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"cachet" poems
Muse Reine Tu veux et tu exiges que je me retienne Que je ne m'exhibe pas au tout venant Et que je ne bande que sur ordre exprès de toi Le cachet de la poste faisant foi A la minute heure seconde que tu t'es choisie Pour me déguster à distance. Tu dis que c'est la présence et non l'absence qui te stimule Et tu me dis que je te manque et que ma présence volcanique Te couvre de toutes parts en dépit de la distance. Moi je m'interroge Et je pense que c'est cette absence qui te met en transe Et je veux t'aimer profondément dans cette distance Comme tu n'as jamais été aimée. désirée, choyée, goûtée, savourée Léchée, embrassée, pénétrée, visitée, hantée, caressée, avalée, touchée Consommée, étreinte, engrossée, jouie, priée, chantée, dénudée Comblée, tétée, mordillée, mouillées, aspergé, respectée Mais pour cela il faut que ton âme et chair soient à nu Et la nudité dans la distance passe par la photographie ou la vidéo Et si tu veux que l'oiseau te respecte Il faut que tu le fasses voler et siffler d'aise à ta vue Car il n'aspire qu'à cela soir et matin : Voler au-dessus de tes collines et tes plaines Plonger dans tes lacs et rivières Nager dans tes eaux poissonneuses Plonger son bec dans ta chair ouverte et complice Et en tirer des petits poissons multicolores et chanteurs Chuchoter à ton oreille Les mots qui te font fondre de rires et de désir Ma muse précieuse et généreuse... Alors pour t'être agréable ma bien-aimée C 'est promis juré craché Désormais je ne banderai plus que des yeux Je ne banderai plus que des lèvres Tu pourras me bander les yeux et me bâillonner les lèvres Tant que tu voudras Je banderai encore Et si cela ne suffit pas Pour te prouver mon amour Je banderai aussi des oreilles et du nez Je banderai des mains et des doigts de pieds Je banderai de ma langue Mi pangolin mi orphie Je banderai de mon ombre Une fois deux fois trois fois Autant de fois qu'il le faudra Ce ne sera jamais dans le vide Car je banderai en toi Et même l'air qui t'environne Le soleil et la lune banderont de concert Jusqu'à ce que nous soyons orphies nues, chair et arêtes en rut, Sublimement réunis pour notre danse farandole et tantrique Enfin retrouvée.
0
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:27 AM UTC
Je bande des yeux, je bande des lèvres
Muse Reine Tu veux et tu exiges que je me retienne Que je ne m'exhibe pas au tout venant Et que je ne bande que sur ordre exprès de toi Le cachet de la poste faisant foi A la minute heure seconde que tu t'es choisie Pour me déguster à distance. Tu dis que c'est la présence et non l'absence qui te stimule Et tu me dis que je te manque et que ma présence volcanique Te couvre de toutes parts en dépit de la distance. Moi je m'interroge Et je pense que c'est cette absence qui te met en transe Et je veux t'aimer profondément dans cette distance Comme tu n'as jamais été aimée. désirée, choyée, goûtée, savourée Léchée, embrassée, pénétrée, visitée, hantée, caressée, avalée, touchée Consommée, étreinte, engrossée, jouie, priée, chantée, dénudée Comblée, tétée, mordillée, mouillées, aspergé, respectée Mais pour cela il faut que ton âme et chair soient à nu Et la nudité dans la distance passe par la photographie ou la vidéo Et si tu veux que l'oiseau te respecte Il faut que tu le fasses voler et siffler d'aise à ta vue Car il n'aspire qu'à cela soir et matin : Voler au-dessus de tes collines et tes plaines Plonger dans tes lacs et rivières Nager dans tes eaux poissonneuses Plonger son bec dans ta chair ouverte et complice Et en tirer des petits poissons multicolores et chanteurs Chuchoter à ton oreille Les mots qui te font fondre de rires et de désir Ma muse précieuse et généreuse... Alors pour t'être agréable ma bien-aimée C 'est promis juré craché Désormais je ne banderai plus que des yeux Je ne banderai plus que des lèvres Tu pourras me bander les yeux et me bâillonner les lèvres Tant que tu voudras Je banderai encore Et si cela ne suffit pas Pour te prouver mon amour Je banderai aussi des oreilles et du nez Je banderai des mains et des doigts de pieds Je banderai de ma langue Mi pangolin mi orphie Je banderai de mon ombre Une fois deux fois trois fois Autant de fois qu'il le faudra Ce ne sera jamais dans le vide Car je banderai en toi Et même l'air qui t'environne Le soleil et la lune banderont de concert Jusqu'à ce que nous soyons orphies nues, chair et arêtes en rut, Sublimement réunis pour notre danse farandole et tantrique Enfin retrouvée.
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55
Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional, like the red tile roofs of Rome, or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan. It’s a relatively large world. Whenever you can fly over an ocean you feel limitless, and godly, like the world is there for you, on demand. Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait. I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey. There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan. Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas. But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions. One frosty November-break morning, two years ago, a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight, filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us, in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton. So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the insignificant works of man. It took my breath away. So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper, high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice— the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare. I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year —every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D gadget of all—Memory. . . A song for this: Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham
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Nov 15, 2024
Nov 15, 2024 at 11:45 AM UTC
almost here
Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional, like the red tile roofs of Rome, or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan. It’s a relatively large world. Whenever you can fly over an ocean you feel limitless, and godly, like the world is there for you, on demand. Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait. I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey. There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan. Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas. But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions. One frosty November-break morning, two years ago, a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight, filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us, in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton. So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the insignificant works of man. It took my breath away. So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper, high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice— the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare. I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year —every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D gadget of all—Memory. . . A song for this: Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham
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34
She does not lose well will not forget It will haunt Her avorite Pencil Tip Softened Just So... A Paw pushed it Somewhere to a Secret Spot Out of Vision Her Reach A Peice of Paper Elusive, Yet there... Lodged Deep Amidst A Stack of Most Important Things She does not Lose Well... Not in terms of Games or Competition.. But the things in Her Life That Envelop Her World. Tough, Scrappy, Beautiful Oh-So Tender Holding all things Dear Close to Her Heart Loss is a Place of  Deepest Contemplation Her Memories Are Alive Vibrant.. Stay with Her Immense Joy Her Deep Well of Sadness A Cachet of Stories Reverberate Expanding Outward like Ripples in a Pond. She does not Lose Well The Creatures and People That are Immersed In Her Life Even One Pulled Out Leaves Like a Building Block A Tear A Gap A Hole in Her life She does Not Forget Or Minimize the Pertinance of Freindship Love A Moment that has Touched Her Heart When it is Time for The Loss The Breaking of Her Heart Can be Felt through Time Space Filled with Divine Wisdom She is Able to See All Aspects at Once. The Purpose The Moment Becomes Filled With Rainbows of Light She will Bathe in that Beam... Helps Guide Them Home Knows Intuitively She Trusts in the Divine Finding There Solice Amidst the Flutterings  of Her Tender, Broken Heart. Grief Shrouds Her A Mystical Shawl A Veil that Holds her Dearly till the Pain Becomes at Least Bearable.. Then She will Begin To Tell Her Stories Once Again. Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved
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Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
She does not Lose Well
She does not lose well will not forget It will haunt Her avorite Pencil Tip Softened Just So... A Paw pushed it Somewhere to a Secret Spot Out of Vision Her Reach A Peice of Paper Elusive, Yet there... Lodged Deep Amidst A Stack of Most Important Things She does not Lose Well... Not in terms of Games or Competition.. But the things in Her Life That Envelop Her World. Tough, Scrappy, Beautiful Oh-So Tender Holding all things Dear Close to Her Heart Loss is a Place of  Deepest Contemplation Her Memories Are Alive Vibrant.. Stay with Her Immense Joy Her Deep Well of Sadness A Cachet of Stories Reverberate Expanding Outward like Ripples in a Pond. She does not Lose Well The Creatures and People That are Immersed In Her Life Even One Pulled Out Leaves Like a Building Block A Tear A Gap A Hole in Her life She does Not Forget Or Minimize the Pertinance of Freindship Love A Moment that has Touched Her Heart When it is Time for The Loss The Breaking of Her Heart Can be Felt through Time Space Filled with Divine Wisdom She is Able to See All Aspects at Once. The Purpose The Moment Becomes Filled With Rainbows of Light She will Bathe in that Beam... Helps Guide Them Home Knows Intuitively She Trusts in the Divine Finding There Solice Amidst the Flutterings  of Her Tender, Broken Heart. Grief Shrouds Her A Mystical Shawl A Veil that Holds her Dearly till the Pain Becomes at Least Bearable.. Then She will Begin To Tell Her Stories Once Again. Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved
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85
I, a hyphenated Italian, will claim Shakespeare descended the long Romanesque staircase, to write our empiric wrongs. It's all there in the plays, if you've a keen enough eye to catch these things, and his name has cachet, while mine needs a laureled bling.
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Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 8:36 PM UTC
An Illiterate Criticism of Identity Politics
Love's letters clattered in currents Winds curled to stillness, in a talus of potpourri, Season totem, a cluster of hope, waiting For one match pulled and struck, To scare the ghosts from the pyre. In a choke of smoke from sweet attar, Loves heat fans the embers within the hearts own fire. So many words wrenched from mouth and wrought from hand Contortions, twisted spoken grip, we strip the evergreen needles from the bough and let them fall from the fist, Sprinkling fir To the earth as grist. Had not a sentence stretched from pulsing ink well by plume to parchment, or from warm breath of lip’s beseech What then of our night would say, And of our day to listen. If we do not dare with deeds to fly Then the falling never ends, And poem, eternal, ne'er to begin Loves expression, not its desire, Is the cachet to which both life and death aspire.
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Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Pulsing Inkwell
I'm sick of bringing welcoming baskets to my brain-dead neighbors; They reek of reoccurring favors and fading candle labor; I mean... It's to a point I fell asleep by the wishing well; And woke up counting sheep frolicking piggies playing kiss and tell; Debunking trumpets of cachet telekinesis; I'm a hidden sinning villain with chewable junk as his personal Jesus; Evade gratuitously from all kinds of communication; Never wanted the attention, but I caught it's contamination; And my face melted; But kept a defunct smile just in case; I need to worm through the dross and cut myself into the chase; I'm a motley of misinterpreted mayhem; A clothing shop for a wandering vagrant's cloudy stray phlegm; Trying to comfort the uncomforted; My life is just a Death Row inmate's last words with unwanted conjunctions; But somehow through misery I pride myself imageless and infinite; Reeling in the years to blow that last smoke before the finish;
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Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Derailed Trains Make for a Good Home...Sometimes
*Love birds were they Tamed in different cages She, in the cage of caste He, in the cage of cachet Never did the owners knew Holding hands together Can bring them both The caste and cachet Adding the pith of love Lack of courage in facing it Love birds surrender Themselves to death*
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Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Love Birds
Fable XIV, Livre V. Sur la cire brûlante imprimons une image ; Elle s'y fixera d'autant plus fortement Que le cachet si mou dans le premier moment En se refroidissant se durcit davantage. Leçon pour nous : par un outrage Avons-nous blessé notre ami, Et du mal dont il a gémi Voulons-nous effacer jusqu'à la cicatrice ; Qu'au plus tôt il soit réparé, Avant qu'en son cœur ulcéré L'amitié se refroidisse.
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854
Le cachet
She does not lose well... She will not forget. It will haunt her, the favorite pencil.. tip softened perfectly, A paw, pushed it somewhere to a secret spot. Out of her vision...her reach.   A peice of paper elusive, yet there... lodged deep amidst A stack of most important things. She does not lose well... Not in terms of Games or Competition.. but the things in her life that Envelop her world. Tough, Scrappy, Beautiful and Oh-So Tender. Holding all things dear and close to her heart Loss is a place of   deepest contemplation for her. The memories she has stored through her life stay alive, stay vibrant, stay with her The immense joy shared. Her deepests sadness; A cachet of stories reverberate within her heart, expanding outward like ripples in a pond. She does not lose well. The Creatures and People that live within the wholeness of her being... Even One pulled out leaves, like a building block, a gap, a tear, a hole in her life. She does not forget, Or minimize the Pertinance of Love, Friendship A moment that has touched her heart. Forever an imprint upon her consciousness. She is permeated with knowledge... the essence of all things. When it is time for The Loss, The breakng of her heart can be felt through all time and space Being filled with divine wisdom and insight, She is able to see all aspects at once. The Purpose. The moment becomes filled with rainbows of light. She will bathe in that Beam...help guide Them Home . She knows how. Knows intuitively what course will be taken. She trusts in the Divine. Her piece of solice, amidst the flutterings of her most  tender, broken heart. The history, the moments.  Living memories, are paramount  in the connection she has with All. She does not lose well. Her grief shrouds her, a mystical shawl. A veil that will hold her dearly till the pain is at least bearable.. Then she will Begin To tell her stories once again.
0
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 3:13 AM UTC
Rainbows of Light
She does not lose well... She will not forget. It will haunt her, the favorite pencil.. tip softened perfectly, A paw, pushed it somewhere to a secret spot. Out of her vision...her reach.   A peice of paper elusive, yet there... lodged deep amidst A stack of most important things. She does not lose well... Not in terms of Games or Competition.. but the things in her life that Envelop her world. Tough, Scrappy, Beautiful and Oh-So Tender. Holding all things dear and close to her heart Loss is a place of   deepest contemplation for her. The memories she has stored through her life stay alive, stay vibrant, stay with her The immense joy shared. Her deepests sadness; A cachet of stories reverberate within her heart, expanding outward like ripples in a pond. She does not lose well. The Creatures and People that live within the wholeness of her being... Even One pulled out leaves, like a building block, a gap, a tear, a hole in her life. She does not forget, Or minimize the Pertinance of Love, Friendship A moment that has touched her heart. Forever an imprint upon her consciousness. She is permeated with knowledge... the essence of all things. When it is time for The Loss, The breakng of her heart can be felt through all time and space Being filled with divine wisdom and insight, She is able to see all aspects at once. The Purpose. The moment becomes filled with rainbows of light. She will bathe in that Beam...help guide Them Home . She knows how. Knows intuitively what course will be taken. She trusts in the Divine. Her piece of solice, amidst the flutterings of her most  tender, broken heart. The history, the moments.  Living memories, are paramount  in the connection she has with All. She does not lose well. Her grief shrouds her, a mystical shawl. A veil that will hold her dearly till the pain is at least bearable.. Then she will Begin To tell her stories once again.
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78
Que me veux-tu, chère fleurette, Aimable et charmant souvenir ? Demi-morte et demi-coquette, Jusqu'à moi qui te fait venir ? Sous ce cachet enveloppée, Tu viens de faire un long chemin. Qu'as-tu vu ? que t'a dit la main Qui sur le buisson t'a coupée ? N'es-tu qu'une herbe desséchée Qui vient achever de mourir ? Ou ton sein, prêt à refleurir, Renferme-t-il une pensée ? Ta fleur, hélas ! a la blancheur De la désolante innocence ; Mais de la craintive espérance Ta feuille porte la couleur. As-tu pour moi quelque message ? Tu peux parler, je suis discret. Ta verdure est-elle un secret ? Ton parfum est-il un langage ? S'il en est ainsi, parle bas, Mystérieuse messagère ; S'il n'en est rien, ne réponds pas ; Dors sur mon coeur, fraîche et légère. Je connais trop bien cette main, Pleine de grâce et de caprice, Qui d'un brin de fil souple et fin A noué ton pâle calice. Cette main-là, petite fleur, Ni Phidias ni Praxitèle N'en auraient pu trouver la soeur Qu'en prenant Vénus pour modèle. Elle est blanche, elle est douce et belle, Franche, dit-on, et plus encor ; A qui saurait s'emparer d'elle Elle peut ouvrir un trésor. Mais elle est sage, elle est sévère ; Quelque mal pourrait m'arriver. Fleurette, craignons sa colère. Ne dis rien, laisse-moi rêver.
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915
À une fleur
My technoscribbles haven't all cachet; A mother hen on Friday farts an egg. Even a swill of parlance has a say When maple roadmaps varicose a leg. A skinnydipping nakedest remote Viewer that loons a dreaming skims a pond Fractals a nascent green and gleimous note Hanging athwart with someone's else's blonde. Take heart. The fish have lungs and breathe the air Of a new day when everyfish can *** With or without a whiff of underwear, Though salty tears are sweetest 'neath the sea. Milfs are a pack of pickleballing hots Playing to win a plate of tater tots. *
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Aug 3, 2024
Aug 3, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC
Freebird
now there are echoes now hear silence fall along with sunset all across the hill for one short moment shadows on the wall seem like the symbols of gigantic will writing in darkest inks the coming night not as despair but as remaking right there is so much to do so much to say our choices not so clear at end of day but this is duty we are bound to cope with all the tasks and burdens on our way for we have nothing if we have not hope we're told the journey's never for the small and we don't doubt it there's a monstrous bill that must be paid and horrors will befall those who can't argue with sufficient skill against their masters those with honest sight have some good chance of seeing the new light while those whose strategy is to delay may find there are some other costs to pay and twists and turns on the trip up the slope but no great monsters that we'll need to slay for we have nothing if we have not hope on crest of mountain there's a merry hall and those who get there do not come to ill yet there's no triumph that would be so small a payment for the effort and goodwill that we put in nor are we folk of might to carouse and rejoice on the warm height just actors in one scene of a long play torn between tragedy and cabaret happy enough to have some towels and soap to clean up at the end of a long day for we have nothing if we have not hope prince you may think that we have gone astray stepped out of line and lost all our cachet but there's a lot of play left to our rope we will be watching for the sun's first ray for we have nothing if we have not hope
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Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC
the pressure of recall
now there are echoes now hear silence fall along with sunset all across the hill for one short moment shadows on the wall seem like the symbols of gigantic will writing in darkest inks the coming night not as despair but as remaking right there is so much to do so much to say our choices not so clear at end of day but this is duty we are bound to cope with all the tasks and burdens on our way for we have nothing if we have not hope we're told the journey's never for the small and we don't doubt it there's a monstrous bill that must be paid and horrors will befall those who can't argue with sufficient skill against their masters those with honest sight have some good chance of seeing the new light while those whose strategy is to delay may find there are some other costs to pay and twists and turns on the trip up the slope but no great monsters that we'll need to slay for we have nothing if we have not hope on crest of mountain there's a merry hall and those who get there do not come to ill yet there's no triumph that would be so small a payment for the effort and goodwill that we put in nor are we folk of might to carouse and rejoice on the warm height just actors in one scene of a long play torn between tragedy and cabaret happy enough to have some towels and soap to clean up at the end of a long day for we have nothing if we have not hope prince you may think that we have gone astray stepped out of line and lost all our cachet but there's a lot of play left to our rope we will be watching for the sun's first ray for we have nothing if we have not hope
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38
Ma muse est une mère poulpe italienne Ascendant méduse kabyle Ses tentacules sont des bras de mer interminables Pour prétendre être l'objet du désir De cette dame au coeur en éternelle couvaison Pour prétendre dérober le coeur De cette diva enrobée de charmes Il faut être juste un homme vrai et honnête Une personne simple et honnête Un maxim'homme  de collection Localisé  à vingt kilomètres grand maximum. Un énergumène  simple et honnête Spécimen rare du règne mâle, Un bibelot de chair, d'os et de sang, Un prototype de papier bien mâché Qui pratique la randonnée, La cuisine et partage sa passion Foetale pour le règne animal. Bref un phénomène tout simple, Tendre et goûteux et iodé dans l'idéal Qu'elle cuisinerait à feux doux avec ses airelles, Un vrai de vrai, Un authentique, Un certifié, cachet de la poste faisant foi, Un preux sanglier caméléon  de pré salé Sans peur et sans reproche, Telle est  la recherche de ma muse Kabytalienne.
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Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Maxim'homme de collection
I van a try to describe while sitting on me **** how he oh bomb in lee rages with gnashing teeth while back a slump blasting Democratic nomination as a sham – man from special interest pump he, the epitomy of crass bloviation, a malignant lump whose rants sans presidential outcome a sham bull with his millions beds this, that and another woman to ******** jump disseminating gene pool – birthing more quackers and additionally doth **** the mass media as some foolhardy charade and caricature of a frazzled grump this arboreal clothed ape erecting Taj Mahal ******* symbols where players dump and gamble away hard earn cash for his kitty, as if that cachet to grind and bump lambasting with that maniacal leering pout while hair *** of red bulls atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed heady measly shaped Muppet dis eased cranial hologram of a cretaceous, facetious and insidious mump!
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Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
Donald Duck Trump
God shows us love God shows us kindness God shows us righteousness ••••True he deliver's us from sin Use words of recherché Which has God's cachet That is how God would like us to be ••••True he delivers us from sin We have all lied, insulted, and planned animus malice Felt angered, bitter, and resentful emotions ••••Oh what a God-awful feeling Praise the venture Jesus died for our sins Thank God for every word in the scriptures ••••True he delivers us from sin ____Amen_____
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Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
God's Recherché Cachet
God shows us love God shows us kindness God shows us righteousness ****True the almighty God deliver's us from sin Use words of recherché Which has God's cachet That is how God would like us to be ****True the almighty God delivers us from sin We have all lied, insulted, and planned animus malice Felt angered, bitter, and resentful emotions ****Oh what a God-awful feeling Praise the venture Jesus died for because Jesus died for our sins Thank God for every word in the scriptures ****True the almighty God delivers us from sin *Amen*
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Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Dedication To God's Recherché Cachet
(*In answer to Mister Truth's poem: "https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5117352/my-poetic-slice-for-anais-is-she-really-a-true-lover-of-the-tasty-italian-triangle/"  because he mused me.*) I'm not just going to analyze pizza, Or simply strategize about pizza. I'll romanticize, evangelize and tantalize with pizza. Because, honestly, I actually fantasize about pizza. Papa Johns, Pizza Hut, Dominoes Euuw, please, none of those Garlic Crust? That’s a must. Parmesan? Bring it on. Anchovies? None for me. What about cheese in the crust? The whole idea leaves me nonplussed. Ham and pineapple - that's just satire. I say, “spare garlic and spoil the vampire.” If that makes me hard to kiss - tight juju - I embrace my bliss. Sausage or pepperoni, That's your question? Put 'em together! That's my suggestion. A simple cheese pizza has a timeless cachet, but sometimes I take my pizza all the way. And yes, I’ll still respect them the next day. What? You put it in the microwave? “Ok, you - be on your way!” ring ring What, you’ve got pizza leftovers? Ooo, baby, unlock the door, I’ll be right over! . . matters of the heart by lovlaine Overthinking IT by WILLOW
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Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
pizza parley
launched Meghan Markle into royalty American divorcee catapulted from “AA” to “Zed” at break neck speed, and with cachet wed Prince Harry, and soon twill begetting, bestowing, and bewitching her chromo somal thread (complementing, furthering, and weaving together "Quod Erat Demonstrandum", or QED for short) within United Kingdom coat of arms, perhaps naming the first heir Ned, and according one online dictionary definition and ken translates as French (Old English) name Eadmund, meaning rich or happy, and protective akin to a mother hen, not just mollycoddling hatchlings, but even shelling out care on a wing and a prayer long after offspring fly the coop and been fending for themselves, perhaps merely earning chicken scratch wage, assigning doomed fate, sans cooked usage if perchance "chick(s)" go thru a foul stage within their duff fenceless hierarchy, where pecking order doth rage worse case scenario, would presage finding errant peep(s) sent to gaol, not much bigger than a bird cage, unless they comprise noble henny age, ideally taken in as a pet by newly bridled Duchess of Sussex treated like totally tubularly true blue blood with opulent accommodations (cheaply) tricked out with life size Tyrannosaurus Rex (spoiler alert: actually done with special effe Hex with latest computer graphics showing rippling reptiles flex sing and holo graphic smoky mirrors) intending "FAKE" balances and checks to boondoggle aggressive paparazzi, one of whom includes Meghan Markle's ex.
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Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
Trevor Jed Engelson Unwittingly...
launched Meghan Markle into royalty American divorcee catapulted from “AA” to “Zed” at break neck speed, and with cachet wed Prince Harry, and soon twill begetting, bestowing, and bewitching her chromo somal thread (complementing, furthering, and weaving together "Quod Erat Demonstrandum", or QED for short) within United Kingdom coat of arms, perhaps naming the first heir Ned, and according one online dictionary definition and ken translates as French (Old English) name Eadmund, meaning rich or happy, and protective akin to a mother hen, not just mollycoddling hatchlings, but even shelling out care on a wing and a prayer long after offspring fly the coop and been fending for themselves, perhaps merely earning chicken scratch wage, assigning doomed fate, sans cooked usage if perchance "chick(s)" go thru a foul stage within their duff fenceless hierarchy, where pecking order doth rage worse case scenario, would presage finding errant peep(s) sent to gaol, not much bigger than a bird cage, unless they comprise noble henny age, ideally taken in as a pet by newly bridled Duchess of Sussex treated like totally tubularly true blue blood with opulent accommodations (cheaply) tricked out with life size Tyrannosaurus Rex (spoiler alert: actually done with special effe Hex with latest computer graphics showing rippling reptiles flex sing and holo graphic smoky mirrors) intending "FAKE" balances and checks to boondoggle aggressive paparazzi, one of whom includes Meghan Markle's ex.
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Dans mes jours de malheur, Alfred, seul entre mille, Tu m'es resté fidèle où tant d'autres m'ont fui. Le bonheur m'a prêté plus d'un lien fragile ; Mais c'est l'adversité qui m'a fait un ami. C'est ainsi que les fleurs sur les coteaux fertiles Etalent au soleil leur vulgaire trésor ; Mais c'est au sein des nuits, sous des rochers stériles, Que fouille le mineur qui cherche un rayon d'or. C'est ainsi que les mers calmes et sans orages Peuvent d'un flot d'azur bercer le voyageur ; Mais c'est le vent du nord, c'est le vent des naufrages Qui jette sur la rive une perle au pêcheur. Maintenant Dieu me garde ! Où vais-je ? Eh ! que m'importe ? Quels que soient mes destins, je dis comme Byron : "L'Océan peut gronder, il faudra qu'il me porte." Si mon coursier s'abat, j'y mettrai l'éperon. Mais du moins j'aurai pu, frère, quoi qu'il m'arrive, De mon cachet de deuil sceller notre amitié, Et, que demain je meure ou que demain je vive, Pendant que mon coeur bat, t'en donner la moitié.
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À mon ami Alfred T