"castanets" poems
Midnight
criminal metabolism of guilt forest
Rattlesnakes whistles castanets
Remove me from this hall of mirrors
This filthy glass
Are you her
Do you look like that
How could you be when
no one ever could
~~~
Poet of the call-girl storm
She left a note on the bedroom door.
“If I’m out, bring me to.”
~~~
I dropped by to see you
late last night
But you were out
like a light
Your head was on the floor
& rats played pool w/your eyes
Death is a good disguise
for late at night
Wrapping all games in its calm garden
But what happens
when the guests return
& all unmask
& you are asked
to leave
for want of a smile
I’ll still take you then
But I’m your friend
16.8k
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****
is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies
monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain
and a ****
impaling her
the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's
my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m
a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
c u n t z o o
i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac
gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e
*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me
cuckoo spit
k o cuck k o k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac
wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
My garden once was green and lush.
Until on mass there came a mush
of leaf munching slimy things.
Vegetation annihilating thugs…
…an invasion of Spanish Slugs.
I’ve tried to stop them but I can’t.
They’ve decimated every plant.
In my shrubbery they dine like kings.
Sombrero wearing baronets…
…proudly clacking their castanets.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Against layers of western pop and soulful jazz,
I find myself yearning for the sound
of traditional music
These ears know well
the tune that reminds them of home.
My blood dances
to the thumping of the tabla,
the melodious clash of castanets
and plucking of strings on leathered guitars.
Traditional music is the voice
of my silenced ancestors;
and the treasure that is the legacy
they have left behind for us.
Each night I will remind myself
of the beauty of Algeria
and the sound that vibrates its fertile soil
and resonates in my heart.
Reaching out to hold the hands
of those who came before me;
we stand united by the melody
of our anthem.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Lady of dance so eloquent, Flamenco born from her wombs' true intent,
Castanets clatter, as tambourine rattles,
with excitement, accrued within whirls,
she prances and dances within circles, all flashing,
to reach her prince charming, was truly so dashing, her hair rolled up in a tight fitting bun,
As she swirled up to reach her finale, twas said,
she was here no longer, she was truly dead,
she deceased many years, hence past,
For every so often her vengeance she cast,
Prince so vain, found another sweet lover,
left her alone with her pain,
left her mark on the spot,
where her true love stopped,
Gave her no attention,
well too little to mention,
took her life with such a harsh knot,
when the moon is bright, on one sorrowful night,
She'd appear to dance for the crowds,
The watchers looked on, not terrified, by the sight of the tragic flamenco bride!
Copywrite, Olivia Kent 24/03/2013.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small
As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems
Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us
I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm
But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause
on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here
in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant
This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Shimmering scales shed by snakes
break beneath the weight of our passion
Light out
Thrown down on the bed
move like waves and quench like fountains
of refulgence and lips of red brushed satin
Skin
slick with sweat
smooth shaved
and shiny in the moonlight
Light on
Wet
Gliding in like kites in autumn
hips pivot press and penetrate
deep all shards of infernal ardor
Teeth connect
Castanets click cold
questing flesh begets
all forms of tantra
Unending rhythmic impacts
torn sheets and groping hands
erupt into the majordomo's garden
fluid exchanged again and again
orifices sleek with lingering
tingling and pressed tips
Inhale exhale
shared breath unfurled
in gleaming gusts of lust
stars collapse internal flames
burst as the humming quiver releases
Light off
light on
lights all.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
As the smoke of a forgotten lover rises from your tainted skin
You sigh and realize what you've done; total annihilation
The bones you carry lie within you limply as you lie still
Your joints clatter like castanets collaborating to make a song of anxiousness
Your eyes like sunken chasms of a feeling of longing
Your lip quivers like the string of a bow and arrow before you shoot it at the target
The castles you've built within you, the forests that blossomed and the towns of everlasting memories inscribed in your brain
Burn incessantly, ashes flying up to heaven to touch unknown holiness
To touch the clouds in a forbidden romance as if Romeo and Juliet
****** of Vietnam, what once destroyed bustling jungles is destroying my sanity
Burning me from the inside and out, a caged bird inside of me
My soul's last dying wish is to unlock the cage that my fate was sealed in
The skeleton key dangles in front of me hypnotically, drawing me closer to your poison that is disguised as aromatic perfumes
As I took my dying breath, from the smoke of sin rising from my skin, you touched my hand, only to let it slip as I pass into the light
I realized solely one thing: I was your victim, the job was done
I vanish, within your mind, to be consumed by the ruins of time as you move from woman to woman
mbm
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
I'm writing this poem because I'm ******
And upset and sad and really **** annoyed
But mostly because I'm ******
I'm ****** because I try so ******* hard to get everything right
Every single thing
I am trying my absolute best
To get it "all right"
And for you, for all of you.
And for some reason that is not good enough
To you, I have let you down
To you, I could have done better
To you, I have failed.
I try to make it through my day
and there is a **** hurricane destroying my brain
and I honestly can't take it anymore.
And you know what makes me even more upset?
The fact that you like it
You, sitting at your computer
You will click the heart and you will Like it
Because this world tells you
that Pain is beautiful to you
Anxiety is complex
and Emotional Destruction is Art
And that ******* ****** me off, too.
Emotional deterioration is not Art
My insane hurricane of internal blame
Is not for you to click the heart and "Like" it
Or for you to share with your Facebook friends.
Why don't you like the love poem?
Or the psalm of happiness?
Or the gentle, giggly limerick?
Is that because we only see internal turmoil as beautiful now?
What about rhymes of sunsets and silhouettes?
And clandestine loves and clinking castanets?
Where are their electronic hearts?
Do those only belong to slitted wrists
and broken heart plot twists?
Well, that's not true
And this ****** poem isn't for you.
This ****** poem is for me
and for what I feel
and for what I create
and for what I accomplish
because what I make is beautiful
and there are so many aspects of this life that are beautiful without being painful
And that little red-clicked heart doesn't mean jack **** to me.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
****** castanets -
Floors sprinkled with shrapnel
Under the dancer's skirt -
A broken guitar
Holding a flaccid hand
Midstrum
In it's hollow mouth -
Scattered sheets of unedited poems
Stained with spattered flecks of brain -
Broken bottles
In puddles of Chartreuse and Campari
Congealing onto corpses
Slouching at the bar -
Jackboots kicking the viscera from their path -
Searching for a poet's mortal coil
So it can be shuffled
Into the pyre of ideologues and deviants
Protecting the oppression of this fleeting order.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Teeth chattering like castanets
fingers coloured bright blue
I’m going to catch my death
this football watching I rue
I swear he’s coming to ballet
he can cringe at men in tights
the pirouettes make my day
his torture, my delight
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Witness me dance this Grim fandango
witness this because it is chaos,
A boy standing dangerously upon the tracks,
And I am afraid.
I have been dancing, like a matador on nails
Spinning like a top between wails
Flirting with death and the gale
waiting for my either my partner or my luck to fail
while the castanets play,
For a grim fandango's day
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
May all the sonnets in the world compiled in beauty
lend themselves to your sweet eyes of gold
may every line of of penmanship speak to you of me
showing you that ardor, still untold
and when the moon comes out to serenade you darling
send me kisses from your balcony
and when the moonlight bathes the feather's of a starling
tinted dark as heaven's ebony,
bring me all your charms and play your castanets my love
rend each doubt and join me over there
where every wingeth bird soars up like a turtle dove
and plays you music oh so fair
may every sonnet ever written call you out by name,
may every poem ever uttered be your sweet proclaim.
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 10:01 PM UTC
Travelling from town to town,
Her living was song and dance,
In a tattered blue gown in winter,
Only one shoe worn by chance.
A thick overcoat in summer,
Her breath was like hot steam,
She loved to dance with castanets,
Her life an unusual dream.
She carried a basket of flowers
And waved a wand into the air,
Whichever Inn she went to,
People would stand and stare.
Penniless and drunk most of the time,
People gave her their change,
Which she tied to a cord and dragged around,
Her mind they thought deranged.
She would then give her money to the poor
Only taking what she needed,
She would drink, then sleep, wherever she fell,
Others cautions, were unheeded.
“We blossom in the morn” She sang
“We have faded by eventide”
In life and death she saw no change,
She took these in her stride.
She saw clearly what has no falsehood,
And what does not shift with things,
An eccentric insane wanderer,
She had the gift, immortality brings.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
Hopes we take into our sleep
Become the seeds of dreams to come;
Fears then, roots of nightmares.
Stir our hearts awake,
If you must
Wind gypsies crooning quixotic notes
Dappled like leopard in dandelion dust
Caught in the clatter of castanets
If poems were sheep, this one would be black
That one is black,
And that one is black.
Pupils leaping into pathos,
Without a splash,
That one is black, that one is black.
Somnolence, when ripples lull
Where all lambs go, when somnolent,
When somnolent.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
"To have someone give you control of their bodies and minds,
to be entrusted with the responsibility to take care of them,
to have someone willing to suffer for you,
to forsake pride and dignity to please you...
what can other gifts in this world possibly equate to that?
And more importantly, what makes you worthy to receive it?"
~ Anonymous
The Feminine Paradox
while i live for anonymous
do you think she is a freak?
does she not own her master
with the rarest of adorations
more
then those in the temple of thinning lust
with mouths like twisted placards
screaming
"know your value"
and
"just say no"?
told by
Victorian prudes
what is permitted
full of pride
in shapeless days
yet counting the insults of puerile lovers
one moody scar at a time
a ****** off
Eve
could take a lesson
from
bruised titillated Lilith
*******
with the sadist, the cards are on the table
fingers like
gleaming swords scented with ***** perfume
that drool for her quivers.
he melts with feral abandon from her cries
as she thrills exhilarated
to pains promise of pleasure
crucified and pitted
like spiced guacamole
on hot fire-tongues
his, bruising buttery shaft
her God
drooling yoni his salvation
her form a jeweled flame
a swirling constellation of blood and sweat diamonds
writhing undulations and ****** mouth
all chattering castanets
better than most
they give each other their truth
to take and to be taken
like pierced sparrows fluttering in paradise
then
with tender kisses and aftercare
quite like the watering garden
they are rinsed guileless
drenched flowers sweltering
in asylums
moonlight
and made smooth
by the hand of God
...........
"oh baby
i like it when
you do that dance
gonna stick my ****
through your underpants"
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
Night-time looking
over the Liffey,
slate grey artery,
flurry of merry music
like a band of castanets
still in our ears.
The cèilidh at Shannon’s,
man with a bodhrán
and a pint of tar
at his elbow,
girls in skirts
a blizzard of colours.
Róisín’s at UCD
but tonight, here,
the silky lilt
of English
pouring from her
emerald throat,
her hand in mine
as a crew of mangled gobshites
stumble home.
We swim in our jollity,
BYOC (bring your own craic)
in the city
where three times
in the 90’s we were kings
of the castle.
You say your father remembers ’62,
when I look in your eyes
you say coinnigh mé anois.
What’s that mean? I ask.
Hold me now.
And I do.
Your lips taste of Guinness,
my head foggy
with you.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 11:22 AM UTC
there's a fire in this madhouse of Venus
where unattainable romance gives birth
to cunty darkness and pleading clawish fingers
to obsessions of strange mental constructs
something about blood and tears
birthing black ******* and vampires
with vermillion mouths shaped in circles
that gorge themselves on violent thrusting *****
and ***** resembling mushed faced pugs
just asking for it
a woman's eyes burn like cigarettes
and tongues snake into esophageal
swoon revivals of glorious deliverance
flashing souls flit like street lights
and flames of wraith hair
she begs to be strangled with a black chord
and kissed till her brain blurs fizz
she dances
wigwam wiggle and clutches
like a sliding oyster
licking my *******
**** ***** and ruby *****
gagging repeatedly onto the hilting root
falling into submission
for her dark ******* god Faustian thing
a little doll with mythic eyes
a ******* wraparound mouthy wigged *****
with a baloney-pony disco stick orifice
will you **** me with your **** sir
a dark hunger gnaws deep within
so bleed me merciless
like a gushing artery
make me red dead in love in bed
butter **** and properly spread
pound me like a hell ***** ******
in a burning five alarm
emergency suicide ****
-
i corkscrew her
into a writhing
murderous wreckage
as she dissolves under me
like a sugar cube in hot tea and blood
christened by a magic wand
that forces her round belly
up and down like a toilet plunger
her ***** drools like runny yolks
a deep homework
the shamanic decent
an illusive weighing of the heart
the sweet meat priestess
who resuscitates abandoned legends
making my ***** click like castanets
a Mr. Winkey party
spewing Icelandic yogurt
her teeth rattle
as her brains and one eyeball
hang off my ****
like pig trough slobber
her face smiles
and vomits peaches
there's moon glitter
in your beautiful hair
my darling
God save the kink
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 2:35 PM UTC
He pulls out the plug and he severs the link
opens a tin and swallows a drink
and the sink estate which is a little less great every day fades away,
he switches on the telly
well he
would
if he could find the remote.
In his coat,several bills,final demands,outstanding accounts for amounts he can't pay,
well he would
if he could
but his life is in hock and he's locked into the sink where the council estate tenants never think of tomorrow and what might occur,
if only his life wasn't there but somewhere less indifferent
where he could be somewhat more, or at least somewhat more confident that this wasn't the river of excrement where his paddles were lost,
remote found and back on home ground
in a while he'll
meet Jeremy Kyle and
be happy he's not been caught in the net,
he has yet to appear
on that show.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Last night I was beguiled by dreams galore:
of sailing ships, pirates, explorers and more,
but the best for me, was of a country scene.
A quiet rustic retreat, where I was often seen,
accompanied by the music of a babbling stream,
cavorting with Nature. Wandering in my dream
along a brook, where willows danced and swayed,
in choreographed terpsichore, as water music played.
The cadence of rattling reeds: a pulsing even beat,
were as castanets, that energised my restless feet!
There was magic in the music, heard by me this night.
Seduced by its bravura, I savoured the gentle delight,
of soft vagrant breezes, that added their unique refrain,
to the rhythmic tattoo. Enhanced by the beating rain,
perfection then prevailed, with the pleasing music heard.
Complete in all respects, it required no single word
to further foster my enjoyment, of its haunting melody.
As such it was pleasing, and a pleasant treat for me,
though twas a short lived dream; that was soon done!
Of many dreams encountered? This was a cherished one.
Long shall I remember, as a moment to hold dear,
for such entertaining dreams, are a rarity I fear.
Bringing a welcome smile, to replace a morning frown;
raising spirits high, when I’m worried or cast down!
May 3rd, 2018.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 7:26 AM UTC
She dances like the desert
Light brown sand in the wind
The color of her soft skin
No longer hiding her features
Behind old religious doctrines
A little bit of belly
Arms as strong as titans
Fingers flicker like lightening
Clicking castanets
Moving in circles
She dances for herself
Eyes cast fast in all directions
Killer queen of my destruction
If I pry I will die because tonight
She dances for herself
The goddess the demon
The angel with a silver blade
Slicing and gleaming
Veils of fire barely light
The dark ground
Concealed by black sky
The sands swirl
and she follows
The music is gone
My words are only hollow
Projections of her passion
And perfection
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC