"cartier" poems
i always thought that comparing
photography to painting
would be hard,
but then i read an article about
a girl with a baguette,
in the jardin de plantes
looking up at a kerfuffle
being pestered by sparrows,
having henri cartier-bresson
take a picture and i thought...
*one brush stroke of colour,
after watching a blank canvas
for about an hour.*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-thrust and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
By and by,
we lie, we lie.
Clap your hands
to their lullaby
and become their wonder—
*96% of humanity
is worth $6 in space
carrots.*
The Cartier watch ticks
and some postmodern twitter
handle rocks
a swear jar full of
16th century curse words.
By and by,
we lie, we lie.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
this being
dedicated to wicked woman hiding cold eyes
behind overlarge sunglasses;
sporting blackest velvet dress coat firmly buttoned smoking
long, cruel cigarette lit from glare off your cartier-replete wrist
as hordes of men in line to perhaps hold your parasol
while you read tedious course material are turned away
by singular lazy wave of the unsympathetic hand,
ashes falling & cherry red nail polish flaming across
the patio panorama like hellfire;
with hard, rangy body and cut-to-shoulders
blonde curtain to hide behind, safe upon your wicker throne;
wary of males & their hidden, bursting sexes.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
Esa pared que tú ves a mis espaldas
es una pared como cualquier otra.
Lejanas: las ventanas de los terceros pisos
las charlas de los adultos.
¿Por qué debería intimidarme?
Aquí hay muchas otras paredes que tampoco podemos atravesar
muchas otras paredes que nada dicen
salvo cuando tienen dibujos o groserías.
En esa pared podemos jugar a gusto
no estorbamos ya que nadie entra ni sale.
Dicen que ahí acaba Berlín
y también que al otro lado
hay otra ciudad del mismo nombre
aunque de un país diferente.
Sé que aprenderé a estar triste por esa pared
y que mi felicidad será mayúscula
cuando escuche el habla confuso
de un tal Günter Schabowski.
Pero mientras es sólo una pared
una pared cualquiera que a veces
parece--ser--un--largo--tren--que--decidió--detenerse--
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
*Drive a Porsche Nine- Eleven,
Wear the Gucci Horse-bit gold ?
Take you back to Seventh Heaven ?
Style locked in Gimlet mould.
Oyster Bay’s crisp apple bite
Quaffed in slender crystal flute,
Cartier peeps from the cuff
Of silken shirt in peerless suit.
Bircher bowls of oaten crepes
At Harbour-side in golden dusk,
A prelude to a moonlit cruise
With chiffoned girl in **** musk.
Pink mansion perched at high cliff edge
Standing over Half Moon Bay
Where poker’s stratospheric stakes
Depicts that only Players play.
Cash cascades with no restraint
For gleaming ninety carat stone,
Adorning ladies on your arm
Who just, will not leave you alone.
You wear your Porsche Nine- Eleven,
Drive your Gucci Horse-bit gold,
Wrap yourself in Seventh Heaven....
Consumated Gimlet hold.*
M.
Sky Tower Casino
Auckland
1 November 2014
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
My love knows no Louis Vuitton or Cartier
she doesn't belong to the city
she lives in a farm with her parents and siblings
in the faraway country.
My love thinks not of manicures
her hands are busy in the soil
the flowers and plants relish their tender touch
from dawn to dusk she does toil
My love didn't go to uni
but she knows Keats, Byron and Shelley
even French, German and Russian poetry
lots of Sartre and Camus--she takes delight in philosophy.
My love is no Maria Callas nor Joan Sutherland
but beautifully she sings Schubert's lieder
opera and folk songs she takes delight in
like none other
My love never had music lessons
how she excels on the piano
she plays Mozart, Beethoven and Bach by ear
at the music-hall the villagers love her as she plays solo
I am the son of old John Mac Gregor
her next-door neighbour
I went to school never
too shy to date her
Dad and mum said
learn to write poetry
send her a sweet love poem
if she likes it, she will marry you---happily!
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
La Belle et La Bête
The Parisian Review lit a candle that night,
They honoured a granting to all those
On French soil, who among other things,
Disturbed & desiccated passions
Of those who were not perturbed by noises
Around those endured in flight seeking sanction.
She remained gracious as she walked
The Champs‑Élysées carrying platinum gold soul,
For it was July 14th, Bastille Day
A paradise for those lost heroes so named; Elysian Fields
But today wasn't a war of Gods & monsters,
She was la belle mademoiselle du jour on perfected streets
Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Hôtel de la Païva; 8th arrondissement of Paris.
He strolled, a dignified approach
To the woman of memory
So pained by his misgivings,
So chosen,
So forgiven,
So loved
Today, she chose to forget,
To forsake,
To only know,
To love
To love, to love, him.
© Sia Jane
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
I walked into Cartier
Dark Blood Red
was their trademark
It was sophisticated
I had a catalogue of rings
placed in front of me
I was presented options
but you were clean and minimalistic
Rose gold, I thought
Visuals like merchandising projecting
our conversations on dresses, themes, flowers
how we'll travel the world, have a home
how our daughters will have my eyes
your nose and our names
we sat at the bay front
had a long conversation till 3 am
discussing how we are going to allocate our daughter's time with our parents, classes -
if they are going for ballet or musical classes
It was certain,
the air was greeted with a breeze
in silent acknowledgement
until now,
I only can blame
how some words fall apart
like the world does everyday
how love is never enough
how we are never enough
how I will never be enough
even if my bones are sore
to its nerves, I will be
Happy for you.
(I heard you are having a baby
I heard you are having a family
I heard you are happy & you chose her) - echoing
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
so used to shallow minded, soul-less, only want to **** only want you to **** could care less about your goals, plans, dreams type of guys.
where are the gentlemen? the bring you roses, kiss your forehead, open doors & pull out chairs.. the "get dress, we're going to dinner", the what you need ima get it, the what are your plans, i wanna know your dreams, the "baby you can do anything". where are the guys that are over-protective, the "you can look at my lady but you cant touch", the uncalled for i love you's, the unexpected gifts, the traveling, and thrills.. we fight, we makeup! we dont ever break up.. the rumors dont mean **** to him, cause he already know whats up.. i want that.
do they still exist?
the guys that aren't afraid to open up, the ones who aren't too G to show you love.. the guys that cant get enough of you, they wont give anyone else the opportunity to get at you, focused on getting it for themselves & also helping you get yours.. champagne dreams & cartier wishes, walking down the isle, long nights & tongue kisses.. **** them other girls, i got mine & she's enough" showing your lady love while these childish guys out here 'acting tough', haha.
so used to all of the same, that when i come across someone 'different' i rarely ever know the difference because my trust is ****** up, my mind is like get the **** and my heart is just pushing everyone away.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Winter in Lisbon
Up rua Garret I walked and it is steep in baixa, the old heart of
this grand city, past shops that sell lottery ticket, besides a shop that sells
religious artefacts, and a shop that sells Cartier watches.
If you win there is money enough to decorate your mother's grave
and to buy a posh watch.
At the top of the street of the street a café Brasilia, it used to be
Fernando Pessoa's drinking den, now it is upmarket, suit and short
hair place who drinks tea and eat pastry; their forefathers used to
look down their noses at Fernando, now they are proud of him.
Irreverent poets can go somewhere else to drink.
The master poet is a statue outside his café in the rain, and tourists
take picture of him, one wonders what he thinks of it all.
There is also a statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the largo is called after him, he was bald
and dressed like a monk.
I could see the river Tagus where tug-boats ply their in grey waters,
and remembered when I used to be a ******
The church across the street “Incarnacao”, where Antonio used to pray
is beautifully restored, but his God had left by the back door
the front door was too heavy but saw a woman weeping in front
of a statue of Christos, ***** for the masses? Why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese suits are swallowed by the metro,
and men with cardboard boxes look for a doorway to sleep in.
Over this scene hovers Amalia Rodrigues the great Fado singer,
born in poverty, she hums a song for the wretched.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
I don't like the way
how I have to take all the blame for arguments
How you threaten to **** me up
Until I slit my wrist in the bathtub
then tell me I am the one who stirs all the **** up
You thicken the air I breathe
In
Out
You cremated the butterflies in my stomach
That I had for you, once upon a time
Dread filled my lungs whenever you talked
Now they can't see anything wrong, you buy me
Tiffany's on the first date made love to me on the
third. Your Loro Piana goes with my dress, your
Patek Phillipe matches my Cartier.
Smile and wave
Smile on, for the camera.
Even our cat can end up on Tatler's cover
But it's faultless right? Picture perfect, look at us.
Covered it up, no no, no one must see
Your deceits and my tears, how a tornado meets
a volcano, we are falling apart.
Fear. Anxiety. Scars. You leave me burning, and I
stab a knife in your heart
I wanna quit you up.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
Delirious foaming sips
Fidgeting for a cigarette
I look like a raging manic
Time to whistle the time away
With strategies of how I could have spent It better
( My time I mean)
Courting disaster
A youth breathing in angst
Working out the senseless semester
Of continuous mistakes
Sinking sailboat within the space of
Sea in the back of my mind
The bubbles pop like acid rain
And I've nothing tangible to soak
Up the stain
I've perpetrated my desires into
A crisp letter that I've labelled
With a sticker of a lark
Spun out on stress
Reliving the sickness
A gush of cough suppressed in
My chest
Vladimir Nabokov's ******
Explains it the best
Contemplative in public places
With my thoughts hung like
Guitar basses
Riffs in my skull that whisper
How this phase is contagious
And I'm still the only one left of my
Peers with sweaty palms
And a sore throat
Dancing
High to a symphony of lyres
As I suddenly hit a sour note
This vast mountain road
Sliding back and forth on
Riding to a sense of home I've
Long ago forgotten
Is this tingle normal?
Is my preservation of self
Illegal?
Like that girl Lucy with
Cartier in the sky?
The leaves withered up long ago
Like dry grapes and I can't wait
Much longer in this combustible
Longing for
Someone's lies to shelter
In my soft direction
No use speaking about my
Indiscretions
Because no one ever listens till
I utter "I told you so"
I pour karma, dharma and nirvana
Into a tea cup
Finish the potion up
And start to loosen my joints
Poking along my skin in oddly
Sewn points
Walking through the doorway
From one world to another
To the waking screaming world
From a heavily dosed slumber
Seasons came and passed
Grains of sand caress the insides
Of an hourglass
Waiting for forever it seems
For some stranger I catch glimpses
Of in my dreams
Courses through my veins
As novocaine
After a bright vision solidified
In numb numbers as they said it would be
My blanket no longer fits me
As my feet stick out contorted
And my bleek sensation of safety
Seems to have become distorted
A calender left blank
I sit in a shackled ruin
I'm running on the brink
And no longer doing things
I thought knew me
Withdrawing from stings
Of the images in my fantasies
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
I took out my heart, piece by piece
from the bin and you stuck it back
fractured, cello taped, but back in one piece
And I wore it carefully on my sleeve for
them to see you were there for me.
Then it became toxic, what was cute turned into
poison. You grew sick. And I frantically
annoyed you harder, desperate
not to show what fear was driving me.
My naivety, my vain, my egos and my tears
I didn't know whether you liked them
Probably not,
Probably I promised too much to be kept up
All I know is I wouldn't show them to anyone
else, I put a wall for everyone but you to find out
I was a child and you were the plushie
ripped from me, then apart.
I was your Kitty but I am a stray cat without
a home. How can you be a stray cat with all
your diamonds and pearls? They ask.
YSL Black ***** Tiffany Collars. Cartier Bracelets.
I would give them all up.
A kitty will always be a stray cat, when without your love as her armor.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
What feels like clarity has hit upon me
Like my senses went through a sharper like the pencil I use to write with
But my tolerance for ******** went down a whole lot.
So I don’t have time to hear on all your jibberish
Who you had *** with and why you weren’t feeling it
I would rather spent my time stuck inbetween these purple walls
With a book and a pen I’m fine here alone
Don't feel sorry, we were never really a match
I don't care that you have the new iPhone and wear Cartier
For me, you can stick your Valentinos up your ***
I can no longer pretend like it's all jollyness
When what I long for you can not give and you can't pay to get it for me
There's no reason to continue wasting time
My body might be stuck, but my mind never stops wandering.
Right now, that’s all I need.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
After graduation i started thinking
about how they're still drinking, anything we wear they're probably still squinting
I guess when all those jokes surfaced, pain was pushed down
my hometown is populated by expired clowns,
they're sinking
Should I feel pain for watching them drown?
Should I jump in?
Rather not ruin my cap & gown.
Apologies Lord, I hate those that talk down on the less fortunate
Life is the ultimate game, they almost made me forfeit.
Self esteem broken, faith shook.
Hated my look, should i turn crook?
Jack in the water, I couldn't get on board luckily God sent me four books.
Scholarship got me in the door, work ethic got me in the room.
I'll come home, just so you squint at me again, I assume.
Look at this foreign car, this suit came with no lint.
Squint at my teeth, they're so clean I could drink water from flint.
Bullying, is evil. What else can we call it?
Luckily prayer is more powerful than the wallet.
8th grade you called me lame, I bet you're still a partier a?
They called me names, I bought my mom Cartier rings today.
We all have monsters within,
They were monsters from the root.
Congrats to me? No congrats to you,
That's great, I always heard the Devil had workers too.
To chastise is a cold dish, this is not how I'm supposed to be.
But when tables turn, somebody's gotta eat.
I'll take the ****** sentence, for what I'm passionate about.
Life is like sending out mislabeled mail, you get back what you sent out.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
10:39:47
She should be married by now
I watched
The black hand on the white basel
tick on, reflecting my poker face
with the Patek Phillipe logo
10:41:35
Numb. Pain. Pain or numb?
It should be me, she was the one
I had her, she was mine
She likes tomato juice, miniatures
Black Louboutins in size 4 and a half
Tatler, oreo cheese Dairy Queen blizzard
Mint tea, kebab and omakase
10:42:23
Dance. Pole or Burlesque?
body rock hard, eyes on me
It should be me, down the aisle
Her lips always red, her eyes
curl up when she smiles
cat eye, plushies, flowers on fields
Books, panels, her wit sharp as knife
10:44:45
She should be walking out of church
Eyes stared at the door
I had no blue in Tiffany, red in Cartier
Blood on my hands, pyramid top
No time for her, I made it all for her
So she left me in the middle
Of an Hermes store
10:45:13
I saw her, white dress smiling
She didn't look at him
the way she looked at me
10 years ago, today, 10:45
First time I saw her, in a red dress
I opened the car door.
I crumpled my Loro Piana in the rain
10:46:34
I grabbed her, her mother screamed
Her best friend laughed, her dad sighed
The man reached for me,
I am not letting go
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.
Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the ***** which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.
I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.
Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?
Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?
Do I want it?
After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;
I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.
Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 5:39 PM UTC
Canada is renaming the Great Lakes.
Lake Superior..........Lake Canada
Lake Ontario............Lake Ontario (stays)
Lake Erie...................Lake John A. Macdonald
Lake Huron..............Lake Jacques Cartier
Lake Michigan........Lake Trudeau (that should **** him off... but we
know we mean Pierre, not his bonehead son)
Lake Champlain....Lake Quebec (although not a Great Lake, the
orange guy wanted to make it a Great Lake back
in 2018).
We have our own cartographers.
Gimme the Sharpie.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawks a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.
Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting an offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.
Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.
At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.
We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Central Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.
Dec 27, 2023
Dec 27, 2023 at 10:37 AM UTC
no one owns this land
bloodshed and atrocity
lord tyrants and battlements
the Vikings seafaring
Erik the Red with his sons
Leif and Thorvald, continuing the journey
Columbus, Champlain, Cartier...
Jacques Cartier looking for China found ‘Kanata’ and they now call Canada
captived Donnacona and his clan from Stadacona
the mariners, cartographers
no one owns this land
the slavery and civil war of Catholicism and Protestants
the ‘Black Death’ from bubonic plague
the man’s bones from the rat’s alley
below the ground with sunken skeletons
who fought with swords and knives and a broken arrow trying to dug up their way
to the bridges and skyscrapers that buried them deep with the poison of ideology
that says ‘you are not welcome’
the silent voices screams
‘this is our land, this is our land...
this is not our land and there shall be no peace.’
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Silent
for months
Mute
with the inability to say much
Weakened
by the idea that healing had to be rushed
The soul is
Painted
with the idea that the heart was crushed
Bits and pieces of the muscle
Pierced
within itself
Lost
With no idea how to start a search
Tears
like acid
Set the body
Ablaze
like a Phoenix on fire
Feelings
It came out like ****
Oozing
from an infected wound
Plaster
Like super glue
Guarded
Like Cartier necklaces far too
Precious
to put at risk of hurt
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:12 AM UTC