"brut" poems
As a child, everything was free, real,
like early spring air.
Birds were infinite
and could fly to heaven.
Now air is stiff wood,
and birds only **** on cars.
I took out the dagger to take a stab.
I yawned.
They fawned over the shops on Bond Street.
I yawned
We drank Cristal Brut.
I yawned.
The lights of Times Square dazzled.
I yawned.
The toast crumbs were ******
I yawned.
The people prayed.
I yawned.
I asked God,
“How do I settle this?”
“Give me your sock,” God said.
So I did.
“Sever all your limbs.”
So I did, one by one.
God stuffed the legs, arms,
and drippings into my sock,
blood-soaking it.
And with that cocktail sock
God smacked me
and sat silent.
“Now what?”
God yawned.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Cow itch circle the hills
Picking up speed, what a nuisance:
My body became numb: the torturous seeds
The native never seem move: by the “muckleheads”.
The itch and the sand flies: a duel team
I was the victim: The vice was on my back
Under house arrest, a meltdown I was so trap
It was time to leave all of the seedpods behind
Fever, malaise, drenching sweats and chills:
I remember once I told a fan, about my kind of therapy
My morning’s session, of cleansing the mind
A blast of my past: the uneven dots on my temple walls
Am I making a break through, nope I never had closure,
The groom wore red, on his special day.
I was the one that wore velvety black,
but I celebrated their reunion with a tall glass of
Ca’ del Bosco Cuvée Prestige Brut, Franciacorta DOCG.
Wine:
I’m far too clever to be taken likely:
So, I let my poetry writing do its own disciplined
"If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine"
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
Kiss me hard under the starlight
Never let go I'm begging you
Hold me tight, this is just right
Your touch on my skin I'm alright.
Love me more than I can myself, cause I'll never really know just how.
Oh baby you've got me more than the sun,
But next thing I know you'll be pointing a gun.
Hands in the air don't shoot.
You ******* don't be a brut.
Bang.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Molluscs in Felpham
on a humid June night;
these are your friends
and this is your village
and I'm sweating more,
since you lent me this lotion,
Clive Anderson's Brut Romance
Knock, knock, on my porch window
And I will invite you, "swallow-down
gentle my "frere j'accord dans l'hotelier".
I can move any mountain.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
The day is grey, the clouds hang low, and, in the air, a winter chill.
Upon the beach called Omaha an old soldier stands; a promise to fulfill.
Full Seventy years ago this man, weighted down with gear and kit,
raced across this wet grey sand, and, by some miracle, remained unhit.
Friends who’d survived that longest day, and all the long days after it,
had purchased the bottle held in his hands. As the last man standing
he had charge of it:
His eyes, watery from the wind, Looked at the bottle in his hands:
A Dom Perignon Brut Champagne, the 47’ vintage year.
He thought about his comrades gone. Surely they were heroes all
Who spilled out from the Higgins boats to breach the Hun’s Atlantic wall.
He felt the presence of the ghosts, all those who fell upon this shore.
Boys, really, almost all eighteen, who’d died
answering Freedom’s call .
He tore the foil with old gnarled hands; His Arthritis made a chore of this.
Thin wire held the cork in place and was so difficult to untwist.
Once free his placed his thumbs upon the curved underbelly of the cork
The cork shot free across the sand and bubbly foam
chased after it.
He was not a religious man, it seemed impious for him to pray
Though he recalled so many had, that day they bled their lives away.
How best to honor these fallen men? Who had pledged their lives, each to each.
It was then he turned the bottle down and poured the contents
on the beach.
Some would declare it sacrilege to let that vintage go to waste.
The old soldier smiled and felt at peace.
He’d seen the vintage of 26’ poured out in buckets
In this very place..
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Tumbling in ultraviolet sequences rushing loosely in a nested loop
D
O
W
N
Promiscuous tunnels penetrating radiant innocence
Bottomless and hollow consuming each piece, boldly tainting private ownership
Powerless against brut strength, surrendering reluctantly to blind demand
Delirious and incompetent your heart stolen
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
A girls arm slides across my back and for a moment, I’m spinning like a kid, sherbet crazed.
All I had done was listened,
Drink did the rest I guess,
Listened to her Thatcher charged rant,
Somehow, innocent, spewed though lipstick rouged cleft lip!
She a plunging sparrow,
Befuddled on tequila,
Diving at a mouse marked with Brut.
I’m hers,
A hooded, unloved, forlorn, lonely mouse.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
L'amour fut de tout temps un bien rude Ananké.
Si l'on ne veut pas être à la porte flanqué,
Dès qu'on aime une belle, on s'observe, on se scrute ;
On met le naturel de côté ; bête brute,
On se fait ange ; on est le nain Micromégas ;
Surtout on ne fait point chez elle de dégâts ;
On se tait, on attend, jamais on ne s'ennuie,
On trouve bon le givre et la bise et la pluie,
On n'a ni faim, ni soif, on est de droit transi ;
Un coup de dent de trop vous perd. Oyez ceci :
Un brave ogre des bois, natif de Moscovie,
Etait fort amoureux d'une fée, et l'envie
Qu'il avait d'épouser cette dame s'accrut
Au point de rendre fou ce pauvre coeur tout brut :
L'ogre, un beau jour d'hiver, peigne sa peau velue,
Se présente au palais de la fée, et salue,
Et s'annonce à l'huissier comme prince Ogrousky.
La fée avait un fils, on ne sait pas de qui.
Elle était ce jour-là sortie, et quant au mioche,
Bel enfant blond nourri de crème et de brioche,
Don fait par quelque Ulysse à cette Calypso,
Il était sous la porte et jouait au cerceau.
On laissa l'ogre et lui tout seuls dans l'antichambre.
Comment passer le temps quand il neige en décembre.
Et quand on n'a personne avec qui dire un mot ?
L'ogre se mit alors à croquer le marmot.
C'est très simple. Pourtant c'est aller un peu vite,
Même lorsqu'on est ogre et qu'on est moscovite,
Que de gober ainsi les mioches du prochain.
Le bâillement d'un ogre est frère de la faim.
Quand la dame rentra, plus d'enfant. On s'informe.
La fée avise l'ogre avec sa bouche énorme.
As-tu vu, cria-t-elle, un bel enfant que j'ai ?
Le bon ogre naïf lui dit : Je l'ai mangé.
Or, c'était maladroit. Vous qui cherchez à plaire,
Jugez ce que devint l'ogre devant la mère
Furieuse qu'il eût soupé de son dauphin.
Que l'exemple vous serve ; aimez, mais soyez fin ;
Adorez votre belle, et soyez plein d'astuce ;
N'allez pas lui manger, comme cet ogre russe,
Son enfant, ou marcher sur la patte à son chien.
813
Every day or night my mind grows more curious of the dangerous ways I go. Every day I cheat death even tho his whispers draw me closers to mistakes that can't be reversed. Let's play a game of insanity?
Every rule we break we mend a new insane way of our tricks. A lie brings misfortune as showing you have no boundaries.
My secret I scream is the dead silence on the sleepy hollow cemetery.
My pain inside my bipolarmind is running wild with energy I could have saved to save my self from the deadly things that grab you.
My nightmares become a stories that play with me like a horror film that was just shot.
How fast can scream.
Do u want to play with your own darkness or spread the sickening like a wild fire.
I have no heart beat only when life breathes into my lungs.
Dose evil bring good fortune or dose it spill blood like savagely brut let killing a person.
How far do we open up our minds to open ideas for evil or good.
Do u want to play with my mind to full blown destruction that we can't put out.
My pain inside my bipolarmind is like a lighter starting a spark adding Fulton the fire setting my path of pure blinding aggression.
My pain inside my bipolarmind is a trap I can't escape only way out is a fight till Insanity kills me.
Clostrabobic small room I can't breath I have no place to free any thought leaving me with my demons who have otherwise plans in mind.
Are u insain or can you break the lone and escape your twisted mind.
Let's play a game of mine can you escape and set your self free or will you be traded for inturnity weak and powerless of hope and lost of life.
Are u insain or can you handle your own pain
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
Aside from baby-blue ribbon and no Meyhews
opposite Joneses
I want to invite all our exes and give
them their own table
They can have the duck a la orange
but go sparing on the Brut,
especially him at 4b, he's a drinker
but you remember
finding me panda-eyed and hot
with stitched-up pride
spilling drinks and not
apologising but you knew I was sorry anyway and
walked me home
though it was light
Perhaps she will soothe his narcissism
and her apartment needs anyone
to check dark corners for
black eyes and crooked hands.
But I'm not afraid I'll
pull them from their cobwebs
leg by nasty leg
as long as we can see the flies
and pick them off together.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
He’s a man, the cause of all trouble
Night on the town, Brut for men, that cut of designer stubble
The cheek and the posture, any girl to talk too
A dance, a chat, a kiss on the cheek
He knows how to see the night through
The rules don’t matter when he’s on a mission
Gets stuck in, past the finish line, yeah, that’s his vision
Dressed like a Britpop icon but still thinks he’s a Beatle
The cords, Ben Sherman jacket, shoes that blow your mind
45 on the player, grooving to the sound from the needle
Music rattles around from the depths of Carnaby Street
The Kinks, Lennon to McCartney and even onto The Sweet
Can be crazy like us all, we all have that switch, that one that hides the truth
Hidden, its depths, sometimes need to be unleashed
For that my friend is called character, hiding those forgotten blues
That person is closer than you can see
For that really is,
The taming of the Stu
JJB
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
I write words of wisdoms
And some of truth.
I live for my world
Delivering emotions in forces so brut
My words caused wars in days of then
All of the enemies were once so called friends
I only deliver love and words of kindness
Developed from drudge
Living my life with every step being judged
My life is so simple, my words seem complexed
Your life so dangerous, you block out the rest
To create our peace in any state we're in
Is the only way to heal and be proud of where we've all been.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 12:09 PM UTC
She is mine
That forgetful
Brut.
I take you,
You;
You
With
Me.
Take
Me
Fair to you
But
Never
Smile.
Ask Never
For
Forgiveness.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
O God you have rescue us, from a death that is worst.
You have not only spoke our healing into existence.
But you took the brut of our suffering upon your shoulders.
You gave your life, for our lives and rescue us from doom.
A death that we deserve, because of the sins that we have done.
So we give you our praise and honor you with true worship.
For you took a death, that you did not deserve to rescue us.
From the death that we have really deserve, thank you God.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Madame et Pauline Roland,
Charlotte, Théroigne, Lucile,
Presque Jeanne d'Arc, étoilant
Le front de la foule imbécile,
Nom des cieux, cœur divin qu'exile
Cette espèce de moins que rien
France bourgeoise au dos facile,
Louise Michel est très bien.
Elle aime le Pauvre âpre et franc
Ou timide, elle est la faucille
Dans le blé mûr pour le pain blanc
Du Pauvre, et la sainte Cécile
Et la Muse rauque et gracile
Du Pauvre et son ange gardien
À ce simple, à cet indocile.
Louise Michel est très bien.
Gouvernements de maltalent,
Mégathérium ou bacille,
Soldat brut, robin insolent,
Ou quelque compromis fragile,
Géant de boue aux pieds d'argile,
Tout cela son courroux chrétien
L'écrase d'un mépris agile.
Louise Michel est très bien.
ENVOI
Citoyenne ! votre évangile
On meurt pour ! c'est l'Honneur ! et bien
**** des Taxil et des Bazile,
Louise Michel est très bien.
429
Her eyes are dark and mysterious as endless space,
Her hair is as sweet and soft bed of flowers.
Her angelic softness is beyond belief, imperfect to perfection.
Her embrace, that rejuvenating warmth that illumination from her being.
she clings to my mind like a cute parasite,
burrowing into the cracks of my dreams
my thoughts are swallowed away by her magnificence
and I can't help but feed that desire.
Her presence cradles my soul with brut force.
i pray that one day my soul will evolve and move on,
but every time I inch away, she bursts from my heart like butterfly and flutters around my conscious, unwilling to be caught.
i am but a shy lion,
afraid to roar at the setting sun as it slips away,
day after day.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Ma muse est un esprit inclassable,
Grouillant et bigarré, une matrone
Sans trône et sans couronne,
Provocante et tumultueuse
Hors académie
Hors norme
Haute en couleur
Sempiternellement décalée
Elle danse sa rumba folle
Et distille ses petites gâteries
Contre vents et marées
A contre-courant
Des us et des coutumes .
Et quand je dis "Moteur !"
Ma Dame ne joue pas, elle ne feint pas
Elle ne pose pas :
Mon étoile s'endort en tremblant
Lumineuse et transparente,
Et j 'essaie de la peindre telle quelle,
Imparfaite et mortelle en aquarelle
Je joue avec la quantité de l 'eau et les pigments
Mais l 'esprit fantasque de ma muse
Fait souffler le chaud et le froid.
Et pour me figurer sur ma palette
Toute sa verve satirique et pamphlétaire
J 'ai beau essayer le bleu Winsor et le rouge indien
Alterner le sienne naturel et brûlé,
L'auréoline avec un peu de garance rose,
Le bleu de cobalt avec un brun Van Dyck,
Le rouge cadmium, l 'auréoline et le vert Winsor,
L 'auréoline, le bleu de cobalt et le rouge indien,
L 'auréoline, le cramoisi d'alizarine et le vert émeraude,
Aucun de ces mélanges de base orange ne m'inonde de la transe
De la couleur chair de son esprit brut,
Métamorphose ambulante
Libre et éruptive, enragée,
Diverse et multiple, engagée
Aux limites de la bienséance et de la bien-pensance.
Et à défaut de portrait politiquement correct
Je me délecte de sa cape bleu-majorelle
Grinçante et jubilatoire
Cousue de joie, morgue et amour.
Chair est la couleur de l 'esprit brut de ma muse apatride
Quand elle dort, elle est aux anges
Et les rêves funambules forment sa cour et entonnent
En jouissant doucement leur ballet équestre.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:00 AM UTC
who could resist being up this early and watching the MOON DISAPPEAR before my eyes?
I’m still here, but the moon decided to go to sleep
I feel very grandiose about this, I must have more stoicism than the moon, even
and I take a long pull from a ten dollar brut and I congratulate myself in the way the french know, with a flick of a wrist and a nose into the frame..
could it be any more of a wonderful sweaty awful burden?
could I be more tempted? I will lick it all like a puppy
my tongue will develop horrible callous and pallups
Id have to start using extra care listerine and pop them and watch the blood ooze down the mirror from my snarly, yellow tongue
but i swear, it would be worth it
I’d taste the smoke coming from the chimney
I’d taste the fluorescent bulbs in the billboard advert. reminding me about time..
I’d like the palm trees that are so stoic themselves they are of stone…
the freeway would taste like used cigarettes and budwiser and jizzy ribbed trojans
the balconies and rooftops would be clean, the gravel cared for at least a month ago,
three months ago
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC