copper swooping
twilight they become a bit usual. but i comfortable and dauntless sleep in their heart, my blood ,
crinkles on the waxing moon's lustrous ***** (and it does roll crimson beads down through
each marvelous breast to upon her belly and becomes a singing bird of autumn and it dies
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I sat idly waiting,
watching her through her bedroom window.
She indeed was the one,
and how happy she would be when I told her
she would be my first.
Coming down the steps
and
walking out the door
I watched her still,
anxious for the moment to come
when I would hold her in my arms.
It was snowing out;
the contrast of her dark skin
against
the white snow,
a mere smudge she would have seemed
if not for the golden glow that surrounded her,
it made me to recall
a single chrysanthemum struggling in a field of snow.
I closed my eyes
imagining the taste of her,
wondering if she would have the scent of a flower,
or
if she would smell of fear
when I took her,
sliding myself into her gently
-never brusquely-
but in a way that would supersede even her
if only for a moment.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
*I find myself at the perfumery store once again, looking at the man behind the cash register with desperate eyes asking for your perfume, pronouncing it's brand name as if it were a lost essence of you...
I find myself with the container inches away from my nose, and with my mind in a trance where i'm fulfilled brusquely with memories of you that reach out for me and pull me out of the lonely darkness surrounding me.*
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:41 PM UTC
what use are such soft lips
if you kiss
even the most beautiful words
so brusquely
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:12 PM UTC
Bruscamente (brusquely)
Cupid! Wingèd cherub warrior
Pluck this arrow from my heart!
Pierce one more compliant with your
Sweet love potion’s little dart!
Pesante (sadly)
Leave me empty in my sorrow
For my lover has betrothed
So at least, until tomorrow,
Every form of love is loath
Scherzando (playfully)
In the morning, I’ll endeavour
To uncover unpledged muse
Then your little bow and quiver
And your arrows I … could use
Semplicemente (plainly)
Sweet paradox – mocks tragedy
For love … is love’s sole remedy
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
And they count me two,
At least one and a part,
Now I am being branded on its own,
Was good at sums,
Multiply and divides,
Came to me inborn, inherited
They stared at me,
Brusquely through corners of eyes,
Oh! There was one of acumen,
Not to be befooled,
Not blown away, missed I never,
I sailed through the early hours of my youth,
It came in a continuum,
Even at the moment and then,
Rest, I am not as good as thee,
I forgot you,
Did you not recall me?
Did you want that or that wished thee,
Deep in the thoughts,
Sailing in memories & memoirs,
It’s you, entire I wished to be,
You walked away,
On a diverse path, poles apart,
You chose to amend my destiny,
Fly you did,
Never for a minute did you halt,
It was too hurried, I couldn’t follow,
I want not to recall,
To be in motion,
All through this tide,
Crippled emotions,
One twist so curved,
Refuses to let safe as I cross,
Built to tear down,
Anything remainder of me,
I refuse to evaporate, burn it may
Replenished by my blood,
Happy in my displeasure,
Seeks to bring down the pile of me,
I breathe, I continue to,
Happy & in high spirits,
One too many tags fastened to me,
I sail, sail & sail
Through the blue, I set away far and wide,
Scares me no more the tide,
In the midst,
Of my, my, my existence,
My psyche takes a detour,
It fetches me you,
Dazzling in your presence,
Haven’t felt normal for times,
I hate the sea,
Disgusted for its tides,
Splash water on my face, bring me back,
May possibly I be excused,
And rent out in my thoughts,
Can I only live in my fantasy, if there only I want to be,
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
“Once upon a time”
The age old fairytale
About each perfect little princess
Finding her perfect little male
From birth into adulthood
We read about princes and knights
We’re promised a perfect match
To join us on our plight
So we sigh and sit and wait
Or sit and work and sigh
Always quietly wondering
If our prince has passed us by
Then with each lunar passing
And each trip around the sun
Our age brusquely informs us
That our prince may never come
No knights on noble steeds
Ride up to right our wrongs
There is no handsome nobleman
To play us his love songs
Except for those of course
Whose love proves insincere
The ones who leave us jilted
And actualize our greatest fears
With each disappointment
Another petal falls away
Slowly killing any magic
Leftover from our early days
Until one day an unassuming
Handsome man appears
Offers a ride on his white horse
Then promptly disappears
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:20 AM UTC
a desperate hope
in a deep hole
to reach the brim was stl far
.the ladder found me hopeless
brusquely i climbed up
to the last step i found myself shaken down
and the persistence made me climb again and pushed me to the brim.
after ward i walked around the brim of the hole .
i didn't feel like taking a look down the hole but where to go......to be continued
standing near the brim my back facing the hole finding where to go
finding no where to direct and i thought behind my back might be some
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
A smooth and straight, an ordinary road
But in contrast to the houses of the area with trim hedges
Round their gardens with their cherry and apple trees,
That smooth and straight, and ordinary road, was an outsider
And ditto to re-occupied Nissen huts.
Heath grass had been cut short up to the edge of the road.
Down the centre there were proper markings
And cat's eyes. Now, I retain a picture of a squeaky clean
Smooth surface, colour a silvery, smoky grey.
Cars, trucks, some US military,
Would pass you by, grouped or singly, brusquely,
An air of unconcern native to them,
Engines' noises punctuating dominance
And if you ever thought to walk, even slide
A foot onto this road, vehicles
Would not stop and there would result outrage.
Sometimes I dreamt of a distant city.
I figured plain buildings hard to get to know, imposing,
In my mind it would be a quiet place
And, of course,
Important. Fifty miles; what
Anyone would do there, beyond imagining;
It all meant something different
At less than seven years old.
Those days we caught a bus, which went the other way,
To go to school. We had to cross that silver/grey road,
That inflexible road, then walk
A furlong or so up a gentle slope
Across the grassy heath to a winding
Road shaded by a deciduous wood, with crows;
A bendy, friendlier road.
With some of us larking about we went in a group
To wait for the bus.
Anywhere near that first road,
I walked close to the parent escorting us.
I would always feel unsafe near such an unkind road.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 4:00 AM UTC
“Bountiful
Beauty”
broken
beaten
burnt
by
badly
behaved
boys
bearing
burly
bodies
brusquely
built
by
“Boisterous
Benevolence”.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
A maverick personality with
a bohemian style of dressing.
A flowing beard and a hat worn obliquely.
He was a painter par excellence,
exhibiting his piece de resistance.
His painting was to any eye a treat
but a part of it was left incomplete.
Left inadvertently or maybe intentionally.
My curiosity got the better of me
and prompted me to inquire brusquely.
The artist answered rather politely,
“I leave it incomplete to stay away from conceit.
To avoid being coloured with it vainly.
And prevent my ego from craving more than what my skill can achieve.
The incomplete painting now made sense to me as I continued to marvel at his masterpiece.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
winter brought cabin fever, which was harder
to diminish because I was in love
illumination whites intensely, brusquely,
despite the heavy woodwork flaunting comfort
beauty was within the blustery coats, fear was
whittled away due to blooming images of us together
it waxes in beams dripping thick happy wishes
from corners bright
what was brutally captivating fed me, ushered
out the cold, which would always delve through
broken ideas of love and lace them back together,
the same as they were before, and tighter
-c.j.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC