"carouse" poems
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Your soul is a choice, bucolic scene
With charming travellers in a masquerade
Playing the lute and dancing, yet seem
Sad beneath their fanciful charade.
All carouse in a minor key
Of victorious love and opportunity,
They seem not to believe in their delight
And their song mingles with the moonlight,
In the still moonlight, beautiful and blue,
Birds in the trees dream and sigh by
Elegant fountains among marble statues,
And the cascades in their ecstasy cry.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat,
Give me cantharids to eat,
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes.
From all natures, sharp and slimy,
Salt and basalt, wild and tame,
Tree, and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
Bird and reptile be my game.
Ivy for my fillet band,
Blinding dogwood in my hand,
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me,
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampire-fanned, when I carouse.
Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry,
O all you virtues, methods, mights;
Means, appliances, delights;
Reputed wrongs, and braggart rights;
Smug routine, and things allowed;
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye **** me;
God! I will not be an owl,
But sun me in the Capitol.
3.2k
In to the mystery of the night, i wander
the tangled tarantula garden
canopied with prophesies of light,
Lit windows are making
overtures to desires
night unleashes at these hours,
hear the buzz in the air
its time to make love,
darkness forgets hurt and embraces light.
i walk alone,
but an enchanting witch wait
for me somewhere in a garden bench,
to take me by my hand to her secret haunt
filled with thick smoke of ****
where she will remove the drapes
to let me see the truth.
On her quill and cactus bed,
she would make me understand,
how far is pleasure from pain
why darkness stalks light,
a jilted lover, walking a few steps behind,
I've heard her, once whisper
to wind in her husky voice
"A life written off by those
who measure out life with coffee spoons,
as spent in vein; this life of mine,
could have its secret treasures,
no charlatan could ever guess about
a serpent's diamonds
very few get to see,
its dangerous to pry, i forgive their ignorance"
Words induced by her dark power
has layers of meaning
but to many it was just meaningless jabbering,
just magic mushroom blabber
She nibbled and nicked my earlobes,
in between intoxicating purrs,
told me the meaning of caterwauls,
**"Its not pain, its not pain,
once you get in to the stream
you only want to drain,
in to the vast blue ocean"**
I recognize now, it's Walpurgis night,
as i walk in search of my witch,
i see dancers around bonfire,
revelers totally out of their minds,
carouse at the heart of the night.
And i see them all, witches in marine blue dresses,
enchantresses in blackly black,
coquettish red or groovy green,
I wait for her to appear,
the only one in resplendent white.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
*It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.
Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.
A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.
It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
There were not many at that lonely place,
Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race
Unseen by any. Toward the further woods
A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
--We were most silent in those solitudes--
Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,
The clotted earth piled roughly up about
The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
Short words in swordlike Latin--and a rout
Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.
2.4k
To sit upon this wooden chair
Before this plain white wall,
May seem, to you, to be quite odd
To me it does enthrall.
I take in all the vacant space
And let my eyes caress
The symmetry and peacefulness
…And I really must confess,
The nothingness before me
Draws me in, in such a way
As I wrap myself in plain, white wall
… my mind begins to play
From that tiny smudge of blue emerge
Kaleidescopes of clay
Which carouse across the vacant space
In a most artistic way,
In small concentric circles
In a patterned, frenzied style
They fill the background with mosaic
Of a gold and reddish tile,
With rooster tails of livid green
And dancing through the scene,
A spangled hand of aqua blue
Paints off a sequined theme.,
Some dancing naked maidens
Cavort pinkly in the pool
And a flight of silver satyrs
Scamper in and act the fool.
The roaring sound of raindrops,
The rush of welling tears,
There’s the thrill of my involvement
…and then “Ping” It disappears!
My plain white wall’s in front of me,
I’m sitting on that stool.
I sneak a peak, to check and see,
If someone’s being cruel.
My sister caught me out one day,
She roared with earthy glee
And pointed her fat finger
That girl made fun of me.
It’s really a small price to pay
To be a strange oddball.
I’d rather suffer this than leave
To watch ANOTHER wall.
I sit upon this wooden chair
Before this plain white wall,
May seem, to you, to be quite odd
To me it does enthrall…..
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
24 January 2008
Oct 20, 2009
Oct 20, 2009 at 8:43 PM UTC
I'm having a dozen dreams a night; fluid and lucid.
I prefer this imagination and fantasy in my bed.
It's a lot of fun, also terrifying,
All in black and red...
Deep diving indoor pools with oil rigs and sea monsters.
I butterfly and sidestroke across the unfathomable chlorine waters.
Gliding downstream through swampy, vine-roped forests.
I end up in mangrove lakes, a canopy of bright glowing mushrooms.
Zombie hordes making me hide in closets at my parent's house.
They never break down the door, I don't understand why they carouse.
Being in a place without time, space, colors, physics or floors,
Talking to people I barely know, with no names or faces. Am I bored?
Sitting in my underwear on a dock, waiting for the bus
The others don't even seen me, but the cute girl next to me does.
I learn to fly, jump off a roof, start falling, then forget.
I twitch in my covers from a concrete slab, comical to wake up dead.
Sometimes I just sit in a cave with a reflection of myself
Talking to my ego; arguing and reasoning with nobody else.
Every time I close my eyes and lay my head,
I feel like a mad-hatter, locked in wonderland.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
I watched adrift on a putrid plank
That had saved me once before
‘Twas the elusive Pride of the Pacific
Constructed in ‘74
Her bronze bells and mighty foghorn
Commanded all to make way
And the tides knelt beside her feet
To congregate as they say:
“Tis pitiful, such punishment
Bestown upon the Ancient Blue
Our vengeance creeps forth each day
And will drown this peace askew.
Their corpulence, disgusting
As they carouse all day and night
Limiting themselves to their marvels”
Alas! A human they spied in sight!
“The humans have rejected you
From their blissful celebration
Now let us stir up trouble
For complete annihilation!”
With swift currents bombarding,
The passengers fled with haste
And in one implacable calamity,
The ship was left to waste
The bronze bells won’t resound
With the ship flipped on its hull
The foghorn’s left to drown
As beauty is left to null.
I sobbed adrift a putrid plank
Never abandoned from the start
“Such horrors would go unnoticed
If humanity had the heart!”
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:32 AM UTC
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms. This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority about her rogue behavior. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: "She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, 'I want you to know that you couldn't break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don't want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don't care what you do.' She went to the window and looked out and she said, 'Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.'" The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part.
Keywords/Tags: Millay, dead, Shelley, Vassar, dorm, hellhole, drinking, partying, *** cutting classes
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:32 AM UTC
Twilight falling makes me sad
With expectation seldom met
As wistful evening bleeds away
Ambition fades with soft sunset.
Dawn creates a surge of blood
As tumbled plans carouse to day,
Enthused, this finest moment met
With hope arranged in fine array.
By noon the schedule lies in rags
The tether hangs in tattered state,
Dullness in the discontent
Lies brutal on an emptied plate.
To build a castle in the air
And frustrate dissipation’s fight
When time and time a proven fact
That good intention fades with night.
Daylight flees with ebbing tide
Coolness in the furtive air,
Expectations start to slide
As resignation takes the chair.
Marshalg
At the calm of ebb tide
21 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
i cant read
so i just write
i quickly become tired
with your work
i would much rather pace
wear down the blades of grass
in the familiar place
i cant read
because while the graces of poets
philosophers
and scholars
make pretty the page
syllables dancing
atop meticulously pressed parchment
while this happens
through their beauty
i only think of you
toss the tome aside
and imagine all the ways
i can express
the things that capture and drag
the fingertips to their home
back to the place where i feel full
loved and laughed at
where i carouse and cherish
this was never about the "reads"
never about the ratio
of lit to likes
it was only ever about me writing
you love letters every day
ten max though
fact is, half of these ********
scrawlings these
are returned to sender
but crying alone
is far better than pretending
pretending you were never upset
and begging for something you need
begging doesnt only work if there is a listener
i cant read
i cant read our future
i cant give you house keys
a front or back yard
a cat box
a leash
i cant read
i write.
all 106 of them
garbage some think
but its garbage
i sealed with tears
and stamped with a kiss
spritzed with cologne
(if i wore it)
i cant read
star charts
memos
concert bills
calendars
no parking signs
or the expressions of cats
but i can write
pour out every guttural spasm
scribble every inspiration
leer and laugh toward
a glowing screen
mute and accepting
of the drivel banged out below it
i cant read
i can write things though
some things
good things
things
see what i mean??
i cant even write.
"things
good
things"
hay-seuss x-mas!
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Life ***** then you die; we all know, right?
Back in the day, that's what I’d tell myself,
Before a night of drinking and carousing.
Yup, women carouse just like men,
Only they're better at it, less obvious,
In their pursuit of understanding and/or love.
Back then, Something gnawed inside of me,
Told me to **** it up, get real for once,
Find yourself, within yourself, what the heck?
Ever watch a spider weave lace on a drainpipe,
And wonder why a daddy long legs knows,
Better than you do, what this life is all about?
And the humdrum becomes you and you it.
Tells you what you need but will never have,
Something missing, like smarts, or grace or wisdom.
Until your fragile faith awaits your next footfall,
On a worn-out rope bridge nearly rotted through,
Sending you straight into the arms of God.
And God mutters, it takes what it takes.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
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
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 4:57 PM UTC
begin again
it comes starting
the end, again, begins
newness pressed between
dawn and eve is glued your
fresh smell atomized an instant
and mingles in the dancing dust
flitter mumbling pitter pattering
diminutive motes bump and
carouse in tousled hunks
of light
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
He was the congregation’s reprobate
(Ashes to ashes, Hellfire to just plain Hell)
She was the hospital’s walking carouse
(Who is more foolish? The fool or the one who stumbles into the bottom of her barrel?)
He was the searing in their souls
She was the moonshine in their veins
Together they were noxious
(Bonnie and Clyde were nothing compared to this)
The Devil
And the Drug
They were never meant to grow up
(2nd star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning, Honey)
Ain’t that the way it always starts
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Stormin' winds that blow away the lot,
My heart drifts right and left swirlin' lone,
Your eyes full of spark and radiant hot,
Sting my soul and erupts a loud mourn,
In the depth of your eyes I drown,
Lay out and collect my yearnin' arouse,
I feel myself sinkin' deeper and down,
Because you drive me crazy in carouse,
The curves and edges of my heart,
Blood drippin' and gushin' furiously through,
The streamin' blood flows in every part,
Leavin' my frail and withered heart for you,
Pleadin' for your love and bewitchin' soul,
Fillin' up your spacious and vacant hole.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 9:25 AM UTC
Had t5here been a bet5t5er greet5ing,
Dist5ance t5ravelled bet5t5er seat5ing
T5rain t5raverse on lines t5hat5 cut5,
Cut5t5ing t5hrough t5he land const5ruct5.
A measure of a cert5ain t5y6pe.
A measure of a purple st5ripe.
Baggy6 t5[-shirt5 loosened t5ie t5at5t5y6 t5orn.
Drag a comb t5hrough t5hat5 hair,
Dist5ant5 vacant5 wishingly6 purposeful st5are.
Say6 no t5o t5hat5 correct5 my6self.
Place t5hat5 cheap cologne on t5he shelf.
Once t5here was a t5all high hill,
T5hat5 once t5he knight5s carouse t5heir fill.
Will climb t5hat5 hill and climbing higher.
Like t5o t5he st5eeple of t5he church t5he spire.
Point5ed on high t5o a st5ar t5hat5 shine.
And shed It5’s light5 on t5he aspect5 of t5hine.
T%o t5umble down once climbed t5o t5he t5op,
And once t5he falling fell t5hen st5op.
Cont5inue deeper, cont5inue t5o smart5,
And deeply6 seat5ed creat5ed dist5ance depart5
And place t5he horse before t5he cart5,
T5hen know t5he meaning of word in art5.
T5he meadows light5 fills on t5he glade
And t5ravel ablout5 t5he dancing shade,
And as t5hese t5wo places glean,
T5here will be more and more t5o be seen.
T5hrough gradient5s of a penumbra,
And wit5h a cert5ain t5icking number,
When t5hings in shadow cower
And t5hings in light5 begin t5o flower
T5hen smiles on faces, dance and graces
Of t5his and t5hat5 and quicker popper flat5.
Chug chug chug of engine st5eam,
T5he rain of t5hese t5hings are bet5t5er off
T%han a conduct5or wit5h a splut5t5ery6 cough.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
*If dilapidated barns could speak a dire warning they would teach
Hard Winters and meager survival , the mattock , the stubborn mule and the King James Bible ..Tending fields long before sunrise , the smoke of field fires well into night , gathering to the clang of morning cattle , the prattle of laying hens , tolling of chain , the call of the anvil .. Drops of well water forming ripples
Do waves continue forever , do they return someday to reconnect with
their maker , wood buildings become footnotes in history physically entombed in past thought turned to laden misery , the farm has changed since we slipped away , now old barns seem to search for a master like a canine stray , Oaks are now devoid of their cover , roots struggling for their freedom today , windswept leaves forging legions
An attempt to secure the forest floor , pinestraw , bracht , needle and twig called to war
Annihilated by the decomposers borne of wind , rain and soil
The breakdown of her subjects at the sword of power , the butchers of freewill and reason doth carouse
Withered , stained monuments are collecting moss , crumbling like old barns and field houses* ...
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Away into the future in days we don’t know
Lived a girl with her dear mother’s wife
And abandoned traditions of decades ago
Made no impact on their joinéd life
The profane was normal and it was expected
That gender give no weight to love
And long dead protesters long since had defected
Though they lose peace long sought from above
But this girl was among those chagrined by their fate
Doomed to carouse in shades of grey
For no matter the forward evolution’ry prate
This upon her good conscience would weigh:
She cared not for caresses of sexes together
But feigned the feeling for fear of misuse
Resignéd to normalcy’s smothering tether
For her one-sided view was to others obtuse
They did not comprehend that her dead eyes did gaze
Upon silhouette man for whom her slow heart beat
And sat quietly she for a number of days
With contemplative question, enamor discreet
‘Till her lips formed the answer with truth late in coming
With sentences all but forbidden
Breaking the chains of society’s numbing
Sympathies quoted unhinged, unhidden
A love once forbidden by color of skin
A love once forsaken for money or pleasure
No more to be bound by the horror of sin
She opened to her mouth to declare without measure:
Affection is lessened by norm that encumbers
To love someone mirroring their ways with thine
It may disgrace you that I do not count in your numbers
I’m in love with a differing gender from mine
And lo that day not a jest was utter’d
To the maiden now soaring with spirit unshuttered.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
TLACAELEL
My lord, your wives entreat you to carouse,
And tend a show of juggling acrobats.
MOTECUHZOMA
When work is done. Recall those sorcerers. Exit Servant.
Till concrete facts come in, abstractions must suffice.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT
Your majesty, a humble fisherman
Brings news pertaining to these prodigies.
MOTECUHZOMA
Admit him. [Exit Servant.] Lord, when peons paint my way!
Enter the Fisherman and Servant. *He trails his hand
on the ground toward him, and kisses his ***** fingertips.*
FISHERMAN
O master, ruler, lord, great gentleman,
If witless lips which kiss the unswept earth
Be fit to thus accost an emperor,
Regard me, if it please your majesty.
TLACAELEL
Speak, boy. Sublime Motecuhzoma hears.
FISHERMAN
I come from Hellwood, at your southern shores,
Where this week past, upon a beetling bluff,
I glimpsed a buoyant, surging reef of hills
With twining towers carousing on the waves,
That seemed a transport for intruding rarities:
A fear which whisperings in the wind confirmed.
TLACAELEL
Ho, ** **
Was this the Spirit speaking, or the spirits?
Some extra mushrooms in your salad, sir?
FISHERMAN
Discard me if I lie! Hail, lords! All hail!
TLACAELEL
All hail and sleet and snow, and all things cold.
And chill reception from this wintry prince,
For I suspect you seek remuneration.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
Take my heart and eat it whole
It's beseeching, begging to be had
I've cast myself in to Lover's role
And have taken it seriously a tad
I would hurl it hard at you
To be trapped between your teeth
Would be a pleasure sure and true
The blisses shocking me to death
My heart gestates in harmony with passion
Enamoured of thy enchanting charms
Compelled to exquisite action
Keeping the fulsome flame warm
I hurl it hard and pay my dues
To passion, I, enchanted, carouse
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC