"chatoyant" poems
i walked in a garden
i saw roses, daisies, bougainvilleas
pagoda and peonies too
and somehow they reminded me of you
the roses reminded me of your lips
how it's so red and lovely
how it curves whenever your smile along with your eyes
how it separates when you laugh
the daisies reminded me of your eyes
how it slowly blooms beautifully in morning
how lovely when it slowly closes at night
how chatoyant it was when touched by light
the bougainvillea reminded me of your being
how you stood strong despite everything
how you stayed lucent and beautiful
how you let yourself bloom in many colours
the pagoda reminded me of your skin
how it's yellowish and eternally beautiful
how smooth and soft it was
how selcouth it seems in my retina
the peonies reminded me of your heart
how it's still exquisite despite of its fragile figure
how it's still eesome even though it looks wrinkled
how it stays strong and pulchritudinous
walking in the garden felt serendipitious
it felt like walking
inside your existence
and i liked it.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Not snowy seraphs of heaven above
Nor lustrous gems by heaven's stonking wall,
Shall outshine the eternal mark of love
Thou blazoned upon the skin of my soul.
Though midst my wake and dreaming hours I know,
Heaven's meanest pier is of burnished gold,
And celestial shores chatoyant than snow,
But all not as bright as the mark I hold.
For when fickle time in layers of life
Shalt shroud me, and away I must then run
To meet the judge of souls, lest lasting grief
Were my soul's fate, I mean to burn and burn,
The fragrance of thy love could still linger
Freshly upon my soul's fading ember.
*#Decasyllabic
#Iambic pentameter
#Quatrains
#Couplet
#Shakespearean sonnet*
Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Jumeirah, Dubai, 14th.Jan.2018.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!
But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
My beloved angel
One with
Radiant hazel eyes
Chatoyant like clusters
Of stars
On a moonless night
My beloved angel
One with
A warm sultry smile
As to tempt wary kissers
Commit mischief
My beloved angel
One with
A pristine voice
So fresh
As to wake the dead
From their desolate
Silent graves
My beloved angel
One with a vivacious voice
So euphonious
As to elicit
The descent of angels
Down unto earth
My beloved angel
One with
A melodious voice
So harmonious
As to leave one
In a daze
Just mesmerized
Whilst stars scintillate
Athwart velvet skies
My beloved angel
One with
A dimpled cheek
Giving way for onlookers
As to be hypnotized
Whilst stars scintillate
Athwart velvet skies
My beloved angel
One with
Bona fide pulchritude
Which brings about
Myriads of creatures
From across all environs
Surrounding her
Gravitate towards her
As to crave
Such a ravishing queen
My beloved angel
One whose
Exuberant personality
Had me thrilled to bits
Vanished like whispers
In the wind
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide
But every time I take one,
A part of me dies
What was nice under the crescent aglow?
Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show…
Ash of night, cradled what was once mine,
The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines.
Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright,
Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light,
The open windows left niveous fogs-
Breathed -stained –air, against crystal *****
Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo,
Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau.
Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground,
The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned.
...Tree roots sink as veins of gods.
The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade...
The sharp shove of love’s first arrow
Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow.
Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom
All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom,
Velvet allure, bellies of vigor,
The cold point, the pulled trigger.
Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers
Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers.
The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust
Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk…
The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke
Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes.
Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest
Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast.
The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary,
The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query.
What was once so beautiful at night?
Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight
So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing.
Emollient paean of the porcelain,
...which is my skin
See you, my ethereal being,
In short time spring will be fleeting
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk
People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette
Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body
A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!
Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.
God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
I call upon their harmony
They honor me with artistry
The pupils of Apollo's
Lyre resonant inside of me
Calliope adventurous,
Intrepid in her recklessness
Emboldening my will to lead
The unenlightened on this quest
Through Clio's scrolls of history
My oracle clairvoyant
She has graced me with the vision
Of the future sky chatoyant
And a buoyant sea of Euterpe
All floating through the lyricist
That synchronizes all of this
Into a metamorphosis
Evolving as Erato's love
A heart as soft as silk
A dove, tabula rasa thirsting for
The Mother Gaea's milk
To rise from Melpomene
Masks of tragic flaws of Icarus
For I divine the comedies
Thalia simply can't resist
Polyhymnia, Terpsichore
My rarest of expressions
Still reveal themselves in forms
Of spirit guide possessions
When Urania in cosmic bliss
Transports me to the stars
Reborn again to join them
As Mnemosyne's memoirs
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
i.
She is becoming
As she hast ameliorated mine pang's;
Her radiance is chatoyant
She melt's mine thought's, with her dusk black and wet bang's.
ii.
Her bungalow is mine own
Bucolic and historically hidden;
We're passionate in ourn dwelling
The walls brushed with ourn amour', tucked between ceiling's.
iii.
Memorabilia she keepeth
Of her childhood in a small room;
I stareth at her adolescent memory photo's
Thinking God made her on the moon.
iv.
Feeling how blessed I am
With mine Jane, neath her plume's;
Her wing's stretch out, north to south
A defense from demon crew's.
v.
A exemplar to the Almighty architect
The embodiment to all mine livelihood;
She's the road to peace, from west to east
On mine knee's I looketh to her, I kisseth her feet.
For she's mine queen...........
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
Laughter reaches new bounds
When you ask/ax me
" do I have pasketti on my face?"
Like a wild aminal you crawl
Over and smear that pasketti
On my cheeks
Like 60's rouge
Never meant to leave the Avon catalog.
cute comf-ta-ble sweaters
Swath lithe body like soft down
Byrds outside singing
Dancing in green foil-age.
Go join them,
Eyes chatoyant and comely.
With pasketti still on your face
You chirp like them byrds,
Such ebullience fits in with the robins.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
He never taught me
how to perform
the art of the jump-shot.
I simply watched.
He would dribble down
the clumsy circle
of our carport, back up
behind the exomaed bicycle
and detach his body
from the world, against
gravity’s insistent pull
and fade into a legend,
his wrist becoming a swan
pecking toward the sun.
He never taught me
how to arc a blade,
the gripping bite of a razor,
against my cheek.
I simply watched. He would
lather his face with foam
and I sat conversing with him
as the blade giddily glided,
graceful as a demi-god
reaping the crop of auburn
from his then young face.
When I tried, as a teenager,
I nicked my upper lip and
only harvested my own blood.
When he grilled, he flipped
the meat like an ace of spades,
magic in his wrist revealed.
When he drove, his hands
and feet became extensions
of the car. When he drove
a bus, his eyes sought all angles
of the road, chatoyant caution
in the flicker of his iris.
When he fiddled with our old,
beaten, mellow-toned guitar
he was articulate though
he never knew a chord’s name
nor what song erupted from him.
He read the Bible, but kept
the gospel in his eyes, at the tip
of his green thumb. He read
the Koran, the Torah, the words
of Gotham. I read how he
sought truth, beauty, in all
people. I simply watched him
traverse the dividing line
between saint and stubborn,
between sinner and relinquish.
If there was ever a man
after some God’s heart, he was
one who asked questions
and lived into the answers.
He kept his hands clean, kept
his chin high and mind
was always lofty and companioned
with a world of dreams.
He would often stare out windows
sitting at the dinner table, and I
knew he was living into a prayer.
I never asked what he was doing,
never asked how to do what he
could do. What my Father taught me
was to listen to my own inner voice,
no other’s, and if I wanted to be
a man, I was to simply watch
what a man did for that spoke
a language more fluid than air.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
I filled three trashcans, granted the bathroom size, to the brim with crumpled college-ruled cursive, failed attempts at the marriage of language and vision, all the things in my mind I could not put to paper. I couldn’t find the million-dollar words I wanted.
I Google’d the “100 most beautiful words of the English language.”
Efflorescence. I would have liked to use that one. Or maybe petrichor.
Chatoyant.
I tried to give mass to chimeras.
They grew old easily, floating down a temporal lazy river.
Her tissue-paper dreams were torn by the hooks of hometown love.
My metaphors fell flat.
I tried to envision Parnassus, something like rolling hills dotted with vibrant flowers, plants with names I do not know lining the slopes. I am not familiar with Greek foliage. I imagined myself climbing, turning over rocks in search of inspiration.
I found only isopods.
Between 5/4 inch margins I constructed a paper balloon, my papyrus mausoleum. Here is my embalmed work. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
i.
I shalt continueth to giveth mine
Aeipathy to mine sweetheart Jane;
Kissing her Lip's, juice running succulent
Again, again, and repeating over again.
ii.
Aerial on vapor circle's, tip-toeing,
Unworldly, ourn halo's coruscate;
Aloft sketches of cumulus imitate
Me and mine Reyna's rainbow shade.
iii.
Her Chatoyant face
And her glace shape;
Envelop's me inside
Her preternatural grace.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley/Filipino rose dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
you were the lacunar bolt the part
of a life spent wishing on stars
if stars had ever granted anything but light
chatoyant the yellow pilot lamp
down the street trembles weakly
wanting to burn out it flickers like a sun
struggling long past its expiration date
I was an absquatulate scholar
of wrinkled bedsheets and the way
the light ineffable shone around us
as though we were the ******* center of it all
a slow-motion salvation is better
than instant gratification behind words
like I believe I can’t accept this
I will give you back
your left behind particulars: your lingerie
your photographs the calligraphy in your letters
the blanket I have slept under for three years
dreaming you might give me back the ring
I willfully saved for you in the abditory
between these walls I was building
for us broken promises refract sanguine light
and shape future homes into abandonment
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
i
Her chatoyant cat's view's art check-rows, wherein cheribum run
Therapeutic is her coalesce, when me and her art in caress, love
Antelucan passionance ensues, anthem to mine muse, elsa-grace.
Costume's to be festive, the crowd gathers us interested, in amour
ii
She felleth through the milky way galaxy, unearthed by humans
She was In a capsule of alien breed, wearing cupid attire tunic
As I'm just a felon, I hadst to keepeth mine head hung down low
Because if they captured me, they'd capture the queen, so I told the king take mine head to SAVETH her soul... .
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedicated
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
I found you in a potter’s field…
Sleeping softly in your fears.
Loquacious demons stole your dreams
And wasted treasured years.
I’m sorry that the rain won’t stop
Your moistened bed is caving in.
A chatoyant moon to watch over you,
Highlighting each one of your sins.
If I could close your eyes, I would.
I’d sing you back to sleep.
It only takes a minute
But you’re resting in there pretty deep.
Kicking at your wooden box,
Screaming out your prayers
It kills you when the thing you love,
Isn’t yours
Its theirs.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
I met a lover, once
In a diner where the mud was strong
Everyone was honey, and heart attacks were delicious
He gave her a bag filled with
Her favorites, and drizzles of lexicon
(She was the only script he ever burned)
Not a word was returned
But her chatoyant glazzies watered
And he swore for
A moment
She loved him back
Disproportionate, I thought, to the months he'd spent
Planning a tribute for her origin day
Less than I spent on his remembered name
As it trickled down a dampened page
Runny, like he hated his eggs (a shame)
I sipped my mud and wondered
Why do men love rope
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
He was an older man
Of about forty five years
He had a wife and children
And his very own home
One day, abruptly
A phone call came in
From the hospital of the town
He had grown up in
His father, a man
Late in his years
Had just passed away
And so started the tears
Now, his father was one
For whom he had utmost respect
For his father raised him alone
Since the day he was born
The next few weeks
Were a blur to the man
For he had just lost his hero
It was a sudden slam
The man was back
At his childhood home
After the funeral
He sat in his old room
He was looking through a few
Of his old playthings
When he picked up a box
He heard rattle around
Inside he saw
His old collection of marbles
Oxbloods and oilies
Lutz, aggies, and clambroths
He noticed a piece of paper
Under his favorite marble
A chatoyant thumper
His father had given him as a starter
He unfolded the paper
And he was surprised to see
His father's handwriting
He began to read
“Son, I know that you're reading this
It means I’m probably gone
But one thing I want you to know
Is that you’ll never be alone
I remember the day that your mother left
You had just been born
I swore that very day you’d never miss her
I’d be your dad, your mom, and more
As I watched you grow
Into the man you are
I couldn’t be prouder
Of who you’ve become
I’ll love you more than you’ll ever know
I’m proud to call you my son
Be the husband and father I know you can be
Because I know you’re a **** good one
I know you’re probably heartbroken
But don’t be sad for too long
Because I’ll forever watch over you
Goodbye, son, please stay strong”
The man had tears in his eyes
When his little girl walked him
She looked at him with big brown eyes
And asked her daddy what’s wrong
He shook his head and said nothing
While picking his princess up
He carried her and his marbles downstairs
A sad, hopeful smile stuck on his lips
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
pendently crimson wearing elfin ******* &
chatoyant eyes
grown from boundless harvesting she is
lonely from survival, tenacious pedicel tight
against countless snapped, spent-black fleshlings.
ripe with costly price and left single amongst
decay she adopts (though morely wields)
venin wet juice that poisons whichever loves.
sev ering her stem
with weathered hands, i hoist her cheek to mine
where pressure reveals the tender path
of warmly dissolve.
though she strains & twines with rot and
(the core soaks through) i devour her ***
blight seeds, wholly
so she can grow (afflict me) elsewhere.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
From stars to cars and bars of all kinds,
I snarl of wreaths that paraded mankind,
Which once gargled me in a brawling growl,
But it will no longer howl
No more.
Forgotten
Sootened,
They lay in
Blackened
Lying
Ice of Cold and Tremors
Murmurs of sore nerves
Of Cold chills
spine-wrenching curves
I have no remorse.
Whining groins to pawning reigns,
I gwaah at sheaths made of chatoyant neighs
It once skewed in me a featherly meow
Lest I forget the breeze
And howl into that ol’e reprise.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 3:06 AM UTC
Bungalow bunkie,
Doth thou awaken or sleep to thy dust you accumulate?
Captious are one's these slothful ciggarrete nights!!!
Electrolight,
Come near that I may feel warmth,
As a child in early birth I seek forane high class milk,
Footlights on stilts do the the actors take high position!!
Not seeking the inefficient,
But the tower of Babel gone lost!!!!
Injurious kirtles are kinless,
Thy best friend is now friend less,
Due to thine own kindness!!!!
Lamb-kin darling,
Canst thou lance these burns to cuts?
For what's missing in the soot?
Lamenting chalice...
A king and a queens palace I'll die to live in,
For a smile and a grin cannot be weighed!!!
Hay/fever will take the fidelity of what's polite!!!
Damoclean of wintergreen,
Do you flatter by ones self?
Or doth thou Get help from dandering blotters!!!!
Intimate plotters of murderer's and lost hopes fun!!!
Chatoyant skin doeth I wish to feel once,
Where thy stage is real_,
No stunts!!!!!
Just reality of cavern lathered seducing!!!!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Day closes to an open window–
A sill, a still rest for my spent legs;
Torqued over to face the breeze, welcome chills
Swing the brush with each croak of my knees.
Laughs crane over amber roof clay–
And somewhere behind a white fence
It’s someone’s birthday, a dog brays, coos rouse a baby
Who cries off-key with the family’s song
A dark cluster shifts in the sky,
And the moon emerges from nil.
I’d forgotten my eyes but to see like this…
So long since the night kept me filled…
Spark lights strung in beads on a rope
-Chatoyant, chatoyant comme diamants–
“Brille et brille petit étoile” string the notes
of a mother’s rock-a-bye song
My squeak of a refrain pitters into the air
-Cassant, cassant comme verre-
No love from eclipses we sing to,
No peace from mullings in prayer
Then a fairy book glow sweeps this vision–
Its air thick and sweet to the tongue–
My glance caught by shimmering scales on the back
Of this Ville like a dragon in slumber
—oh, to dance on that spine
—to leap from his eaves into air!
—to fly with these legs where I don’t have to sleep
—and days don’t sit brittle and spare
But fingers to the pulse in my cheek—
To a cauldron of wicked alchemy—
Trace an infection spreading like dragons’ wings
Where beasts may be best left sleeping.
Painfully pretty, the light grows ever fainter,
I should drink it in while I can still see—
There’s a reason art’s left to the painter,
And my brush colors sorrow on everything.
But I’m not sorry now, nor sad, though my eyes water
And wobble the world ’til I blink;
With my back towards the concrete, grounded, this altar
Casts a reverence over everything.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
angels glimpse
spryness
of mirthful eyes
and volcanic cheeks
as puffy snowballs leap
about
chatoyant eyes glide
side to side
halcyon hands stroke
chalkboard hue
erasing frenetic world
prowling paws stir
snippets of serenity
beautiful dreams
shyness sheltered
in nuzzled fur
~ sadness scurries ~
purr of laconic
loneliness of
an only child
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
"Les femmes jouissent d'abord par l'oreille"
Dit Marguerite Duras
Toi, mon HYDRE-MUSE, tu jouis
Par l'oreille absolue et frivole
Magnifiée
Par la danse à contre-temps
De la poésie pénétrante
Du saxo et de la tumba
Du coupé décalé et de l'azonto
Entre violons et accordéons
Qui fait voltiger sur tes hanches
Toute la copelia complicada de ta libido.
Je rentre sans hâte dans la mue de la couleuvre
Et je te ceins la taille.
Réinventons les croisés en cinquième position
Du ballet classique de Noureev, Petipa et Balanchine
Et à quatre pattes virevoltons dans le Bolchoi.
Setenta y ocho :
Je te tatoue le bas des reins
D'un tatou boule qui exécute
Des renversés arrière multicolores
Dans les plus intimes sillons de ta peau.
Cero :
Verbum Sapientiae Principium Est !
De mon pinceau chatoyant je dessine Des pas de bourrée étourdissants
Aux confins de tes cambrures
Setenta y siete :
Tu miaules des entrechats charnels
Et tu tournoies comme un ventilateur
Et tu me dis : viens, mon prince,
Montre-moi tes ronds de jambes doubles
Ochenta y quatro :
je te prends par les orteils tout en te caressant l'oreille
Et je te dis vas-y
Cuarenta y cinco :
Dombolo baroque dès que tu bouges tes fesses pour m'inviter à tes
Messes de sabbat
Très y media :
Demi-pointe sur les tétons qui frémissent et qui clignent des yeux
La peau de ton aréole gauche danse la biguine
Ton sein droit fait voltiger du jus de grenade
Sesenta :
Un deux trois cinq six sept
Un seul fouetté
Tu enchaînes les figures libres et académiques
Passe après passe
Tu plantes dans le taureau farceur tes aromates
Et je crie Banco et tu me mordilles la paume de la main.
Setenta complicada :
J'aime notre gourmandise choreographee clitoridienne, anale, phallique et vaginale
Cet appétit colossal de ballet épicé à la Merce Cunningham, Alvin Ailey et Martha Graham
Qui nous prend entre deux morts de tous nos lacs des cygnes primaux
Nous en sommes les danseurs étoiles les solistes les premiers danseurs les petits rats les chorégraphes et les maîtres de ballet
À nous deux nous formons une troupe
Réincarnée
Et nous signons de nos plumes de chair notre martingale lubrique :
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 3:31 AM UTC
Eons ago, in the far countryside,
Twixt a sequestered strange bush
Where early boughs grow wide
And rank, there dwelt a Thrush.
Not far off on yonder dwelt a dove
Whose feathers were as white as snow,
With eyes chatoyant than stars above,
And her nest of feathers of fairest glow.
One colorful morning, in a soft hum the dove
Cooed, “Dear Thrush, how sweet thy voice,
Nighly akin unto those of seraphim above,
Charming than of mermaids of a fairy sea!”
“Dear dove, how fair the hue of thy wings,”
Softly replied the Thrush. “Thrice more fair
Than multicolored maidens of golden rings
That fairly beam through the midnight air!”
And, on yon day in yon sequestered kingdom,
They made nuptial vows to walk down the aisle.
A new nest of thatches of gold was their home,
And there dost dwell evermore with a radiant smile.
© Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California. 02/20/2020.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC