"citron" poems
Compliments to the baker
and so too my Barista
Smoothest crema on the tongue
juxtapose to lemon vapour.
Intense acute sensations
insist I close my eyes
Submit in rare humility
in awe of nature's true franchise.
Clarion note of citron zest
resounds on mellow creamy seas
Mediterranean sun distilled
now is witnessed here in me.
Tempered, rounded bitter hues
from Amazonian dark recess
waited aeons to infuse
and bring about this wanton bliss.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
I blot people onto me, just to buff them away. Soakin em, and pressin em on.
Dabbin, pressin, soakin, like temporary tattoos.
Easy to apply, and pretty to look at.
Fun to show off, without any commitments, and then I just let em peel away after some time.
After their bright pigment fades, or their adhesive fails, I just rub em off.
Scratch em with my fingernails sometimes, when I get impatient.
Rub, scratch, off. Now, right now. I’m tired of lookin at you, feelin you on my skin.
I wore you for a bit,
Now it’s time for a new one.
Rub, scratch, dab, press, soak, press again again again.
Skin red, dry skin rub rub dab dab dab peel peel dab peel.
And then,
the ones I like the most, the most beautiful, the most vibrant,
color, color, color.
Purple, green.
purple purple
Purple,
are the ones I try to keep the longest,
they’re always the quickest to fade,
and to peel,
and to fail.
Fail fail fail, come unglued.
Keep em out of the sunlight, outta the wind. In the dry. But they peel.
Peel peel peel, fail.
They fail.
And then,
I can’t find others quite like em. So I press on any old picture. Any color.
Gray, red, yellow, blue. Not quite right, no blue, no citron, no salmon.
Not quite purple enough.
Not quite green.
Not quite, never quite the same.
The same purple, the same green.
Just soak soak soak soak,
Press. Peel.
Until, again, something might feel right.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 8:28 AM UTC
[Dedicated to K.M.Ward]
"I will arise and go unto my father"
MALKUTH
Dark, dark all dark! I cower, I cringe.
Only ablove me is a citron tinge
As if some echo of red, gold and lue
Chimed on the night and let its shadow through.
Yet I who am thus prisoned and exiled
Am the right heir of glory, the crowned child.
I match my might against my Fate's
I gird myself to reach the ultimate shores,
I arm myself the war to win:-
Lift up your heads, O mighty gates!
Be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors!
The King of Glory shall come in.
TAU
I pass from the citrine:deep indigo
Is this tall column. Snakes and vultures bend
Their hooted hate on him that would ascend.
O may the Four avail me ! Ageless woe,
Fear, torture, throng the treshold. LO1 The end
Of Matter ! The immensity of things
Let loose -new laws, new beings, new conditions;-
Dire chaos; see ! these new-fledged wings
Fail in its vagueness and initiations.
Only my circle saves me from the hate
Of all these monsters dead yet animate.
I match, &c.;
YESOD
Hail, thou full moon, O flame of Amethyst !
Stupendous mountain on whose shoulders rest
The Eight Above. More stable is my crest
Than thine -and now I pierce thee, veil of mist!
Even as an arrow from the war-bow springs
I leap -my life is set with loftier things.
I match, & c.
SAMECH ( and the crossing of the Path of Pe)
Now swift, thou azure shaft of fading fire,
Pierce through the rainbow! Swift, O swift! how streams
The world by! Let Sandalphon and his quire
Of Angels ward me!
** what
3.5k
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
3.1k
Where are you, O valiant knight,
riding on your quest?
Capturing your deadly foe,
your metal for to test...
O'r the mountains lies the dragon,
secure within its lair.
It's gloating over victory...
it ate the maiden fair!
And so you mount your steed,
silver glinting from your spurs,
sally off to slay it...
avenge the death of her!
Oh! Is not this dragon beautiful?
Yes! An AWESOME prize!
With crystal wings and citron scales
and sapphires for eyes!
Emeralds on its sloping breast
rubies are its claws
fangs of alabaster
line it's fiery maw...
Perfumed incense, spicy smoke,
from its mouth a butane flame...
Once you've tried the dragon once
it is hell to tame!
Have you your armor fast secured?
Does the visor block your view?
You may chase the dragon
or it could be chasing YOU.
When will you turn and rend it?
Tear the ***** APART?*
Strap your lance to your steed
and pierce it to its HEART?
Now, if you are victorious
you still must have a care...
for its blood is virulent
that cup you must not share!
You could quick behead it.
Mount it on your wall.
But it could poison you instead...
my! *How the mighty fall!*
So ride off in the sunset.
Leave the dragon where it fell.
It will slowly rust away...
*and blow back into HELL*.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/19/2015
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
The taste of
licorice
and citron *****
haunts
every dream I have
and I can still smell
your perfume
on my shoulder.
A phantom
follows me -
your hand on my side
warm lips on my cheek
the string of cool metal
tied around my finger -
I don’t know
how to be
alone
without you.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
I peel,
Lazily.
My little feet dangle
Off the second step,
I have ***** soles,
So I do not go inside.
It’s better that way,
I can’t hear the yelling,
Only the mosquitos,
But they cry –
Like my father.
I only taste salt
Upon placing a wedge in my mouth,
And my father,
He finds me
Soon after.
I peel,
Carelessly.
I’m staring –
Again –
But I can’t seem to
Help myself
From watching them,
All of them,
From my lonely table (I alone
Keep it company).
I whisper a slur
At my shaking fingers,
I clench
Until my body is a fist,
The juice runs past my palms
Onto the linoleum.
I think that must be
The color of the Sun’s tears –
I am the only one to laugh
At such a joke.
I peel,
Methodically.
The flat line
Where my lips used to be
Curves downward
As my bitten nails begin
To fill with acrid skin –
I immerse myself
With such an infantile task,
Ignoring their buzzing
As it swarms around me
Like white noise
Trying to out scream
A sonic boom.
The fruit is rotten,
I throw its flaccid body away
Without even tasting it.
There will be flies.
For 24 hours
A fly must feel like God.
I peel,
Slowly.
I don’t even
Bother looking,
I’m too busy
Laughing (the kind
Where you’re quiet and shaky).
I throw my rind
At another heaving chest.
In tandem we take twin slices
And place citron smiles
In between our teeth,
Tiny grindstones that pull and press
The sunset flesh
Down our echoing throats.
It is the sweetest
I’ve ever tasted.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Vous connaissez ce quai nommé de la Ferraille,
Où l'on vend des oiseaux, des hommes et des fleurs.
A mes fables souvent c'est là que je travaille ;
J'y vois des animaux, et j'observe leurs moeurs.
Un jour de mardi gras j'étais à la fenêtre
D'un oiseleur de mes amis,
Quand sur le quai je vis paraître
Un petit arlequin leste, bien fait, bien mis,
Qui, la batte à la main, d'une grâce légère,
Courait après un masque en habit de bergère.
Le peuple applaudissait par des ris, par des cris.
Tout près de moi, dans une cage,
Trois oiseaux étrangers, de différent plumage,
Perruche, cardinal, serin,
Regardaient aussi l'arlequin.
La perruche disait : " J'aime peu son visage,
Mais son charmant habit n'eut jamais son égal.
Il est d'un si beau vert ! - Vert ! dit le cardinal ;
Vous n'y voyez donc pas, ma chère ?
L'habit est rouge assurément :
Voilà ce qui le rend charmant.
- Oh ! pour celui-là, mon compère,
Répondit le serin, vous n'avez pas raison,
Car l'habit est jaune-citron ;
Et c'est ce jaune-là qui fait tout son mérite.
- Il est vert. - Il est jaune. - Il est rouge morbleu ! "
Interrompt chacun avec feu ;
Et déjà le trio s'irrite.
" Amis, apaisez-vous, leur crie un bon pivert ;
L'habit est jaune, rouge et vert.
Cela vous surprend fort ; voici tout le mystère :
Ainsi que bien des gens d'esprit et de savoir,
Mais qui d'un seul côté regardent une affaire,
Chacun de vous ne veut y voir
Que la couleur qui sait lui plaire. "
1.1k
Right this way, please
Welcome to the house of color
Would you like a cup of tea?
Nothing is dull here
The reds are brilliant, and try to beat the others
But of course they don't get to, or we wouldn't be called the house of colors
The greens, how wonderful in every single shade
And then there's Neon Green (who was always a bit of a renegade)
The soft and sinister purples also come to view
Not all of them are nice, some of them are worn, not as new
There's oranges that roll downstairs (would you like a taste?)
The citron taste does not, the fine palate, escape
The yellows pour in
some sunshine, some shades of *****
And then for cool and bright blues
(this isn't all, too)
We also have greys, blacks, whites
So step right in and order yours tonight
We don't charge much for shipping and handling (though they're much too hard to hold)
We can give you any type, light, dark, or bold
This was the house of colors, we hope you liked what you have seen
We also give quality: fat, thin, or a beam
We can give you rainbows (though those are getting rare)
And you must be extra careful with them (they easily tear)
So welcome to the house of colors
Not a normal house like others
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
A mouse found a beautiful piece of plum cake,
The richest and sweetest that mortal could make;
Twas heavy with citron and fragrant with spice,
and covered with sugar all sparkling as ice.
‘My Stars!” cried the mouse, while his eye beamed with glee,
‘Here’s a treasure I’ve found; what a feast it will be;
But hark! there’a noise, ’tis my brothers at play;
So I’ll hide with the cake, lest they wander this way.
Not a bit shall they have, for I know I can eat,
Every morsel myself, and I’ll have such a treat’
So off went and held the cake fast,
While his hungry young brothers went scampering past.
He nibbled and nibbled, and panted, but still,
he kept gulping it down till he made himself ill;
Yet he swallowed it all, and ’tis easy to guess,
he was soon so unwell that he groaned with distress.
His family heard him, and as he grew worse,
They sent for the doctor, who made him rehearse
How he’s eaten he cake to the very last crumb,
Without giving his playmates and relatives some.
‘Ah me!’ cried the doctor, ‘advice is too late’
You must die before long, so prepare for your fate;
if you had but divided the cake with your brothers,
Twould have done you no harm, and been good for the others.
‘Had you shared it, the treat had been wholesome enough,
But eaten by one, it was dangerous stuff;
So prepare for the worst-’ and the word had scarce fled,
When the doctor turned round and the patient was dead.
No all little people the lesson may take,
and Some large ones may learn from the mouse and the cake;
Not to be over-selfish with what we may gain;
Or the best of our pleasures may turn to pain.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.
But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.
Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.
With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.
She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.
Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.
But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
This fruit from Assam,
This sour species of
Evergreen,
Don’t forget I was a
Child hugging their mother,
Watching her eat you
As she read ‘Salem’s Lot.
Remember I rode horses
With her in Carver,
And we fed them apples
In our winter coats.
Remember she took me
To museums
And stood behind while
I read about Chippewa
And wild rice paddies,
About Leech lake
And the Battle of Sugar Point,
About Minnehaha
Hiawatha,
And…
I went with her to Disney World
And she sat with me
While my asthma stung,
Listening to Orlando rain.
I smelled pine on the
Rag used to wipe
Her forehead.
I watched the Chemo
Needle take her vein.
I ate you silently
The morning she.
Sister of Citron,
Know that I will never
Forget the sound of her teeth
And hard candy,
the
Click
the
Clack
the Yellow Heart,
the Sound of You.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
lemon, sticky frosting, dry lips.
fingernails painted with nothing other than mustard.
toxicity measured in sweetness.
plummet into the acidic taste of citrus fruit.
when you finally kiss me, it's all marigolds,
and some dirt.
dream pop car rides, cotton candy skies;
like those songs with excessive descriptions about eyes.
the girls with green hair, and black boots
but you're all yellow, gold, butter, honeysuckle.
ma jolie citron.
my pretty lemon, honey eyes.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Mords-moi, ma Muse
Pince ton Musc
Crie ta rage
Cours **** de moi
Griffe-moi
Pleure, grogne, hurle
Débats-toi
Je suis là pour ça
Je suis là pour toi
Pour que tu puisses vivre ton monde
A ta guise
Pour que tu puisses danser comme une veuve joyeuse
Et rire aux éclats quand ça te chante
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Gribouille sur mon corps
Tes rêves indescriptibles
Tes cauchemars imperceptibles
Prends la craie ou l'encre de Chine
Dessine-moi Pierrot et Colombine
Et barbouille-moi de Pinot blanc
Ou barbouille-toi de Pinot noir
Ou barbouille-nous de Cabernet Sauvignon
Qui coulent comme des fleuves où flottent
D'étranges gargouilles mélancoliques.
Je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Tu fais rugir l'animal féroce et sauvage
Qui sommeille au fond de moi
Tu fais le musc monter en moi
Et il faut que je me domine
Quand le musc entre en rut
Au fond de la Muse.
Quand tu commences ton cirque
Quand ta tête tourne tourne tourne
Sous les pieds des otaries géantes
C'est moi qui bois du vin clairet
Du sylvaner ou du gewurtstraminer
Quand tu fais l 'éléphant et que tu barris
A la vue d'un sucre ou d'un café nu
Je me ressers un verre de prosecco italien
Et je me rince la gorge avec un dé d'eau de vie de mirabelle
Quand tu me lacères de ton fouet
Pour dompter les tigres de Bengale
Qui jonglent à travers les lacs de tes yeux
Je vide une bonne bouteille de Bologne
Et je suce la cuillère de sirop de batterie
Mélangé au citron vert
Quand ton regard se fige
Et qu'immobile comme une chatte tu restes à l'arrêt
Je me transforme en pelote de laine
Et je me balance sous tes yeux comme un pendule
A droite à gauche
A droite à gauche
Et je sais que tu attends que le coucou sorte à l'heure
Du fond de sa cage au fond de l'horloge
Et qu'il plonge dans tes eaux
Car je suis ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Ton ombre thérapeutique
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
C 'est au coeur du punch
Que je vois le reflet de ton infidèle image
C 'est au fond du calice trouble
De pulpe de citron vert écrasé
Et de sirop de batterie
Que je vois enfin le reflet de ton infidèle image.
C'est une image qui tourbillonne
Comme un aiguillon kaléidoscopique
Car tu es cent et un oiseaux orange
A la fois dans la charmille.
Une image, que dis-je, un flot d'images
Secrètes et sourdes qui t'exhibent
Au goutte à goutte
Des lèvres au gosier
Et du gosier au cerveau.
C'est à cinquante-cinq degrés
Dans le coeur de chauffe du rhum blanc
Cent pour cent agricole
Que ton souvenir me vampirise
De ses poèmes lubriques
Et que j'offre mon cou et ma nuque à ta morsure
Douce, nue et sincère,
et à tes griffes amères comme le schrubb !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
There’s a bomb
In my pocket
In my brain
In my locket
It’s made
Of citron and pepper
To those who don’t ache
It might just hurt
Residues in her face
I see it burn
I see it grimace
I see disdain
Sometimes people like burning
Maybe they own
some bombs of their own
They can’t help but carry
Sometimes people hate citric
Maybe they haven’t ever
Ticked
They’re so used to sweet
But with you I see them burn
They don’t care to control
You don’t care
to dodge
Maybe there are antibodies
And you don’t feel the sting
When you just happen
To cry acid
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 12:53 PM UTC
d r i p p l e, d r I p p l e,
her toes echoing the ripples..
s o o t h I n g s o l I t u d e,
her tensions slowly spawns to elude...
w h I r l I n g w I n d s,
swift saplings of the crisp crimson...
l I m e l i l y p a d s,
citron circles luring the lags...
s w a y, s w a y,
her leafless legs basking the bay.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC