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Aidan Taylor Jul 2020
Silver beams of moonlight,
Pierce the starry night,
The sun has gone to sleep,
As the Watchman prepares to fight,
Behind the Southern Mountains,
A storm begins to brew,
The darkened clouds roll over,
And the ocean is no longer blue.
The Watchman is free of slumber,
As he looks upon the land,
He holds their destiny in his palm,
As it crumbles in his hand,
No one dares to combat him,
Of equals there are but few,
They live faraway in distant lands,
Near where the Pheonix flew.
One step it takes for him to cross,
From the Rolling Valley to River Dry,
And far above the sleeping bodies,
Sit the scornful Watchman’s eyes,
With each step the Earth will tremor,
And shake the huts below,
The plants they droop in bleeding sorrow,
As they can no longer grow.
He lets out a booming laugh,
That parts the darkened clouds,
As he thinks of his growing power,
That makes the Heavens shroud,
But in the distance a call is heard,
That mutes the Watchman’s laugh,
Upon a silver horse he rides,
The Chevalier splits the night in half.

Galloping through the ocean breeze,
The Chevalier quickly approaches,
Towards the mighty Watchman’s land,
On the darkness sunlight encroaches.
For this day the Watchman waited,
To fight off he who wants his throne,
This land is for him to own,
The battle horn has now been blown.
Down below the people rise,
From their slumber they awake,
And head outside into the street,
To see what will be their fate.
Rising above the rocky hill,
Appears a foreign man,
Perhaps he’s come to set them free,
And save them from the old Watchman.
The Chevalier is now upon them,
Pulling his horse to cease his run,
I’m here to save the village people,
But a reply he got but none.
Instead the Watchman cocked his head,
And screamed into the sky,
Do not threaten me now Horseman,
Or I’ll bury you in River Dry.
Blinded by his arrogance,
The Watchman failed to see,
The Chevalier draw his bow and arrow,
And plunge it in his knee.
Upon the Southern Mountains,
The Watchman slowly fell,
His body turned to Ashes,
And loudly rung the death bell.

Be gone my sweet People,
All People young and old,
Escape this wretched wasteland,
And free your desperate souls.
You’re no longer bound by his watch,
So seek another land,
Follow your heart and fill its desires,
And your life will be so grand.
Paul d'Aubin Oct 2016
Peire-Roger, le Chevalier Faydit.

C'est Peire-Roger le Faydit
regardant la vie avec hauteur
Comme l'aigrette flottant
sur son heaume argenté.
Ses terres furent mises en proie
Par les prélats du Pape
Au profit de barons pillards.
Venus de Septentrion.
Il était Languedocien,
Par la langue et le cœur
Sa sœur Esclarmonde, était une «Cathare»,
l’une de ces chrétiens hétérodoxes,
Se vouant à l'Esprit,
Et disant rejeter ce mal
Qui corrompt l'esprit humain,
En colorant de sombre
Les œuvres terrestres.
Très jeune, les jeux de guerre
Furent, pour lui, comme un breuvage ardent.
Il éprouva l'amour brûlant
Pour de belles châtelaines,
Si dures à séduire,
Au jeu du «fin Amor».
Mais il était certes moins aimé
Pour ses vers d'ingénieux troubadour,
Que comme homme fort,
ayant belle prestance,
Et apparaissant triomphant,
dans ses courses au galop,
Et les grands coups
Qu'il donnait pour se frayer
Un passage dans la mêlée,
Dans les éclats, les étincelles
De l'entrechoc des épées.
Bien jeune, il vit son père
Spolié de sa seigneurie,
Confisquée au bénéfice
de la lignée maudite
De la maison de Montfort.
Il fut tout jeune humilié
par la tourbe des seigneurs pillards
Conduite par des fanatiques
Et masquant sous l'apparence
De religion, leur vile convoitise
Et leur voracité de loups.
Une fausse paix obligea son père
A rompre l'allégeance
Avec les comtes de Toulouse.
Alors que la persécution
Des «bonshommes» s'amplifiait,
Et que les libertés Toulousaines
Étaient sous le talon de fer.
Son père s'en vint en Aragon
Parmi tant d'autres hommes,
droits et valeureux,
Pour sauvegarder l'honneur,
Et préparer la reconquête
Des terres confisquées,
par l'avidité de ces nuées
De corbeaux et des loups
Venus faire bombance
De terres Languedociennes.
Comme plus ****,
les Lys viendraient agrandir,
Leurs fiefs pour le seul profit
De Paris la dominante et la vorace.
Sa jeunesse se passa à s'entraîner
Et à rêver au jour où
Il traverserait les cols
Pour la revanche de son sang
Et la mémoire de son père,
Mort en exil en Aragon.
Enfin les appels de Raymond VII de Toulouse,
De Trencavel et du peuple de Tolosa révolté,
Résonnèrent comme buccin
Dans tout le Languedoc sous le joug,
Et l'oriflamme de Tolosa fut levé
Qui embrasa plaines et collines.
Le temps était venu de combattre
Et ce fut une guerre
Aussi ardente que cruelle,
comme une chasse à courre,
Faite de sièges et d'escarmouches
Contre les troupes du Roi Louis VIII.
Peirce-Roger chevaucha et guerroya
Donnant tout son corps et son âme,
Et fut maintes fois blessé,
Mais il lui fallut bien du courage
Pour déposer les armes
Quand les chefs s'entendirent
Pour donner en mariage
Jeanne de Toulouse
A Alphonse de France.
Ce mariage funeste,
annonçait et scellait la perte,
Des libertés et de la tolérance
De la haute civilisation
des pays Tolédans et Languedociens.
Aussi Peire-Roger, l'esprit blessé
Plus encore que ses chairs
Meurtries et tailladées,
Décida de consacrer sa vie
Au soutien et a la protection,
Des «bonshommes» traqués,
Par cette infamie nommée l'inquisition,
Usant des pires moyens,
Dont la délation et la torture,
Pour extirper par les cordes,
les tenailles et le feu,
Ce que la Papauté ne pouvait obtenir
Du choix des consciences,
Par le libre débat et le consentement.
Peire-Roger vint à Montségur
Sur les hauteurs du Po
Transforme en abri, en refuge et en temple,
Sur les terres du comte de Foix.
Il admira Esclarmonde la pure, la parfaite,
Et la pureté de mœurs
De cette communauté de «Bonhommes»,
de Femmes et d'Hommes libres,
Bien divers, mais si fraternels,
Ayant choisi de vivre leur spiritualité.
Contrairement aux calomnies,
Qui les disait adorateurs du Diable,
Ils mettaient par-dessus tout
Leur vie spirituelle et leur idéal commun.
Et leurs autres vertus étaient
Le dépouillement et la simplicité.
Hélas vautours et corbeaux,
Planaient autour de l'altier Pog.
Alors que la bise des premiers froids
Se faisait sentir les matins.
C'est alors qu'un groupe d'inquisiteurs
Chevaucha jusqu'à Avignonet
pour y chercher des proies.
Cela embrasa de colère
nombre de Chevaliers Faydits,
Dont les parents avaient tant soufferts
Le feu de la vengeance l’emporta
Sur la prudente et sage patience.
Et Peire-Roger lui-même
Pris le commandement de la troupe.
Qui arriva de nuit à Avignonet
Pour punir la cruauté par le fer.
Le Bayle, Raymond d'Alfaro
Ouvrit les portes aux vengeurs,
Et un nouveau crime s'ajouta
Aux précédents crimes innombrables.
L’inquisiteur Guillaume Arnaud
Et Étienne de Saint Thibery,
furent massacres avec leurs compagnons.
Leurs cris d'épouvante et d'agonie
Résonnèrent dans cette Avignonet
Qui huma l'acre parfum du sang,
La peur semblait disparue
Et la vengeance rendue.
Mais la lune aussi pleura du sang
Dans le ciel blafard et blême
Vengeance fut ainsi accomplie
Pour les chairs et les âmes martyrisées.
Mais le sang répandu appelle
Toujours plus de sang encore.
Quelques mois après un ost
De plusieurs centaines de soldats,
Sous le commandement
D'Hugues des Arcis.
Vint en mai 1243,
Mettre le siège de la place fortifiée.
Peire-Roger se battit comme un Lion
Avec ses compagnons Faydits,
Ils accomplirent des prouesses
De courage et de vaillance
Furent données.
Mais lorsque de nuit par un chemin secret
Qui leur avait été révélé,
Les assaillant s'emparèrent
Du roc de la tour,
Et y posèrent une Perrière
Pour jeter des projectiles
Sur les fortifications et les assiégés.
L'espoir de Peire-Roger,
des défenseurs et des bonshommes,
Commença à fléchir.
Et une reddition fut conclue
Le 1er mars 1244 laissant aux cathares,
Le choix de la conversion ou de la mort dans les flammes.
Ce fut grand pitié ce 16 mars de voir
Plus de deux cent femmes et hommes bons et justes,
Choisir en conscience de ne pas renier leur choix et leur foi,
Préférant terminer leur vie
D'une manière aussi affreuse,
en ce début du printemps
Qui pointait ses lumières.
Et jusqu'à l'ignoble bûcher,
Leurs chants d'amour,
Furent entendus puis couvert,
Par leurs cris de douleur
Et les crépitements des buches.
Aussi; qu’une honte dans pareille
En retombe sur le Pape si mal nomme, Innovent III
Et sur le roi Louis IX, sanctifié par imposture,
Et sur l'archevêque de Narbonne, Pierre Amiel.
Que surtout vienne le temps
Où la Paix aux doux, aux justes
Et aux Pacifiques s'établisse.
Et qu'une honte et un remord sans fin
Punissent ceux et celles qui continuent
A se comporter en inquisiteurs
qu'elle qu'en soient les raisons et les circonstances.
Il semblerait sans aucune certitude
Que Peire-Roger, le chevalier Faydit
Témoin de ces temps de fer et de feu.
Soit allé, au ****, se retirer et prier
Dans une communauté de bonshommes
En Aragon ou en Lombardie.

Paul Arrighi
Le personnage de Peire-Vidal n'est pas imaginaire. Il a bien existe mais je rassemble en lui les qualités de plusieurs Chevaliers Faydits qui se battirent pour la sauvegarde de leurs terres et des libertés des pays d'Oc et du Languedoc face a l'avidité et au fanatisme - Paul Arrighi
Marie-Chantal Jan 2015
Jean Chevalier was
A Parisian man.
He led a simple life,
He had no big plan.

'La Résistance'
In took he part,
He felt it was right
In his Parisian heart.

The German soldier smirked,
Strapped in his ranks,
He looked down at Jean
And fantasised war tanks.

Jean was stuck in the métro
Since about half past three,
His stomach was aching,
A cigarette needed he.

The German Soldier, however,
Breaking the 'law',
Lit one up and
Opened his enormous jaw.

His pink, beefy face
Took a long drag,
Jean clung to his country,
Clung to his flag.

Jean gasped for a cigarette,
The soldier saw in his eyes.
But Jean managed yet
To stay dignified.

The soldier whips out a fresh one,
For Jean, condescendingly.
But without batting an eyelid,
Jean declares:

*"Non, Merci."
Merci Jean, tu as aidé Agnes Humbert et tu ne l'as jamais su
Bon chevalier masqué qui chevauche en silence,
Le Malheur a percé mon vieux coeur de sa lance.

Le sang de mon vieux coeur n'a fait qu'un jet vermeil,
Puis s'est évaporé sur les fleurs, au soleil.

L'ombre éteignit mes yeux, un cri vint à ma bouche
Et mon vieux coeur est mort dans un frisson farouche.

Alors le chevalier Malheur s'est rapproché,
Il a mis pied à terre et sa main m'a touché.

Son doigt ganté de fer entra dans ma blessure
Tandis qu'il attestait sa loi d'une voix dure.

Et voici qu'au contact glacé du doigt de fer
Un coeur me renaissait, tout un coeur pur et fier

Et voici que, fervent d'une candeur divine,
Tout un coeur jeune et bon battit dans ma poitrine !

Or je restais tremblant, ivre, incrédule un peu,
Comme un homme qui voit des visions de Dieu.

Mais le bon chevalier, remonté sur sa bête,
En s'éloignant, me fit un signe de la tête

Et me cria (j'entends encore cette voix) :
" Au moins, prudence ! Car c'est bon pour une fois. "
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
l'amours dont sui espris...

  me and the moon cower,
me and the moon peer into the night,
from behind the cloud
from behind a puzzling thought...
me and the moon cower:
before the altar of the night...

well... i would never **** a fly...
at least i'd try...
the kingdom of insects states:
by some "consensus"
that the females are bigger
than the males...
i've heard it's not so with
mosquitos...

i couldn't **** a fly...
but when Monday's garbage collection
happens and i'm left dragging
an empty bin
into the garden to clean it...
i find... maggots at the bottom
of the pit...
still wriggling in the leftover juices
of meat and others...

carelessly like jerking off:
i pour some bleach into the cauldron...
sodium hypochlorite...
then some water for the foam...
the maggots disappear...
i wish them well...
but not much good could ever come
from drinking a corrosive salt...
alkaline implies corrosive salt...
well... i drowned some maggots in
alkaline...
but i very much care to have
a clean bin...

i ******* crocodiles and tears and tadpoles
into a tissue while
on the throne of thrones and send
them to: nowhere...
just before i take the no. 1 & no. 2
(no. 3 to ease up)...
then baptise myself in the shower...

summer will soon be almost over...
autumn will come
the proper fruits will start to fall...
i'll be making my wine...
it will take me 3 weeks or circa...
maybe 4... the apples will fall...
the pears too...
winter... when insects sleep...
as much as i might appreciate the copper-neck
suntan... i'll be happier to find that
the insects are sleeping: along with
the bears...

i rarely **** a fly... a mosquito, though?
each and every time...
if i were a zombie and a fly *******
a maggot-load onto me... i'd beg to digger...
well...
    i did't feel like killing this large
specimen of mosquito... it wasn't going to
bite me...
never mind...
i didn't feel like merely killing it...
i caught it be one leg...

i have two spider twins either side
of the door to my garden...
one was sleeping...
the other was awake...
how did i know?
the sleeping one curled up its legs
into a bud...
it wasn't awake to play piano with
its cobweb...

        so i pinched this one mosquito
by the leg and watched it frenzied...
trying to escape... my hand led it to the altar...
how quick the spider! how quick
the spider made a mummy of the would:
juiced up mushy meat!
i didn't **** it...
i just fed a garden spider...
a catch it couldn't otherwise catch...

i felt indifferent... more indifferent about
vegans than vegans feel: "differentiated"
from debating the need for milk...
eggs... never mind the meat... cheese...
i don't understand veganism on these three pillars...
milk (cream)... eggs... cheese...
i couldn't be a vegan...

vegetarianism: i can understand...
but... no eggs?! no... milk / cream?!
no... cheese?!
        get out of 'ere!

       maggots swimming in sodium hypochlorite...
or rather... dying in it...
but the prettier sight than killing a bothersome mosquito
was feeding it to a spider...
it almost felt like...
   feeding a cat sushi turkey ******* on
the end of the knife...

this song has nothing to do with the experience:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...
none!
why do i abhor Darwinism...
it... doesn't tease my vanity...
it just kills off history!
from ape to "somehow": now...
that's it!
   **** similis: the ape was known to the ancients...
but the ancients did ancient "things"
and didn't allow themselves to be swallowed
up by a ******* comparison!
metaphor! they would have settled for
a metaphor... but not a comparison!
a synonymous-ness!

Darwinism is right: nature abhors vacuums...
nothing in nature is to be ever wasted...
everything has a purpose...
if... somehow... it doesn't have a purpose:
it will... it will evolve... it will adapt...
but... Darwinism as... the prime idea...
the one & only source of the genesis of
"idea"? only in the anglophone world...
no where else will you hear
Darwinism so celebrated...
Hermes asked... why did Galileo overshadow
the findings of Copernicus?!
why did even William Burroughs undermine
Copernicus by staging a "fact" that...
oh the ancient Egyptians knew!
the ancient Greeks knew too!
but... no mathematics...
then some pope-****-smear of a Galileo
was the one with the telescope
"probing": proving the heliocentric model
most adequate...

one spider whispered to another:
find any cobweb: piano concertos in the desert?
no... me neither...
let's just wait for some of these sand-*******...
camel-jockeys to catch up...
we'll show them... mummification:
hey presto!

- and they did... how quickly that spider
launched into the mosquito...
rapping it up like a... nothing to be
beside the futures of food-stuff...
it felt...
well... not ignoble... a pride in a sense
of hierarchy...
the spider easts the mosquito...
it's really levelled ground in the insect
dominion...
i allow maggots to swim in sodium
hypochlorite...
i catch a mosquito by its leg
and feed it to a spider...
the spider does the mummification
ritual... the world balances itself out...

it's a strange sensation: it's hardly a feeling...
one gets feelings on a graveyard...
count the bones...
wake up... re-wake...
the fickle faculty of memory:
so prone to amnesia...
i abhor dreams.... therefore i dream none...
less Freudian ******* shrapnel....
less & less...

i need a mirror to take a selfie...
i need... the apparition of 3D space...
you can't revise QWERTY!
you can't improve it!

i can type without looking down
at the keyboard: here's to imitating the Liszt...
the Chopin...

eh?!
i didn't cite:  E... did i?
i included the surd of breath...
EH?!

ask the ******* Hebrews why we have concern
to begin to laugh...:
it's trapped in their definite article:
HA! SANTA!

           i'm here for only one thing...
beside thrilling it alive in Thailand...
or... recovering fractures in Europe...
someone... maybe one... or two...
have... stolen my identity...
                  sorry...
             garlic pickled in some red wine
will always go under the radar...
electric six's album should never have:
gat bar! bay bar!

   it's the 1980s and sade...
smooth operator....
             best kept feeling...
feeding a mosquito to a spider
rather than simply killing it...
like... the inversed... imploded...
ploy of game...

who needs tiger blood?
bluff?
i need... a mosquito...
a spider... a spiderweb... like a piano...
i need an awake spider...
the red wine is not to be...
necessarily... mixed with garlic...
although last time i heard:
infusing ren wine with three or four
teeth of garlic (nuggets?)
is a slimming elixir...

father SLiM? *******... yacht...
bogus crew...
feeding a mosquito to a spider...
death soon arrives... "tomorrow".

- still need the geocentric model when
reading the map... hell:
i need the flat earth perspective when
reading a map... i don't really care much
for the equator, the Greenwich meridian
when getting from A to B...
funny how geographic "algebra" works...
from point A to point B:
a round earth doesn't really help...
perhaps if i were sailing but even then...
a straight line...

Darwinism didn't really undermine
man's final vanity... according to Freud...
nor did Freud undermine another vanity...
Freud & Jung created the divided schematic
of what once man:
i wouldn't say man was Leibniz's pristine
monad: something indivisible...
but it was close: to be divided by memory
fickle faculty:
how it dries up through the churn of
pedagogy... so much strain on learning
2 x 2 = 4... a, b, c, d, e... f, g, h...
fair enough: to later rearrange into words...
but i don't appreciate the classical alphabet...
the genius behind QWERTY...
i type without looking down at the keyboard...
it's almost like: imitation of reading braille...

maybe the alphabet should be less: a, b, c...
it's not like the vowels are at the beginning
while the consonants follow...
it just doesn't make sense:
rigid...
i wonder what would happen if children
were taught the QWERTY alphabet sequence...

or... just remember all the letters:
it doesn't matter in which order you remember them...
just remember that there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet...

- it's so pointless just killing  mosquito...
a fly... hardly...
but a mosquito... just at the right time
when it inserts its needle and become a syringe...
that's the sweetest of moment...
lord of the flies? who is the lord of mosquitos:
didn't ha-shem eat up all the lesser
gods of the Levant... but somehow avoided
gobbling up the lord of mosquitos?
i'm conjuring up a deity the Hebrew deity
didn't gobble up into his pantheon...

what name... what name?!
to challenge a name like... Beelzebub?
Be'el'zee'bub...
proper pronunciation with
the apostrophes: intra-verbum...
just so you know...
who: hoo! i'm getting hot from all the cider
and whiskey... god... i'm gagging for
some absinthe... the moon is ripe!
it's full...
     i need some slimming elixir...
some red wine infused with garlic...
to keep the vampires away...

what will i name you: lord of mosquitos...
KOMAR... mosquito in western Slavic...
Darwinism doesn't bug my vanity...
i.e. it doesn't bother me...
it bothers me that it's a history eraser...
nothing from yesterday here on in...
in the anglosphere...
the monkey: mammon key "happened":
an oops! ****! hey presto!
deluxe! no one grieves for Robespierre...
i might...
like i might for the wild imaginings of
the Marquis...
               if only... i prefer prostitutes to these...
"free"... masculine prototypes of... ahem... "women"...
once the woe... once the woo of man...
now?!
i prefer prostitutes...
no need for dating: plus... if they're Turkish...
they like a beard... a hairy chest... a hairy
stomach...

i'll push this dagger into that crux of:
et tu... so far so far as it can be harnessed
collectively that i'm... passionate about...
not angry... bitter... pickling my emotions...
there's a gherkin for a heart if anyone is
willing...

lord of mosquitos: raba'albaeud...
well, i could make that apostrophe disappear...
but i'd only replace it with a diacritical marker
above the A... to imply: "a.a."...
i.e. that there are two... Siamese vowels...
but it wouldn't help the pronunciation...
let's see...

raba'albaeud vs. rabālbaeud...
            eh?          ha ha... "no" difference!
so much for everyone being... "literate"...
they read like they might eat...
i've been told i eat in a way that...
invites other people to eat...
so much for others... dictating pleasures
unattainable...
i was a dinner once... with school friends...
i was the only one who asked for
rare beef... everyone else...
doubly butchered their wants...
they wanted them well done...
beef? well done?!
oh i'm a snob at that...
IT'S NOT MINCED BEEF!
YOU NEED... JUICE!

i kept my mouth shut and ate happy...
so much for friends...
i.e. "friends"... people you spend a lot of time together:
it works in a pedagogic environment...
school's great...
you are ***** into their presence...
you have to have... work-around tactics...
bullies... brutes... nerds... teenage mothers...

the full moon: while everything is attired in:
quicksilver...
the full moon: skin-head BISCUIT...
while everything is attired in quicksilver!

too many vowels... too many vowels...
raba'albaeud...
i "think" i'll rename him...
phonetically, though: ra'ba'alba'ood...
although there's an E & an U instead
of the omega...

Lithuanian: U'ODAS: ooh... not you...
i need bitter... twice bitter than an IPA
Czech absinthe...
i need to see straight... wonky too!
i need my tongue to be aflame!
i need teeth made from iron!

- history has become less linear than it used
to be... it has begot an ouroboros
of repeated... thanks to journalism:
history used to be linear...
time has reached a year 0...
but there's no revision taking place...
don't shoot the messenger!
i'm looking for the name of the lord
of mosquitos...

it's a hard name to conjure:
even though you have all the tongues in the world
available on the palette...
i need bitter... Czech absinthe...
i want to feel: hot... as rot...

Latvian: not Estonian... i.e.:
not sääsk (saaaask):               ODU...
主 / オモ (omo-odu)... that's clearly pushing it...
       オヅ
it would be so much simpler to just **** a mosquito
rather than... purposively...
feeding it to a spider...
i would "feel" much better killing it...
than having fed it to the spider...

Napoleon might have added:
sure... they're literate... but literacy only arrives
as useful when the literate are bilingual...
what use do i have for these people
distract by letters...
what use for the priestly class...
since... their safeguard is... "missing"?

sweet amber... whether beer: gods' juices...
or simply... mead...
from the work around of Hephaestus....
safeguard these names of the gods...
before they disappear...
before the Czech absinthe becomes too
bitter... still drinkable... but hardly enjoyed...

"too many vowels"... the "argument" follows
suite... i'm red... hot... chilly-esque...
chasing zeppelins... chasing diacritic markers...
covert: how you might say:
SPIERDALAJ: DALAI LAMA....
  ARES... his son...
                  Hephaestus....

             while i'm burning!

                         pronoun verb
custard: ich arbeit...
all the nouns the world might allow...

butterfass...
                   i'm itching to pass by:
butterfaß.... consonants ought to have...
better... phonetic encoding symbols...
like TH and PH have to encapsulate F...

who needs buTTer when one Tao might
have... MITE vs. miGHT?!
two consonants coupled...
not another night in Posen...
please... not another night in Posen...

chasing
i don't want to be English so much....
too many troubles...
too many fictions...
i want to be inherently "biased"...
too many frictions...
  too many fictions...
chasing  Zeppelin....
     ditto: base... the Warsaw "boat":
about to... sink.
annh Feb 2019
Wherefore, Fortune bled and mortal wounded,
Will thou not relinquish heart nor hope?
Yet stand a part for truth, and duty bound
Do wield thy sword securely still.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCO
wherefore (adv.) - why
a part (adv.) - as an individual, individually
securely (adv.) - confidently, with skill
TERRY REEVES May 2016
I can make two paces forward, one to the side,
must win the day if you're to be my bride,
you gave me a garter on the edge of my lance,
I salute you whilst you watch my horse prance.

The castle alongside me was my refuge,
prizes of victory and esteem were huge,
my adversary glared at me with nasty hate,
I'd surveyed the scene, arrived in the lists late.

Bois - Gilbert looked familiar, reminded me of Justin G,
my pen is my sword, there was an air of finality,
we galloped towards each other, words in hand,
only room for one of us in my fair lady's land.

I will celebrate my victory with a flowing cup,
when I made contact with his body - he didn't get up.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.one of the great dissatisfactions of life: dreaming... which makes me suspect of the anglo-saxons and their subsequent branches of sub-ethicities... they dream... they have recurring dreams... lucid dreams... i find that slightly suspicious... i rarely dream and if i do dream, the dreams are so bogus or so uninteresting that they make no sense to: "interpret" them via any freud-cubism schematic - that a woman's sun hat implies: the depth of ****** and promiscuity, or some otherwise bogus stretching it mate, really stretching that analogy... but why do the anglo-saxons have such lucid dreams, even recurring dreams? are they descendants of joseph: der traumgehhilfe? last time i had a dream? oh... family invites me to say, three memebers of the family don't like me... **** the rest of the family with a knife, a gun and a baseball bat (somewhere in south east asia)... a few of the killed members run into the street to die... i somehow pick up a kalashnikov and shoot the murderous 3... then i jump into slender boat with a motor with 3 or 4 women... 'jesus'... and i escape the scene of retribution sailing to... cambodia! **** me... even sylvester stallone or jason statham or arnie wouldn't star in a movie as b-movie as this... but anglo-saxons seem to have the most vivid dreams... two good examples: h. p. lovecraft and william burroughs... is dreaming a form of escapism? if so, then evidently i'm quiet content with reality... like today: too much pop psychology, too much self-help guru mishmash, too much advice: not enough stories... video streaming a game being played... etc., so i retreat, even from modern music, into? here's a beginner's guide list to medieval music:

       1. qui habitat in adiutorio altissimi
       2. da pacem domine
       3. agni parthene
       4. dum pater familias
       5. chevalier, mult estes guariz
       6. virga iesse floruit
       7. walther von der vogelweide's
                 palästinalied
       8. codex buranus no. 179:
                     tempus est locundum
       9. non é gran causa
      10. herr holger
      11. herr mannelig
      12. die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft
      13. meie din liechter schin
      14. under der linden
      15. mayenzeit one neidt
      16. mönch von salzburg (das nachthorn)

   why would i have stopped at merely
Orff's reading of Carmina Burana -
                 sure... that's the entry point...
   but the radio only plays o fortuna till
the cows come home in a full-moon lit night...
yawn...
    if only: fortune plango vulnera,
      veris leta facies, omnia sol temperat,
     floret silva, or... or!
   a monk's love song for the queen of england -
were diu werlt alle min:
              were diu werlt alle min
              von dem mere unze an den Rin,
              des wolt ih mih darben
              daz diu chunegin von Engellant
               lege an minen armen.

but no... it's o fortuna or nothing from that album
on the radio...
    i get it, great song...
   but why is auld lang syne only sung once
a year, on new year's eve?!
              
as with women, so with music, one simply tires of
contemporary examples: not exactly the music
but the lyrics behind the music...
                        music will never change to appease
the brute and the beast... but modern lyricism
is just agitating... it exhaust with its choice
of subject matters...
                                and by the looks of it...
    i spend too much time with music to find myself
in needing the comfort of a woman's voice,
a cuddle or relationship or whatever you want
to call it from now on...
           i am wedded to three women that will
never materialize: Euterpe, Sophia and Amber...
and all the better...
                                i could never wallow in what's
currently being wallowed in...
by some who have these recurrent dreams
and are unable to stop them from recurring...
hence my suspicion with the anglo-saxon traits
of vivid dreaming: this cruch of relying on dreams...
of so easily being ***** by celesto-cerebral powers
that impregnate their sleeping heads with
these realities that only exist in the mind and
a sleeping mind at that!


(nb. not proof read, apologies in advance for any mistakes, upon rereading will correct if any appear - or i'll just keep them...)

look at these two slogans: let's make America great (again)!
complimenting the English variation
let's get our country back! ring any bells? i guess you must
have heard one or the other as an English speaker -
it's hardly surprising - the English Prime Minister singing
a little toodeloo then uttering the word right upon
reentering number 10 - shambles ahoy! every rat and
mutineer bailed - we're in free-fall, Trotsky had it coming,
this guy hasn't - hardliner but a bubble-gum tongue -
it stretches like a joke my English teacher said:
how was copper wire invented? hmm? two Scots
tugging and pulling in opposite directions a two pence coin -
for all their worth, they joked the blond quiff of
both Boris and President Donald Yeltsin - where one
gets drunk on egoism, the other just gets drunk -
even though they don't like him in Scotland, they sure as
hell bought the slogan like a Big Mac - the problem is
there's a zenith, and then a necessary decline -
you can reach the zenith of breaking the 100m sprint,
but then a stock-market dip (necessary) -
much of Britain's exit from the European Union was due
to the campaign trail of the Doodle T - the best politician
i assume is the one that enjoys the most prodding jokes,
which also means the majority of votes,
jokes and votes walk hand-in-hand - people don't want
leaders, they want caricatures - after all, the little existences
have to matter with a joke in the Oval office.
i can't imagine the unholy alliance of feminists running
the place in the west - Theresa May in England,
Hilary Clinton in America, Angela Merkel in Germany,
Ms. Le Pen in France, the Polish prime minister
Beata Szydło - it has to look like a 2nd Cold War scenario,
a break from World Wars... Putin and pukka Tyson Trump
on the other side, macho v. macho - man talk and
the ultimate bromance. i know that Nietzsche referenced
genius too much, assuredly i hear that a lot too around
here with child geniuses storming around for silverware -
children geniuses and not original? so technically you're
talking about data storage in porridge - trained monkeys,
right? those children will be scarred for life as if they
saw their parents ******* - what sort of genius is a genius
if he doesn't work from blank but is there are a memory
gimmick to boost hopes of curing dementia?
philosophy doesn't do geniuses, it does things like Spinoza,
solitary wanderers, loners - outsiders and mesmerisers,
there's no genius in philosophy - there's only solitude -
granted that an open-minded psychiatrist is a modern subplot
in not reading philosophy - where is the ultimate source
of compassionate solely theory based (anti) psychiatry?
in reading philosophy books rather than exercising authority /
abusing it - R. D. Laing is a perfect example -
who wrote after reading philosophy books - i mean read them,
in the English speaking world i recommend reading
the works of the anti-psychiatric movement of the 1960s,
which was much bigger than the Beat Movement - obviously
not as dazzling, but with poetry you're imitating Philippe Petit
(film, the walk) - i watched it and my legs experienced
needles, and a firm assertion of gravity and the location
of the floor - films like that are worse than horror -
you share the heart of the original, but given it's Plato's cave
we're talking about representing the events, you realise
that no matter how much you want your shadow to be
Philippe Petit, you hear from the outside world, your legs
are firmly on the ground - basically: **** that - men are not
born equal, they have to live by principle to be at least moderating
their excellence into a respectable cohesion (democracy) -
quiet simply juggling their strengths with their weaknesses -
man is not born equal, he was to strive for equal measure -
when subduing their strengths and when exfoliating them -
no man is born equal, as no man is an island - the two synchronise.
(i'm deliberately masking what's coming)...
but there is genius in philosophy - but only in one area of
interest - religion... we know that popular beliefs are
grounded in plagiarism - the Trojans became the Romans
via the accounts of Virgil, and we know the Trojans in
becoming Romans plagiarised the Greek polytheism -
Zeus became Jupiter, Poseidon became Neptune,
Cronos became Saturn, Hera became Juno, Aphrodite
became Venus... etc., it was done to mimic the Greek heart
from the defeat at Troy, to invoke a heart that overcame -
every pauper and every king would identify with
this pluralism - but a second plagiarism had to come -
it was prophetically echoed from approximately 2000 years -
the Greeks later plagiarised the Hebrew concept -
the monotheistic concept, yet because their thinking
was so advanced (or so they thought) they dismissed the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and
the Zealots... their hero was their antagonist - and nothing
of their learning was actually work their concerns since
they boasted of their Aristotle and their Plato and their
Socrates - the peddle-stool effect appeared -
but what if a Latin man (well, these letters are Roman) were
to say - never mind the son, how about the father?
in Christianity the father is rather anonymous in his
omnipresence etc. - but let's assume on the biological tenet
that we are referring to the old testament god -
would we want to plagiarise the Greek plagiarism of
Hebrew? i already mentioned the four prime canons as
imitations of the tetragrammaton - of course they're
intended to not be identical accounts, but there must be
two that are mirror images - i.e. referring to h      &      h
of the tetragrammaton - if there are no two mirror images
then we are bothered - i can see why the Greek mind thought
that Y refers to a convergence, a mother, a father, a child
and the entry point to the gospel: a genealogy -
Y being representative of a convergence - past and present,
following through - this is all about first impressions,
from what i can remember and regurgitate back -
in Catholic school we were taught by majority the gospel
of St. Mark - the others were discredited -
i can't tell you if there are two identical gospels (or at least
with very little variation between them) - what comes after
them is what comes after all essences of religion,
bureaucracy - imams and priests, yoga teachers and
whatever it is that comes with religion for the common man,
but in the new testament this is the essence, a shady
reinterpretation of the tetragrammaton - but a Latin man
who didn't bother to attribute symbols with nouns,
but made his alphabet musically orientated for the
castrato and the choirs to come - a (alpha) b (beta)...
o (omicron / omega) it became obvious that the four letters
arranged as so with missing Adam and missing Eve
would provide more than just four interpretations of
the same event / person - for when a Greek has to cut off
-lpha from a to attach it to another letter to create meta,
the Latin man has only to cut off less, perhaps dentistry's
ah, or otherwise cut off -ee from b... the world is full
of such possibilities, and this is the only area where
genius can be applied to philosophy - the genius of
philosophy is within religion, and nowhere else -
of course mind that i don't identify myself as one -
i treat genius as an angel or a demon, that fairy-tale
race of creatures that whisper into your ear - markedly
geniuses are more powerful in demanding an individual
rather than clones of the individual, e.g. Mohammad
and Muslims, Jesus and Christians... which is why i suppose
the genius of Moses also allowed others to write on sacred
paper, but of course excluding Malachi for falling into
heresy with a polytheistic concept of reincarnation, not
oddly enough Malachi's was the last book before the two
major strands of his heresy emerged like Behemoths.
lorilynn Jun 2011
beautiful fair maiden
tending her mistress
revering in her muses .

long auburn tresses
come undone,
once a braid
embellished with ribbons
deep lavender color
as maiden’s eyes.

entering parlor
the comely chevalier
stunned by his presence.
voltage lightening sparkles
for time stopped.

remaining composed
casting downward
to make her leave,
empress needs tending affairs.

smitten she was
aghast a fool
she might've looked
her skin flushed
with reverence to behold.

unbeknownst to the privy
betrothal is in making
for he paid a pretty pence.

enchanted ever after
cinderella no more.~~copyrightlorilynn2011
Muse méduse, vierge et tremblante séductrice
Tu m'as demandé de te conter fleurette
Avec des mots fleuris
Avec des mots obscènes
Une fois qu'on serait intimes
Des mots cochons
Des mots sales, crus, cuits et recuits
Des mots tabous, interdits
Indécents et lubriques
Et je t'ai demandé de me fournir un échantillon
Et tu m'as dit que tu n'en possédais aucun.

J'ai cherché en vain un mot qui pourrait te plaire à entendre,
Ma chérie miel
Et aussi bien me plaire à te murmurer à l'oreille
En plein badinage et tripotage
Quelque chose qui véhicule l'idée de muse
Et dans allumeuse il y a muse
Mais allumeuse n 'est pas cochon
J 'ai pensé à fille de joie, fille de vie, traînée, souillon,
Ma cochonne, ma gueuse
Obscènes d'un tout autre âge
Et c'est alors que j'ai entrevu un instant
De te chuchoter catin à l'oreille.
Catin ça fait penser à câlin c'est un avantage
Mais ça fait aussi penser à salope et ça je n 'ai pas trouvé très élégant,
Même quitte à ajouter merveilleuse juste devant,
Ni putain ni **** d'ailleurs, même avec magnifique ou tendre,
Je suis donc revenu en catimini à catin.
Catin de katharina la parfaite, de katharos, pur en grec
Catin de Catherine le diminutif
Ma petite muse catin à moi, ma poupée dévote orthodoxe
Et perverse juste à point comme j'aime
Catin precieuse comme Manon Lescaut, soprano
Et j 'ai laissé le mot tabou macérer dans ma bouche vile quatre jours et quart.
Un jour peut-être j'aurai l 'envie et le courage de te le dire en plein déluge.
Peut-être dans une autre langue.
En anglais par exemple strumpet, trollop, bawd
En portugais meretriz
En roumain cocota
En allemand wanderhure
Tu m'appelleras alors fripon, chevalier des Grieux, ténor,
Tu me demanderas alors de te chanter des chansons cochonnes
Sur des airs de Massenet ou de Puccini
Des chansons à boire, polissonnes
Que je te chanterai à tue-tête pendant l'acte.
Tu voudras me cravacher avec une plume de paon
Pendant que tu me monteras
Ou joueras à l'infirmière
On fera l'amour sur les bancs publics
Discrètement et sûrement
Et tu ne porteras pas ta petite culotte bleue
Imprimée de rares papillons morpho
On échangera nos fantasmes
Comme quand petits on échangeait nos images ou nos billes
Tout ce que nous n'avons jamais fait
Tout ce que nous rêvons de faire ensemble
On parlera de se baîllonner, de s'entraver, de s'attacher
de se mettre un bandeau sur les yeux
On improvisera
Tu seras Poppy la cosmonaute
Et moi E.T. le martien.
Tu seras Apollo VIII
Et moi Cap Canaveral
Obscènes et heureux
Complices
Nus et sincères et amoureux
Dans un voyage intersidéral d'aller-retours
Entre la Terre et la Lune
Saturne et ses lunes
En apesanteur
Pour deux éternités.
Stacey L Jan 2011
In  the night,
the truth comes out.
In the light,
He hides with doubt.
It's a secret identity
Of a mediocre turned hero.
Cloaked to be taken seriously
Otherwise he'd snicker away
Do You believe, they'd believe you, of being the unbelievable?
A man to feel safe with..
Yet never really safe himself.
Armed with the extremely advanced
Without all he'd be just more than typical,
But then left would be no one-
To properly replace
The masked  hero.
And  so,  the darkness surrounds the nights
of city crime.
st64 Jul 2013
The other day, a house nearly fell on my elbow
Berating the sky for being so impolite
It gifted me this chevalier ...

Wh-what a rad surprise!



S T, 11 july

, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
gift = gifting = giving ....as they say, never look a .......

:)


sub-entry: 'Ballad Of The Soldier’s Wife' - Caroline Henderson

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the ancient city of prague
From prague came a pair of high heels shoes
With a kiss or 2, came the high heels shoes
From the ancient city of prague

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Oslo over the south
From Oslo came a collar of fur
How pleased her, the little collar of fur
From Oslo over the south

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the wealth of Amsterdam
From Asterdam he got a hat
She look sweet and that and knew that hat
From the wealth of Amsterdam

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Bruxelles and Belgium land
From Bruxelles he sent her laces so rare
So have and to wear,
Oh those laces so rare
From Bruxelles and Belgium land

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Paris, the city of lights
In Paris he got her a silken gown
It ended in town, that silken gown
From Paris, the city of lights

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the south, from Bucharest
From Bucharest, he sent her a shirt
Embroided in purf, that remain in shirt
From the south of Bucharest

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From far of Russian land,
From Russia, there came just a widow’s band
From death to be wed and her widow’s bells
From far of Russian land
From far of Russian land.



• www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECzqOoQKO64
Nite Jan 2015
We creep through the forest carefully so as not to make a sound
The beast lifts it's enormous scaled head, looks left and right and goes back to its slumber
To his death are our fates bound
Confident that we'll slay him with a superior number

The thief flanks the beast to the right
The chevalier to the left
Together with 2 masters of elements we will eradicate this blight
With our weapons poised and ready to strike this beast we will best

The fight is long and gruelling with advantages going both ways
With horror I see my companions succumb to their fate
My friends sacrifices shall not go to waste
Only the beast's death will my wrath be slaked

Finally I see the beast flagging as I cast spell after spell
When suddenly I realized that my body has lost its power of motion
With a great big roar, a fatal blow I was dealt
Flaws in my abilities has the beast proven

I look at my hands and watch in horror as the lack of light signifies death
"Aargh" I screamed and the wife runs in looking at me with concern
"My controller's battery has died" I cry in distress
"And I forgot to save my game for the past 2 hours! There goes my progress totally burnt! "
Thank goodness for autosaves!!!
Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre,
Qu'allez-vous faire
Si **** d'ici ?
Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde,
Et que le monde
N'est que souci ?

Vous qui croyez qu'une amour délaissée
De la pensée
S'enfuit ainsi,
Hélas ! hélas ! chercheurs de renommée,
Votre fumée
S'envole aussi.

Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre,
Qu'allez-vous faire
Si **** de nous ?
J'en vais pleurer, moi qui me laissais dire
Que mon sourire
Etait si doux.
Kurt Philip Behm Aug 2018
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,”
   he screamed to the crowd

“On stage as a vagabond
   my home you enshroud

“My makeup—my armor,
   my performance—my cause

“Reborn with each act,
   as I hear your applause

“You take me each matinee,
   you take me each night

“To the depths of your hearts
   where my darkness alights

“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,”
   he shouted again

“Forever my audience
   —forever my friends”

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
ula Apr 2013
White delicate petals of snow
Dancing in the air
Falling with grace
And swirling
Not worrying about themselves
What will become tomorrow
           What will be, when they fall on the ground
Don’t know, my dear
Tomorrow ?
Don’t know, what will be today
What does it mean:  tomorrow?
Please don’t ask me what I‘ll do!
I am dancing in the air
With joy and smile on my face
My little brother wind
is asking me
to dance
Oh!
What a charmant elegant
He’s so joyful and spontaneous ,
forgetful and sincere at once …
My little brother wind whirling with me up and down and around
Oh!
don’t ask me about tomorrow
I don’t know, realy, what it means
Oh!
tomorrow may never come, you know?
or maybe it never was , my dear...
Oh!
what a elegant dancer,
what a charmant chevalier!
My little  brother wind is not asking
if we will live,
tomorrow.
Sequestered May 2016
And then, once upon a sultry twilight,
Amidst the ruins of bygones chivalry,
Whence maidens most fair lived in sheer delight;
Free from lustful relics of rivalry...

Until a day came, and a knight was born,
The toast of town once tranquil, now thrilling;
Thence, jealousy stirred up spite as wild thorns,
To ***** wanton urge to crave fulfilling...

Itches unrequited by chevalier
Under whose spell the whole realm pined away
In splendor bedazzling like chandelier
Lovelorn stings strewn damsels in disarray

These conte chronicled that sultry twilight
'Fore splendiferous valour bared as blight

~~~~~~

Then later, will come that sultry twilight,
Whence moist lips stained with warmth, those beaks will kiss,
To reverse the spell cast to eclipse light,
Through insidious vipers with hearts unease.

Him, they cooked strange from coven of contempt,
As monstrous man halved into an aves;
Whom none will forever attempt to tempt,
His elixir lost beyond avarice...

Altar possessed by essence most cryptic,
Breathed upon him, sinisterly omen,
Fanned into frenzy most epileptic,
'Pon this bound besieged to efface women.

'Fore that once upon a sultry twilight,
Darkness gnawed all fresh and bones into flight.

~~~
~~~

And now, once upon this sultry twilight,
That monster they created spoiled the living,
Into desolate and deserted site,
With venoms from fang of unforgiven...

Save for that last damsel left to be stung;
The fairest of them all found from time past;
Apotropaic maid, serene and strong,
Condemned to kiss away that spell once cast.

He aimed to slay, instead her lips he touched...
As curse recoiled, estranged from evil hold,
Till every grouch from within him was hushed
To find the future, lost in past foretold.

And now, once upon that sultry twilight,
He kissed those lips fated to make wrong right...
Dark
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah...
the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.
Tu te dis enrobée, ma tigresse
J 'ai beau purger les yeux
Pour tenter de voir à travers ton sari de soie blanc céladon
Je ne décèle dans tes dessous
Que ton parfum de tigresse furtive et changeante
Chevauchant ton dragon de jade
Dans une jungle inhabitée.
Sauvage
Volontaire
Désinhibée
C'est ainsi qu'on te décrit à chaque illumination
C 'est ainsi qu'évidemment tu te sens
Avec Tigresse
Parfum Extraordinaire ... by Fabergé

Autour de ta taille j 'ai cru voir
Une chaîne d'argent massif où pend une fiole de jade
En forme de dent de tigre .
A l 'intérieur que sais je ?
J 'imagine de l 'eau bénite
Une capsule de cyanide ?
Ou des résidus de jus de jade
Au cas où
En cas de besoin
Sur la route ?

Sur ton *****
J'ai entr'aperçu
Un tatouage :
Un porc-épic qui feule
Hérissant et jetant ses épines
Avec comme devise
Qui s'y frotte  s'y pique !

Je meurs d'envie
Que tu m'intronises dans ton ordre secret
Je meurs d'envie
D'être adoubé chevalier de  l'ordre du porc-épic
Je meurs d'envie
Que, nue, tu te présentes,
Ma tigresse quatre en une , 
Dans l'un ou l 'autre
De tes plus simples appareils :
Tigresse en nourrice,
Tigresse errante,
Tigresse dans sa tanière,
Tigresse en laisse
L'honneur permet la galanterie quand elle est unie à
L'idée de sentiments du cœur, ou à l'idée de conquête.
Montesquieu.


Mon idéal n'est pas : mon ange,
À qui l'on dit : mon ange, mange ;
Tu ne bois pas, mon ange aimé ?
Un pauvre ange faux et sans ailes
Que les plus sottes ritournelles
Ont étrangement abimé.

Mon idéal n'est pas : ma chère,
De l'amant qui fait maigre chère,
Et dit chère, du bout des dents,
Moins chère que ma chère tante,
Ou que la chaire protestante
Où gèlent les sermons prudents.

Mon idéal n'est pas : ma bonne !
Ce n'est pas la bonne personne,
Celle dont on dit, et comment !
« Elle est si bonne ! elle est si douce ! »
Et qui jamais ne vous repousse,
Madone du consentement !

Non ! mon idéal, c'est la femme
Féminine de corps et d'âme,
Et femme, femme, femme, bien,
Bien femme, femme dans les moelles,
Femme jusqu'au bout de ses voiles,
Jusqu'au bout des doigts n'étant rien.

Une petite femme haute,
Capable de punir la faute,
Et de mépriser le Pervers,
Qui ne peut souffrir que l'aimable
Dans son salon, ou dans la fable,
Aussi bien en prose qu'en vers.

Une petite femme sûre
De trouver l'âme à sa mesure
Après... un petit brin de cour,
Et le chevalier à sa taille
Avant... l'heure de la bataille,
Oui, car... c'est la guerre, l'Amour,

Je vous dis l'Amour, c'est la guerre.
En guerre donc ! tu m'as naguère
Sacré ton chevalier féal !
Je vais sortir de ma demeure !
Je vaincrai, Madame, où je meure !
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

Comme un dur baron qui se fâche
Contre le pillard ou le lâche,
Quittait le fort seigneurial,
Je saisis ma lance et mon casque
Avec le panache et... sans masque,
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

Armé de ma valeur intime,
Oui, coiffé de ma propre estime,
Je m'élance sur mon cheval :
Le temps est beau, la terre est ronde,
Je ris au nez de tout le monde !
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

La lance autant que l'âme altière,
Nous jetons à la terre entière
Le gant, certes ! le plus loyal.
Mon bon cheval ne tarde guère,
Allons ! Et vole au cri de guerre !
Tous ! Valentine est l'Idéal !
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen


the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!
Paul d'Aubin Mar 2014
Élégie au Mont « La Sposata»

Comme un cheval fougueux
Tu chevauches les pierres
De ta montagne de granit.
Tu domines le «Liamone».
Et portes jusqu’à l’horizon
Cette grandeur altière
Qui est ton sceau de chevalier.
La mariée ingrate
Ayant laissé sa mère, sans un regard
Fut transformée ici
En monture de pierre.
Mais par sa révolte, toujours indomptée
Elle continue d’harnacher, la nuit,
des chimères de feu et son rêve de fuite.
Oh, montagnes sacrées
Témoins de tant d’effrois
Et de tant d’invasions,
D’où les conques soufflaient
Leurs cris stridents de guerre
Pour porter **** l’alarme
Quand l’aigle voyait les chèvres dévaler
Oh, montagnes sacrées
Qui virent tant d’étés
Enflammer l’horizon
Et calciner les pins
Ou l’eau glacée des sources
N’apaise pas les soifs de pureté
Et ou les merles et les geais
Tiennent commun concert

Paul Arrighi , écrit en Corse au mois d'août
Josh Anderson Aug 2015
you and me
together
thick as thieves
stay with me
through the con
and the gag
my cohort
my ally
my comrade
just until
the punchline
I’ll follow you
in your footsteps
I can’t do it
not without you
you are the light
I’ll devote to
your disciple
your partisan
your apostle
in your lessons
never ending
you’ll be there for me
always by my side
‘cause you stand for me
blood on your iron
my raison d’être
is to rout with you
my chevalier
my front lionheart
my courageous knight
your sword raised for me
matched by my own shield
the nature of our bond
there’s nothing I can say
that will carry meaning
enough to express it
transcendent of title
I proudly exclaim as
your very pride and joy
your one and only heir
your affectionate son
I appreciate you
and the wealth of your life
This was written to my father, whom I dearly love.
Jamais Hector aux guerres n'était lâche
Lorsqu'il allait combattre les Grégeois :
Toujours sa femme attachait son harnois,
Et sur l'armet (1) lui plantait son panache.

Il ne craignait la Péléenne (2) hache
Du grand Achille, ayant deux ou trois fois
Baisé sa femme, et tenant en ses doigts
Une faveur de sa belle Andromache.

Heureux cent fois, toi chevalier errant,
Que ma déesse allait hier parant,
Et qu'en armant baisait, comme je pense.

De sa vertu procède ton honneur :
Que plût à Dieu, pour avoir ce bonheur
Avoir changé mes plumes à ta lance.


1. L'armet est un casque.
2. La hache d'Achille, fils de Pélée.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
buying a Trek Marlin 5 for around £500...
really has given me a new lease
on life...

prior to i was walking 6 to 7 hour marathons:
i walked to Epping...
i walked to Coldharbour to inspect the Thames...
i walked to St. Paul's...
then... on one of these walks...
i eased out a yawn: it was time to speed up...

i thought: perhaps a dog would help...
a girlfriend...
of the 3 Ps... priests, psychiatrists...
prostitutes: an hour with one, properly:
can fill years worth of... an absence of...
urges...

the body can do all the talking:
it's best when the body does all the talking...
i never bought into confessions:
alas... this is probably a confession...
or that psychiatric *******: C.B.T. or whatever
they call it: talk-therapy...

drinking less ms. amber having switched
to wine: well... the digestion is more fluid...
i've emptied myself three times today
to the point where my guts ache from...
having ******* out: what i can only assume
to be... 1 kilogram of ****... or a forearm's length
of it...

emptied to the point where it sort of aches...
thank god for the transparency with
prostitutes... last time i checked i was there
to pay for something beside conversation:
or lies...
               always the two extremes:
an honest ******* and a...
                  boasting thief: thieves always boast...
they're not timid murderers...
all that Robin Hood fancy gets them going...
i talked to this one in particular
on the day i buried my grandfather...
we talked about Paris...
poor fellow: he asked me if he could stand
on a step above me so he could
look me in the eye: well: i obliged...
i wasn't going to tower over him...

   all in all: a nice conversation...
the stories he had from prison...
what the Russians get up to in the 4 x 4
while punching walls... i injecting...
plastic? seems odd: into their knuckle region
to punch better...
i once took up some sort of martial art...
all i can remember is being trained to squat...
in a position akin to horse-riding...
the Sensei wasn't there one session
(Golders Green)
and his students took over...
we were instructed to march forward and
strike while making a lot of sound...
the student of the Sensei isolated me:
i said: i will not ooh! ah! i will not marry my
breath to an attack...

kick in the *****... me lying in a foetal position...
that's me and learning martial arts...
if i was going to learn martial arts by getting
kicked in the *******...
i was going to learn something: else...
accommodating people from all walks of life
with a conversation...
oddly enough: of the encounters i had in
the night when all the shady suspects should
be about...
one problem... this little ****** took advantage
of me willing to have a drink with him...
took me via an alley and grabbed
a phone from my hand...

oddly enough: i didn't fight him...
i shouted at him...
the seven heavens reigned down with fire
when i implored him to:
'LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
LOOK!'
  i shouted down the confrontation...
when scuttled off lamenting about...
down on my knees in the middle of Brick Lane
lamenting on / with the word: All-Ah...
Al-Lah...
                say what you may... certain gods have
names for certain moments...
his is a name when you just
grieve having to show yourself what anger can
be hiding in you...

but rather than fight: tenderness of the hands...
moving my hand against a brick wall
to later invest in a body...
all that mandible leather plush...
i still go crazy: not too often but when i go crazy
i... pretend to not be thinking about
foods that are eaten raw...
notably the Baltic sushi of herrings...
a steak Tartar... chunky...
with all the additions... raw onions...
kippers... gherkins... Worchester sauce...
pepper, salt... a raw egg yoke...
a dash of garlic...
    and a fat slice of sourdough...

but a bicycle is a new lease on life...
esp. at night: when the air is thinner...
and you can hear a church-bell ring from
almost a mile afar...
or... the sound of trains as if a stampede of horse
from: i'd imagine over 2 miles...

i could never own a car...
i once fancied myself owning a motorbike...
i'll stick to the object that allows me
to generate my own momentum...
what bonus?!
hell... no road-tax... no insurance...
i haven't even bothered with a safety-helmet
and most certainly not any lycra...

a bicycle allows you all the momentum
that a bus stuck in traffic might allow:
and more than a car... esp. since i've taken
a liking to cycling into central London...
several times now...
once upon a time it was this spectacular
gesture awe to take the bus and later
the tube and emerge at certain locations
in the city: Piccadilly Circus / Westminster
of note...

but starting off from the outskirts... teasing
the M25... and cycling into the city...
via little Bangladesh of Ilford... Manor Park...
Forrest Gate... little Jamaica of Stratford...
through to the Mecca of Bow...
and whatever the hell it is come Mile End...
reaching the pearly gates of Bank
and further past St. Paul's into Holborn...
past Hyde Park onto Notting Hill Gate...
eh... it's not that... spectacular...
i would probably have to attire myself
in window-shopping clothes...
in pedestrian attire...
    perfume myself and work a chisel of
wax on my hair... probably carry a book
to keep me company during transit...
but on a bicycle:
it's not at all... spectacular...
buildings with no entry labels...
buildings like labyrinth walls...
                 that's about it...
oh... and the people...
                         i like to throng-spot from
time to time...

bicycle: no M.O.T.: no insurance...
no road tax...
the thrill of using a bullet of momentum while riding
behind an object that might **** you...
that's fun...

prostitutes? oddly enough: Isabella...
a third year exchange student from Grenoble...
the story behind my lost virginity...
but the current hook-up culture...
however freely them come and go...
you might be paying for dinner...
covert payments... you'll be arguing for something
else...
talk and more talk...
odd... well... not really:
i was never really truly on a date...
well... this one time a girl picked me up
from a nightclub...
we went to the park...
i drank a bottle of wine...
we talked about grey-matter of our
everyday...
we went into a pub...
i drank a pint of holy grail Guinness...
she escaped with a follow-up of some
previous engagement...
god... i was glad...

the transparency with prostitutes is:
paramount...
i don't like the current culture of ***...
only-fans... and once in a while you find this...
angry... mean... toxic female...
posting *******'s worth of arousal
stating outright: pay up simps...
she isn't even roleplaying a ******* suite either...
she's just plain Jane with a strap-on
of her forehead...

whatever this famous ****** revolution
was to bring to the table from the 1960s...
should it bother me that some percentage of men
are having all the...
   "fun"... personally i wouldn't want
the baggage, the lies...
the covert methods of "bagging" one...
payment upfront for the body to speak:
for the hands to wander...
sure: i once paid for *******:
i paid for a *****-magazine and the seller
saw my face...
the good old days where you had to ****
up on any worth of... ha ha... "pride"...

since i last encountered Khada(ia)
she was bothered by an excess of hairs on my shaft:
i too noticed it... i'm not exactly going
to shave my *****... i'll trim my *****...
sure... i've taken up a liking for...
***** hairs... an oasis of familiarity...
in the form of Ava Dalush...
hell: a completely shaven crop down below:
is a bit like looking at a skinhead...
just enough wheat-shafts to: furrow...
a bit like *******: it should be there...
i can pull it back during penetrative ***...
but... it's also there so i can *******...
oddly enough...
***** hair is designated on a woman:
since... imagine all the bearded ladies...
should the ****** hairs undermine the surprise
of what's down south...

hell: this *** culture *****...
i went among the prostitutes because:
i, simply... don't... want... to... play...
this... bogus... game! of herr Lancelot!
all men are liars are women are ******
and all dogs are ******* peddle-stools!
cats are insomniacs: if you gather my humour...
this current *** culture *****:
triple ***... triple the trembling donkey's
*******: life is not supposed to be fun:
at best: there's some pleasure in thinking...
once all the moral conundrum of ought-i:
ought-i-not have been laid to rest...

how glad to come across:
paid up-front... clearly a debit experience...
harsh to make a summary of:
someone else calling it a "livestock" affair...
i tend to think of leather...
i tend to forget my tongue...
the hands that belong to hands...
the lips that belong to lips...
the thighs that belong to thighs...
the eyes that belong to eyes...
i tend to explore the fingers and the jaw...
all that's mandible...
not wholly exhausted upon the requirements
of taking a ****...

not enough chances to love women:
then again: plenty...
but i will not grow old and boring
and stiff and stuffy and watch television with her...
waiting for the ******* inevitable!
Lothar! aye... call on Conrad! & Otto while
you're at it... we're planning an escape!
i've seen what old age does to men...
women might enjoy it...
hell: they live beyond the age of men...
i'm not going to bother...
i will not hear wisdom from the old croakers
either... smothered by dementia and what not...
when my time is on the table:
i'll do what i'm reserved to do...
old age suffocates...
not that people shouldn't aspire to having
reach it:
but it's hardly possible for most to still be
an inquisitive Socrates come his age...
childish comforts...
marry me unto death and let us part
in good spirits...

this current culture of *** *****...
i don't want to be part of it:
i'll debit my affairs / pay upfront...
for what i'm willing to pay for:
kosher ***... nothing boredom related:
no need for gimp latex suits...
threesomes... ******...
stilettos / strap-on ******...
just give me the kosher salt
and i'll rummage into otherwise hidden
subject matters for the better half of a decade...

how could i think of prostitutes as lesser creatures?
what am... that ******* Jack the Ripper
moralist?
i'm not Jack the Ripper the moralist...
i pay for the eyes to see
i pay for the hands to touch...
i'm not paying for *******:
i'm paying for a 1st person "seance":
yes... we'll be making contact with the dead
who are living... those untouched ******* harangues...
misnomer:  harangues...
i over-stepped the marker...

dilute the blood among the ol' raven hair women
of Turkic persuasion...
god help her: and her fairground of joys...
i don't want to be part of it...
i don't want to be there to pick up the crumbs,
either...
***** didn't give: now there's nothing to lap up...
beside... oh wait...
i don't own a car: i own a bicycle...
i don't want to be tempted into making as much
money as might be required to:
sustain her spending habits... and... whims...
that must make me... an almost: free man...

i guess i'll have to concentrate on...
limiting as much suffering as possible...
i'll have no chance concerning toothaches:
they'll always come and go...
but i suspect that... any...
attack on the soft organs is... rather: painless...
you never hear the truth of people with
terminal illnesses...
concerning the soft organs...
that have a limited nerve presence...
oh... but anything afflicting the bones:
i'll believe that to be ****** painful...

- ah... the interlude: a **** break and some
ice in the glass...
the joy of getting drunk slow: "drunk":
gearing up to a proper momentum of scribbles...
getting drunk slow: wine... beer...
it usually takes me 2 bottles of the former
to have some sort of: IN-SPI-RA-TION...
(impossible to rewrite our syllables
into katana... however much i like:
i draw blanks... still looks pretty...
i will have nothing to do with Ezra Pound's
fetish for Chinese ideograms...
they end up being primitive sounds
of vowel, consonant, vowel-consonant...
consonant-consonant-vowel structures anyway)...
of course there is... a slow way of getting drunk...
wine beer... and a fast way of getting drunk:
ms. amber... although i've become rather
immune to her flirting...
stone cold sober with her during the night:
stinking of dog **** the next morning...

refresh my mind...
Khada(ia) made a complaint last time she was
performing ******* on me...
hairs where there should be hairs:
on the shaft... i'm not going to shave my *******:
but i also don't expect her to **** them...
well... no other cure...
i'll need to get a *******...
i got a ******* and started to pluck out
the excess hair...
i was waiting for mr. limp to come along...
he came... and went...
and i was back to plucking out the excess hairs...

in the current climate?
the current culture... it's hardly reading marquis de sade
on the tube... although the one time i did
i had 4 teenage girls giggling
because the cover had a oil on canvas depiction
of a ****...
they giggled... while the words contained...
well... what is it that marquis de sade didn't write about?
to hell with marriage and with thirsting for
what the French cosmopolitans are accustomed
to with affairs...

this one chimpanzee laboured to prove
the existence of dragons...
dragons prior to the unearthing of dinosaur bones...
massive fire breathing lizards:
the great meteor cull...
this one chimpanzee with aspirations to find
something noble: like widowhood...
to escape the monkey harem / ****...
to find the widowhood and nobility among swans...
now... that's a thought...

upsetting confiscations of libido while
a certain number of would-be van Goghs do
one more.. d.n.a. genocide simulation into
a tissue... why wouldn't we somehow
abandon pop; and take a steer
at... say... something akin to:

         chevalier, mult estes guariz...
for tbe river of blood that is not supposed
to run through Yerushalem...
diviner of the old gods: Balaam!
  one word stands out though:
*****... in western Slavic...
"oddly" enough i can write it in katakana:

SU-KA...              スカ...
oh... look... no hyphen for the worth
of a compounded wording...
i can't find escape in Chinese hieroglyphs...
Japanese syllables can only stretch to far..
Korean? perhaps... i'll hardly inquire into
the Semitic scripts of either
Hebrews or Ar-Rabs...

this current *** culture is... bothersome:
i like to pay for reality: otherwise i go into
the forest and bend a deaf ear:
how eagerly i still watch how women
are pleasured...
it bothers me in the slightest:
during ***: 1st person...
you're never allowed the whole
3rd person pornographic availability of
experience... so you're missing the ***
resembling a Lamborghini... no?

but better with a ***** than these...
angry: newly invested in freedom
sort of broodings over...
these "livestock": oh sure...
the sort of freedom these "free" girls will allow...
no... i'm not buying into a farce...

because simply can't tell a journalist to
*******: secular priest: hand on... linger...
while the advertisers say all the things i want
to hear: since i don't have the money to spend:
i.e. a woman...
sad little affair this society has become....

SUKA! スカ!
dearest: Kinga...i seem to have picked up a case
of an... itchy nose...
i rub it again: and again:
between AGNI PARTHENE...
and what the Templars have on "choice"...

Salve Regina:
   consecrated upon the altar of womanhood...
this stiffening via the niqab:
versus al the freedoms that the setting sun
might also: allow...
bellowing rams...
                oh how i might love....
always the potential of me having "access"
to the disclosure...

         it's impossible to love a woman like
a saint... somehow possible to love one as...
but to love one as an ANGEL...
her own words...
                i couldn't get a *******:
she was living with 4 homosexuals..
we drink so that we might forget...
we forget in order that we might
attest to the puddle pretending it to be the sea..

waves.. waves... countless hybrids
of ice comes with cherry pulp....
i don't like the current *** culture...
i debit my encounters...
i pay upfront...
a day of the darkening of skies...

hier: ich bin!                    jetzt!
              jetzt! oder! nimmer!

   **** it... english party girls have it
covered... for the time being.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                A Flaneur in Old Khakis

A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt
In his old khakis and a chambray shirt
Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield
A boulevardier of row crops in the field

He tips his old straw hat to the morning sun
Considers the corn silks’ latest fashion for fun
Discusses pitch and tone with a passing breeze
And notes the colours in the apple trees

The latest songs and jokes he very well knows
And shares the latest gossip with clever crows
This rare sophisticate whose sidewalk cafes’
Are nature’s dreamy scenes along nature’s ways
Imagining Maurice Chevalier as a Farmer.
Bas le masque
Dulcinea del Toboso !
Bas le masque
Aldonza Lorenzo !
Bas le masque
Idolâtres !

Aphrodites  de tout acabit
Dames de mes pensées
Invisibles Dulcinées
Dont j 'essuie les refus
Pour chacune de mes avances !

Mes feuilles, mes flammes, mes âmes !
Vénérées comme je n 'ai jamais été aimé !
Priées comme je n 'ai jamais été désiré !
Chantées comme je n 'ai jamais été embrassé !
Caressées comme jamais on ne m'a honoré !


Vos panoplies diverses et variées de Muse de chevalier errant
Ont pu jadis faire illusion auprès des fous errants
De triste figure et autres Rocinantes
Mais don Quijote de la Mancha
Est transi dans la place !

Fuyez Aphrodites vulgaires
Venez à moi Aphrodites célestes
Déployez en moi animus et anima
L 'énergie d'Eros.

Défiez-moi par vos énigmes
Questionnez-moi, jouons
A qui sera le moins sage
A qui saura lire entre les lignes
Des lèvres philosophes de l 'autre
Les chemins de traverse qui mènent au bonheur

Je suis Philon ! Soyez donc ma Sophie !
Je suis Salomon ! Soyez donc ma reine de Saba !
Vous êtes Désirée ?  Et muse si affinités ?
Adoubez-moi  Napoléon, prince consort !
Don Rodrigue est à la chasse.
Sans épée et sans cuirasse,
Un jour d'été, vers midi,
Sous la feuillée et sur l'herbe
Il s'assied, l'homme superbe,
Don Rodrigue le hardi.

La haine en feu le dévore.
Sombre, il pense au bâtard maure,
A son neveu Mudarra,
Dont ses complots sanguinaires
Jadis ont tué les frères,
Les sept infants de Lara.

Pour le trouver en campagne,
Il traverserait l'Espagne
De Figuère à Setuval.
L'un des deux mourrait sans doute.
En ce moment sur la route
Il passe un homme à cheval.

- Chevalier, chrétien ou maure,
Qui dors sous le sycomore,
Dieu te guide par la main !
- Que Dieu répande ses grâces
Sur toi, l'écuyer qui passes,
Qui passes par le chemin !

- Chevalier, chrétien ou maure,
Qui dors sous le sycomore,
Parmi l'herbe du vallon,
Dis ton nom, afin qu'on sache
Si tu portes le panache
D'un vaillant ou d'un félon.

- Si c'est là ce qui t'intrigue,
On m'appelle don Rodrigue
Don Rodrigue de Lara ;
Doña Sanche est ma sœur même,
Du moins, c'est à mon baptême
Ce qu'un prêtre déclara.

J'attends sous ce sycomore ;
J'ai cherché d'Albe à Zamore
Ce Mudarra le bâtard,
Le fils de la renégate,
Qui commande une frégate
Du roi maure Aliatar.

Certes, à moins qu'il ne m'évite,
Je le reconnaîtrais vite ;
Toujours il porte avec lui
Notre dague de famille ;
Une agate au pommeau brille,
Et la lame est sans étui.

Oui, par mon âme chrétienne,
D'une autre main que la mienne
Ce mécréant ne mourra.
C'est le bonheur que je brigue...
- On t'appelle don Rodrigue,
Don Rodrigue de Lara ?

Et bien ! seigneur, le jeune homme
Qui te parle et qui te nomme,
C'est Mudarra le bâtard.
C'est le vendeur et le juge.
Cherche à présent un refuge ! -
L'autre dit : - Tu viens bien **** !

- Moi, fils de la renégate,
Qui commande une frégate
Du roi maure Aliatar,
Moi, ma dague et ma vengeance,
Tous les trois d'intelligence,
Nous voici ! - Tu viens bien **** !

- Trop tôt pour toi, don Rodrigue,
À moins qu'il ne te fatigue
De vivre... Ah ! la peur t'émeut,
Ton front pâlit ; rends, infâme,
À moi ta vie, et ton âme
À ton ange, s'il en veut !

Si mon poignard de Tolède
Et mon Dieu me sont en aide,
Regarde mes yeux ardents,
Je suis ton seigneur, ton maître,
Et je t'arracherai, traître,
Le souffle d'entre les dents !

Le neveu de doña Sanche
Dans ton sang enfin étanche
La soif qui le dévora.
Mon oncle, il faut que tu meurs.
Pour toi plus de jours ni d'heures !...
- Mon bon neveu Mudarra,

Un moment ! attends que j'aille
Chercher mon fer de bataille.
- Tu n'auras d'autres délais
Que celui qu'ont eu mes frères ;
Dans les caveaux funéraires
Où tu les as mis, suis-les !

Si, jusqu'à l'heure venue,
J'ai gardé ma lame nue,
C'est que je voulais, bourreau,
Que, vengeant la renégate,
Ma dague au pommeau d'agate
Eût ta gorge pour fourreau.

Le 1er mai 1828.
C
J'ai traversé les ponts de Cé
C'est là que tout a commencé

Une chanson des temps passés
Parle d'un chevalier blessé

D'une rose sur la chaussée
Et d'un corsage délacé

Du château d'un duc insensé
Et des cygnes dans les fossés

De la prairie où vient danser
Une éternelle fiancée

Et j'ai bu comme un lait glacé
Le long lai des gloires faussées

La Loire emporte mes pensées
Avec les voitures versées

Et les armes désamorcées
Et les larmes mal effacées

Ô ma France ô ma délaissée
J'ai traversé les ponts de Cé.
Ma fine Muse
Je te jure passion indéfectible et courtoise
Vénération et totale soumission
Je suis vassal et dévôt chevalier
Prêt à guerroyer de tournois en tournois
Pour mon inaccessible dame suzeraine.
Tu m'as octroyé pour encourager ma flamme
Un mouchoir brodé de tes initiales
Comme gage de ton amour adultère
Et quand le désir de toi me ronge, me consomme
Et me brûle de jalousie
C'est avec extase que je presse
Contre mon front tes douces initiales.

Fais de ton fine et fol amant
Ce que tu voudras
Je suis ton esclave
Assermenté
Je ne cherche ni liberté
Ni affranchissement
Et s'il te plaît que je meure
Je mourrai de fine amour
En chantant la joie de ta beauté précieuse
Comme un troubadour et sa viole pieuse.
Jean Lewis Mar 2018
It all started with a simple “Hi”
Then developed with a heartfelt smile
Like? Am I seeing it in your eyes?
And that hug? It lasted a long while…

Math: found x, yet I’m looking for you
English: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRST… VWXYZ… Yes, I really did miss “U”
Science: Neither Einstein nor Hawking has a clue
CLE: Even God knows it’s true…
I really do love you…

I stretch my hand, take it, come with me
I promise, you’ll always be happy
I’ll teach you what it means to be free
You’re the only girl I ever see…

Wish it, I shall lay waste to the best
Name it, I’ll make haste at your behest
Your will be done, though the heavens fall
A chevalier at your beck and call.

In time, I knew you might feel the same
However, these were all such a shame
It may have been easy to say “Hi”
But, she’s even quicker to say bye…
I am finally at my wits end
Guess… we can only ever be friends…
Romantic Relationship (first poem)
- Jean Lewis
December 04, 2017 (my foresight is always accurate HAHAHAHA)
12-Acquaviva, ASHS
  In the honor of a rain with 6 drops for a name...
Les grands appartements qu'elle habite l'hiver
Sont tièdes. Aux plafonds, légers comme l'éther,
Planent d'amoureuses peintures.

Nul bruit ; partout les voix, les pas sont assoupis
Par la laine opulente et molle des tapis
Et l'ample velours des tentures.

Aux fenêtres, dehors, la grêle a beau sévir,
Sous ses balles de glace à peine on sent frémir
L'épais vitrail qui les renvoie ;

Et la neige et le givre aux glaciales fleurs
Restent voilés aux yeux sous les chaudes couleurs
De longs rideaux brochés de soie.

Là, dans de vieux tableaux, le ciel vénitien
Prête au soleil de France un effluve du sien ;
Et sur la haute cheminée,

Dans des vases ravis en Grèce à des autels,
Des lis renouvelés qu'on dirait immortels
Ne font qu'un printemps de l'année.

Sa chambre est toute bleue et suave ; on y sent
Le vestige embaumé de quelque œillet absent
Dont l'air a gardé la mémoire ;

Ses genoux, pour prier, posent sur du satin,
Et ses aïeux tenaient d'un maître florentin
Son crucifix de vieil ivoire.

Elle peut, lasse enfin des salons somptueux,
Goûter de son boudoir le jour voluptueux
Où sommeille un vague mystère ;

Et là ses yeux levés rencontrent un Watteau
Où de sveltes amants, un pied sur le bateau,
Vont appareiller pour Cythère.

L'hiver passe, elle émigre en sa villa d'été.
Elle y trouve le ciel, l'immense aménité
Des monts, des vallons et des plaines ;

Depuis les dahlias qui bordent la maison
Jusques au dernier flot des blés à l'horizon,
Elle ne voit que ses domaines.

Puis c'est la promenade en barque sur les lacs,
La sieste à l'ombre au fond des paresseux hamacs,
La course aux prés en jupes blanches,

Et le roulement doux des calèches au bois,
Et le galop, voilette au front, badine aux doigts,
Sous le mobile arceau des branches ;

Et, par les midis lourds, les délices du bain :
Deux jets purs inondant la vasque dont sa main
Tourne à son gré les cols de cygnes,

Et le charme du frais, suave abattement
Où, rêveuse, elle voit sous l'eau, presque en dormant,
De son beau corps trembler les lignes.

Ainsi coulent ses jours, pareils aux jours heureux ;
Mais un secret fardeau s'appesantit sur eux,
Ils ne sont pas dignes d'envie.

On lit dans son regard fiévreux ou somnolent,
Dans son rare sourire et dans son geste lent
Le dégoût amer de la vie.

Oh ! Quelle âme entendra sa pauvre âme crier ?
Quel sauveur magnanime et beau, quel chevalier
Doit survenir à l'improviste,

Et l'enlever en croupe, et l'emporter là-bas,
Sous un chaume enfoui dans l'herbe et les lilas,
****, bien **** de ce luxe triste ?

Personne. Elle dédaigne un criminel espoir,
Et se plaît à languir, en proie à son devoir.
Morte sous ses parures neuves,

Elle n'a pas d'amour, l'honneur le lui défend ;
Misérablement riche, elle n'a pas d'enfant ;
Elle est plus seule que les veuves.
En vertu des pouvoirs qui leur sont conférés
Les muses réunies en conclave extraordinaire
Sous le très haut patronage de la révérende muse
Dérébénale
M'ont défait chevalier de la Calypso
Baron du Tiers-Ordre de l'Impénétrable
Avec pour mission expresse la Jouissance plénière
De l'Obéissance et de la Chasteté.
Ainsi investi de Toute Puissance
J'ai usé abusé de mes prérogatives
Pour adouber de mes oxymores
La virginité froissée des muses désabusées.
Or de même que ce n'est pas le bonheur
Mais la quête du bonheur qui nous vivifie
C'est non pas l'orgasme mais la quête de l'orgasme qui sanctifie les muses.
Les muses ne connaissent ni frustration
Ni dégoût ni appétence particulière.
Les muses ont toujours envie
Et offrent tous leurs orifices avides à l'exploration,
Au boire et au manger
Des poètes maudits.
C'est sans peur et sans reproches
Qu'elles cèdent et rient aux éclats
Sous les coups de boutoir des mots
Qui giclent au fond de leur labyrinthe
Et qui les fertilisent et les parfument
De leur piment infiniment précieux.
Les muses sont des hydres gourmandes 
À la fois clitoridiennes, anales
Buccales, vaginales, lustrales,
Visuelles, olfactives, auditives
Et zygomatiques
Et c'est en cela qu'elles sont en même temps inverties
Tendres et cruelles
En dedans et en dehors d'elles mêmes
Fatalement soumises à la passion
Et hystériquement libérées
Par effraction symbolique.
I.

Je voyais s'élever, dans le lointain des âges,
Ces monuments, espoir de cent rois glorieux ;
Puis je voyais crouler les fragiles images
De ces fragiles demi-dieux.
Alexandre, un pêcheur des rives du Pirée
Foule ta statue ignorée
Sur le pavé du Parthénon ;
Et les premiers rayons de la naissante aurore
En vain dans le désert interrogent encore
Les muets débris de Memnon.

Qu'ont-ils donc prétendu, dans leur esprit superbe,
Qu'un bronze inanimé dût les rendre immortels ?
Demain le temps peut-être aura caché sous l'herbe
Leurs imaginaires autels.
Le proscrit à son tour peut remplacer l'idole ;
Des piédestaux du Capitole
Sylla détrône Marius.
Aux outrages du sort insensé qui s'oppose !
Le sage, de l'affront dont frémit Théodose,
Sourit avec Démétrius.

D'un héros toutefois l'image auguste et chère
Hérite du respect qui payait ses vertus ;
Trajan domine encore les champs que de Tibère
Couvrent les temples abattus.
Souvent, lorsqu'en l'horreur des discordes civiles,
La terreur planait sur les villes,
Aux cris des peuples révoltés,
Un héros, respirant dans le marbre immobile,
Arrêtait tout à coup par son regard tranquille
Les factieux épouvantés.

II.

Eh quoi ! sont-ils donc ****, ces jours de notre histoire
Où Paris sur son prince osa lever son bras ?
Où l'aspect de Henri, ses vertus, sa mémoire,
N'ont pu désarmer des ingrats ?
Que dis-je ? ils ont détruit sa statut adorée.
Hélas ! cette horde égarée
Mutilait l'airain renversé ;
Et cependant, des morts souillant le saint asile,
Leur sacrilège main demandait à l'argile
L'empreinte de son front glacé !

Voulaient-ils donc jouir d'un portrait plus fidèle
Du héros dont leur haine a payé les bienfaits ?
Voulaient-ils, réprouvant leur fureur criminelle,
Le rendre à nos yeux satisfaits ?
Non ; mais c'était trop peu de briser son image ;
Ils venaient encor, dans leur rage,
Briser son cercueil outragé ;
Tel, troublant le désert d'un rugissement sombre,
Le tigre, en se jouant, cherche à dévorer l'ombre
Du cadavre qu'il a rongé.

Assis près de la Seine, en mes douleurs amères,
Je me disais : « La Seine arrose encore Ivry,
Et les flots sont passés où, du temps de nos père,
Se peignaient les traits de Henri.
Nous ne verrons jamais l'image vénérée
D'un roi qu'à la France éplorée
Enleva sitôt le trépas ;
Sans saluer Henri nous irons aux batailles,
Et l'étranger viendra chercher dans nos murailles
Un héros qu'il n'y verra pas. »

III.

Où courez-vous ? - Quel bruit naît, s'élève et s'avance ?
Qui porte ces drapeaux, signe heureux de nos rois ?
Dieu ! quelle masse au **** semble, en sa marche immense,
Broyer la terre sous son poids ?
Répondez... Ciel ! c'est lui ! je vois sa noble tête...
Le peuple, fier de sa conquête,
Répète en chœur son nom chéri.
Ô ma lyre ! tais-toi dans la publique ivresse ;
Que seraient tes concerts près des chants d'allégresse
De la France aux pieds de Henri ?

Par mille bras traîné, le lourd colosse roule.
Ah ! volons, joignons-nous à ces efforts pieux.
Qu'importe si mon bras est perdu dans la foule !
Henri me voit du haut des cieux.
Tout un peuple a voué ce bronze à ta mémoire,
Ô chevalier, rival en gloire
Des Bayard et des Duguesclin !
De l'amour des français reçois la noble preuve,
Nous devons ta statue au denier de la veuve,
À l'obole de l'orphelin.

N'en doutez pas, l'aspect de cette image auguste
Rendra nos maux moins grands, notre bonheur plus doux ;
Ô français ! louez Dieu, vous voyez un roi juste,
Un français de plus parmi vous.
Désormais, dans ses yeux, en volant à la gloire,
Nous viendrons puiser la victoire ;
Henri recevra notre foi ;
Et quand on parlera de ses vertus si chères,
Nos enfants n'iront pas demander à nos pères
Comment souriait le bon roi !

IV.

Jeunes amis, dansez autour de cette enceinte ;
Mêlez vos pas joyeux, mêlez vos heureux chants ;
Henri, car sa bonté dans ses traits est empreinte,
Bénira vos transports touchants.
Près des vains monuments que des tyrans s'élèvent,
Qu'après de longs siècles achèvent
Les travaux d'un peuple opprimé.
Qu'il est beau, cet airain où d'un roi tutélaire
La France aime à revoir le geste populaire
Et le regard accoutumé !

Que le fier conquérant de la Perse avilie,
Las de léguer ses traits à de frêles métaux,
Menace, dans l'accès de sa vaste folie,
D'imposer sa forme à l'Athos ;
Qu'un Pharaon cruel, superbe en sa démence,
Couvre d'un obélisque immense
Le grand néant de son cercueil ;
Son nom meurt, et bientôt l'ombre des Pyramides
Pour l'étranger, perdu dans ces plaines arides,
Est le seul bienfait de l'orgueil.

Un jour (mais repoussons tout présage funeste !)
Si des ans ou du sort les coups encor vainqueurs
Brisaient de notre amour le monument modeste,
Henri, tu vivrais dans nos cœurs ;
Cependant que du Nil les montagnes altières,
Cachant cent royales poussières,
Du monde inutile fardeau,
Du temps et de la mort attestent le passage,
Et ne sont déjà plus, à l'œil ému du sage,
Que la ruine d'un tombeau.

Février 1819.

— The End —