"classically" poems
Let me love you right as a friend.
Let me hold you tight.
Give a kiss goodnight towards the end.
Wake up to that morning light
My female friends said my heart is like gold.
A caring perfection never controlled.
This a story never foretold
Express your problems never untold.
I’m here to help you carry that load.
Take your time as I hold your hand.
Because I’m DatGuy an Understanding Gentleman.
Your conscience is saying “Let him in”.
I’ll give all my trust...it won’t hurt.
Take the time to readjust...please insert.
I’m giving you a meal before dessert.
This is real..deal or no deal.
Like the game show with Howie.
I know your wondering DatGuy “how is he?”
“Why is he so attractively getting too attached to me.”
I always say I have an old soul so classically.
Like a musical masterpiece.
I’m just here because I had to be.
Your just here because you had to see.
I want you to believe not every male.
Would lie or tell-a-tale towards a female.
There’s only a few very passionate.
This is true no need to imagine it...
I want you to understand me.
As a friend no make believe or pretend.
That I’m here for you until the day we end.
Right now let’s enjoy this Day as it Begins..
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
Ageing so beautifully.
Classically as diamonds do, never ageing gracefully
Her eyes fire her up, fire you up too,
This Goddess,brings forth the huntress, out on the **** for a thrill.
Never cheap.
This individual will never ever weep.
Just a kindly miss, not lonely,
So don't take the Michael.
Nourishment needed.
Overtly she's principled.
Quintessential English,
Rapturous as summer days and Sundays.
This trusting Utopian dreamer.
Vehement pen.
Wicked humour full of woman.
X rated at times,youthful and zany.
(C)Livvi
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Bad blood.
Yes, that's the substance
That appears to be touring amongst us
Stains of a silent vendetta
Howling against my cranium
Classically, such a rhythm dances
With a carelessly, continuous tune
Am I but an indefinite design
In this fearsome game?
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
Such Waste!
When I leave the tears flow,
Whilst at home I know,
Smile inside,
Behind green eyes,
Knowing that you painted it,
Hiding in visage,
A pretty happy place,
Since you stumbled sadly,
Into disarray by chance,
Know we may be together,
Only sometimes,
In times choice,
Simple speck,
Entirely!
Share heart space,
In grace,
Ingratiated,
Grateful for your time,
Twitters float as hummingbird,
Miniscule flirts with love,
Serenely talented,
Awaiting touch of serendipity!
We can never be in honesty,
Maybe,
Honestly guided,
Through duet of crazy lives!
A bond so definite,
So infinite in style,
Captured,
Fondness,
Much more than fondness,
Snatched in my warm heart,
Your smile,
Laced,
While tactile tenderness prevails!
Pen pushes while we drift,
Alive in sleep,
Dark pens kiss,
Fire and ice,
Pleasantries,
Not always,
Always filled with spice,
Diurnal in eternal writes,
Divagated by his own diversity,
A writing fuelled fellow,
Filled with deviance!
Character presented,
Is just soul tormented,
So classically unreal!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
It began with my movement towards the heavenly substance,
Leading my way into a nostalgic trance.
Setting my boundaries, then flying out of limits,
Leaving my senses behind, to begin with my trips.
So now I wander over grounds of light, heat, sound and mist,
Provoking dreams that don’t exist.
A circus of lights where dreams can take flight,
To a carnival of variegated colors in sight.
Gallivanting in the forest of unreal existence.
Appeasing up-close and alluring at distance.
The vivid prism of rainbow like features,
Casting its charade on us, “The Euphoric Creatures.”
Harmonious melodies in our souls now play.
Intoxicated yet happy, and ecstatic yet gay.
Lost in the scenery made of light rays,
Leaving my astray to wander in my blissful daze.
The radiant vibes of every glowing and true soul,
Are mellow like flowers and intense like burning coal.
Fascinated me in various manner and means,
Taking my mind to classically bizarre scenes.
I am an “Errant Knight” of the tripping universe,
Delighted forever, no room for remorse.
Happy to be wandering on the grounds of light, heat, sound and mist,
Provoking me to believe something that doesn’t exist.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Ever greet
Someone so
Sickly sweet?
Her candy
Apple red
Puckered lips.
Her minty
Fresh white
Glistening teeth.
Her short
Honey combed
Locks of
Angel hair.
Its all
Too much
For me
I swear.
The scent
Of acid
Cotton candy
Penetrates the
Small room.
Innocently dressed
Classically groomed.
With a
Smile that
Says "I
Could just,
Like be
Your bestfriend!
I'll try
To hop
On your
Boyfriends ****
If you
Turn your
Back for
Just one
******* second!"
Call me
A sour
***** but
I hate
The fake
Super sweet
Little *****
That walk
Around like
Theyre the
**** like
They've got
Some god
Given right
To act
Like fake
Crowd pleasing
***** *******
I'll fill
Your face
With bruises
And stitches.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Five red haired maidens / resting symmetry
Draped in bluest sky / arranged peacefully
Interwined pink flowers / chaining togetherly
One composition / from Antiquity
Arms wilt with leisure / classically painted
Their wild thoughts blooming / a pale recreation
Seated in judgment / of time untainted
By modernity / By degradation
in eternal youth / in a single row
They sit and they watch / seasons come and go
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 2:09 PM UTC
I took a class in psychology,
But who could ever hope to know
The inner wanderings of a lost soul,
The mechanisms making you tick,
You, conflicting conundrums and
Cautious contradictions...
You have classically conditioned my mind
To fumble over your chapter,
With your classical ways..
Heuristics never applied to you,
You are Freudian; hopelessly undefinable
And impossibly right
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Rushed by the stormy ‘purple rains’
Crescendos that picks in all peaks
Softness of the male energy portrayed
Prolifically flamboyant and eccentric
Ambiguous, mysterious sensual reciter
Classically unconventional and different
Shedding the specifications of gender roles
Crowned by dark shades of violet pizzazz
As the rain settles on the dusty grounds
As the soil solidifies and paste the others
As the dove wails looking for its nature
Rest in peace as the mascara waters down
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
Stickysappy
pupils
gather images
withoutbeneath
classically
trained “understanding”
Blinking colored pixalfree
(nonsense.)
everything inside- Happy
out of focus
But believe me
(when I say)
You do not see
as well as I do,
with your
Unadulterated Vision.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Ancient as the wind
Monroe hips
And a smile that could stretch for miles...
Classically outdated
But the flower never faded
Honey is just searching for redemption
On the wings of Magdalene...
One day your empire will rise from the sea
The ashes will fly with the breeze
And the rain will be as pure as the first tear that fell from His eye...
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
[Click]
“Yo yo yo, welcome back to the Def Poetry Slam. Comin’ up on da stage next we got two favorites who certainly ain’t a favorite of each other… na mean, na mean? They’re both hear reppin’ the London, so give a big round for ‘Lord Bye-Bye, and Johnny Cleats’…
Yeah, yeah. You guys know the rules… get to it. Bye-Bye, you’re startin’”
He walks in Beauty, like the dawn
whose bright and crimson sun alights
So all of those around him fawn
and follow him into the night
Now I know why my friend Trelawn
does envy him with all his might
Oh no, I, am so sorry,
My mind has come to function
all of this, you see, is me
And while he’s got some gumption
aesthetic he, but hungry, Keats
only talent for consumption
“Ohhhhh! No he didn’t, no he di-in’t! Yo Cleats, get some traction on this and tear him away.”
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
staring down from atop an ivory stool
Your title, then, will keep them in your dance
and little else, you shallow-swimming fool
You see, My Lord, and that is all you pageant
as simple work as that does a flask
My words, instead, are all that I imagine
Of that, My Lord, mine is the hardest task
*“Ohhh… well Round One’s gotta go to Bye-Bye, the audience has chosen, but… John? Johnny Boy? Hello? Where lies you, English Poet?… Can it be?… Can it be?… Ladies and Gentlemen… I think we have our first official **** in the ring. Must’ve been something we said. I guess it’s over. Bye-Bye… you got anything to say on your victory?”*
So, we’ll go no more a roving
as our battle was cut short
Just as I thought you would be atoning
for your lack of literary tort
I’m classically trained, John Dear
and a weakness of the meek:
It’s that you have a deathly fear
and cannot survive critique
“That’s kinda cold, dude. You and I both kno–”
[Click]
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
Elder cocoons
Crysalis Hospice
Heaves pounding war drums
Fables of eternal bridge
Bingo and television
zombie horde lunch hour
Tennis ***** play race car
down halls tarred with lost children
Abandoned wither liver spot wrists
Silk wrinkles
Pull like neck folds lifted
newborn simba kittens
casted into this kingdom
scientists culture control
climate but not the yellow wall
It's too high for a fit cyborg
intravenous barbed wire
Cathader Penetrating
illusions of escapism
except the prison wealthy
classically conditioned
trading ice cream like cigarettes
trading blood diseases like ramen packets
There is no planned parenthood
in old folks homes
There is no distribution of free condoms
In a facility where they without medication
When you're about to win the lottery
His last day requested to bed Nurse Christine
Wheelchair ridden fumbling to open
A shaker of Mrs. DASH
I reach to help him open the spice.
Growling and Sadistic he festered:
"Let the little boy do what he can do."
I sat down in my chair.
he had his nurse ala mode.
no one will fund a ****** dispensary for old folks home.
they wouldn't use them.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
'What shall we talk about today?'
Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
block chords, then
swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.
Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
now?
Syncopation.
My
beat
against your
beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.
Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?
Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
chattering.
1,
2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
fading out.
'Let's do it, let's fall in-"
I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
don't
don't.
I can't cook but I think
I can make
instant jazz.
And you,
and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
'What shall we talk about now?'
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
Of course as I have an entire life left to live I am wondering what you ate for breakfast.
You ate a chicken quesadilla.
For breakfast???
...wierdo...
but at least I know now
the suspense was killing me.
Now I can't help but wonder what you did today...
Any photos???
You went the bathroom???
GET OUT!!!!
And of course, I want to hear your 'inspirational' (recycled) quote of the day.
"Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
(classically overused)
MAN THAT GOT ME SO INSPIRED
I WAS SO SAD BUT READING THAT MADE ME FEEL 100 TIMES BETTER!!
20 likes
WOW YOU ARE A GODDESS!
YOU CHANGED YOUR PROFILE PICTURE????
SCOOOOOOREEEE!!!!
Woah, you look so pretty, you did such a good job with the editing (there is a lot of it).
You look nothing like that in person.....
I like your bra...by the way...
10 likes in 3 minutes!!
DUDE
THIS IS LIVING!!!!
Well enjoy your life with the constant need for approval...
Lets see where that takes you...
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
I stumbled into you via modern technology,
Shot out of an atom smasher with endless chances
To spark some debate on space and all that lies between the moon and your window.
I like to believe in the odds of random probability,
Taking extraordinary circumstance and crafting it into friendship,
A testament to innovation, modern socialization,
And classically, it's boy meets girl once again, and she's sitting on a fortune of intellect.
Thinking for yourself has unlimited *** appeal behind it, and you're glowing with charisma.
You're my drug, my very own antidepressant.
I thank every God for the atom smasher that made it possible to collide with you.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
Now, now, now, now, now, now, now!
Terrible!
You can do better
You can always do better
Yet always can't never
Suckin' on a sliver in the tool-shed-deluxe, AND I've GROWN depressed again
Sept' NOT cause' I tend to tenderize dem' words! Badly written, this mind un-fittin' for deez words I'm sittin'! Red marks, red marks n' squiggle 'neath my stupid words a lot like me and my arms n' body! I am incorrectly myself far too often to see truly true pieces beyond the sky's fragility be she man nor woman yet the classically pronounced hermaphrodit-E! I stink and smell like rotting hell except worse due to too many twos or were they duos throwing in the towel... foul.
I am
I
Am
The walking stench of literal intention and the walking stench of the hands of death (clench).
Broken staff is my forgotten word thus I AM ZERO-MARK
Not the nor a or an, but and is to I am as a universe as a point of hallucination
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
I'm going to miss you old friend.
Yet you still sit on my driveway paralysed.
Reminding me of the day we passed my driving test.
Your ****** crackling old radio, the miles you'd go for me without a grumble, and that night we effortlessly out ran that flashy peacock Ferrari from two roads down.
Your ice blue metallic paint and cream leather interior. Classically understated.
Your hefty old school body panels (felt like we were trying to move a building when we pushed you defeated and exhausted to the side of the road). But you were solid, a tank, and you always kept me safe.
Roddy Rover, my first car.
I'm going to miss you old friend.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
I went out with a new guy tonight
A business major and heartthrob
He even held the door open for me, and brought some peonies
All of the girls approve, a little too much
Playfully asking if he has any similar friends
But in my head,
I think of how he talked too much
And how I could never picture him kissing the nape of my neck like you do
And how that indian food we ate, wasn't the most kick-ass aphrodisiac, either
He is amazing
And it's really not about the food, or his perfectly pressed button-down shirt
it's about you
it's just my heart and brain are classically conditioned
to despise and discourage anyone but you in some ***** white t-shirt
your dark hair a thick mess, scruffy faced
standing at the foot of your bed, smiling at me
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
I am an instrument with proud, inexcusable curves,
finished in a deep stain that shows my wear,
how I was loved—
the hands that have touched me.
It accentuates my grooves, my nicks.
It implies the things I've seen
and the music I've created.
I hang on the wall in the far left corner.
One of many walls in this room of a thousand others like me,
made to perform the very same tasks.
It's quiet here.
Echoes in our hollowed bodies,
amplified from the smallest sounds.
All of us, hiding away until we're found,
recognized—and stroked and strummed.
Poor and pitted, waiting
for the completion of hands, and minds,
and unmatched understanding of how and when.
There is a hope, when the lights come up—
when the footsteps approach my wall.
Although he hasn't yet, the thought alone sustains me.
I can feel him
lift me off of my holds,
run his hands down my pronounced edges,
and tune me with precision
by his classically trained ear.
He twists and plucks,
as I contract and give and give again.
I only play beautifully for him.
I vibrate to hum
making notes that require
no accompaniment.
For a stretch of time, I have purpose.
My hollowness
becomes a haunt for untethered melodies.
He makes me something I cannot otherwise be.
The maestro,
the maestro and me.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
I was once a classically trained pianist:
My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue *ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom* tuned to the metronome.
Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias
and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.
What is the value of
a wrong note alone
or amongst many,
of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC