"coiffured" poems
Beneath,
I amused fear,
drowning immersed in faith.
Near my final breath I mused Latin,
the etymology of 'entertain'.
*Tormented;
by mistake.
Entertaining fear,
over entertaining faith.*
In the quiet silence of revelation,
I took stock,
&
looked up,
180° degrees,
poised
&
compassed
my flesh,
to
unbolt
the chains
of misdirection
bound to the recess of my soul.
Unleashed!
Now to hike the proverbial mountain,
cobbled
in the boots of Wisdom.
Contemplative.
Afloat,
aloft its height,
coiffured
safe
by the proverb,
transfigured,
by wisdom of consciousness.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Babylon Sisters
one of them is blonde
the other one a redhead
but both are very fond
of fine liquor and giving head
their painted lips and coiffured hair
finely dressed to the nines
you can take them anywhere
snorting coke and sipping wines
they will spend your dough
and let you touch them everywhere
but upfront they will let you know
it will cost to remove their underware
they are ladies of the evening
finest of the maidens fine
not interested in a wedding ring
just lustful *** time after time
they remind one of times gone past
ancient world of love and fun
so beautiful and fast
**** sisters of Babylon
Gomer Lepoet...
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Pinnocchio and the Queen!
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Every evening
she beams into my living room
bringing me the news of the world
Juanita ***
looking at me with her large eyes, gently tossing her coiffured blond hair
demurely enunciating ugly words through her beautifully shaped mouth
another insane event has occurred in some far off country
and Juanita *** has nice red lip gloss on tonight
a boat load of desperate people has reached our shores
only Juanita *** can make the word "asylum" sound ******
more bikie gang trouble in the city
if I had tats and a Harley Juanita, would you ride off with me?
a ********** released on bail
you shouldn't have to read such filth Juanita
the Government’s economic policies are working
who did you share your stimulus package with Juanita?
another loutish sportsman has disgraced himself in public
Juanita, let the sports reporter read that stuff in future
Parliamentarians hurl foul language at each other in Canberra
I love it when you talk ***** Juanita
debate continues about the best way to tackle climate change
if there was an ETS Juanita, would you trade emissions with me?
she is telling me that tomorrow it will be warm and moist
and Jesus Christ, Juanita *** has two buttons undone on her blouse
There will be another news update in an hour
but not from Juanita ***
and without Juanita ***
no news is good news
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:39 AM UTC
In black and white and shades of grey,
They stand there, the dicky bird watching few.
The groom in the ill fitting demob suit, shoes polished with spit.
The bride, voluptuous in white brocade clutching the fading blooms.
Her father, proud, reluctant to smile, relinquishing loving care of his little girl.
Best man, a real rocker, with dark flirting eyes, slicking back black hair.
Two young girls, pretty book ends to the nuptial scene,
Short skirts and coiffured hair, clutching flower strewn prayer books in gloved palms.
I am there, the only one left standing, remembering little of that day.
But how I hated that PINK dress.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
Around sunset it happened,
While I was sipping coffee from my gilded cup,
Staring through glass at my own reflection,
A virtual image with a hint of refraction.
I remember I frowned
As I saw with dismay a hair out of place,
Curling from my forehead in a tidal wave,
Like the deliberate flick of the coiffured knave.
This won’t do it all, I thought,
Placing my cup with delicacy aside,
Lining up my face within the glass,
Imagining the image this morning past.
I gently nudged the hair aside
Checking that everything else was right,
Turning my head from side to side;
A trifle vain, I don’t need to confide.
While I perused my hair with care,
The light grew beyond the horizon,
A surprise I most heartily confess,
And provided not a little stress.
For I saw the sun set not a moment before,
As I stared at my face and the irritant hair.
It usually goes down to the west, don’t you know.
It flashed in my eyes like the white glare of snow.
Thankfully I wear my sunglasses at night,
But it didn’t protect me at all that well.
I cursed at the light as it lanced through my eyes,
It pierced through my soul and unraveled my lies.
The ascending rumble began, shaking the walls,
Cracking the glass, reflections recursed.
The first shake of God’s great roar never stopped
As the towers of Babel shivered and dropped.
The last thing I saw before I met you
Was the rise of the flame racing the wind.
As I was consumed, I noticed the wings
Of the angel of death and the end of all things.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Leslie Howard
as the Scarlet Pimpernel
is a pure joy
to watch,
all big-collared foppish
tight-trousered dandy
& dainty eyeglass
peering,
& there’s scheming
from the glum & slightly
hunch-backed Robespierre,
weeping aristocrats,
in tumbrils,
& innocent playing
children,
oh so-tailored families
all huge-coiffured hair,
cravats & handkerchiefs
& cocky young jackanapes
playing chess,
the cheering crowds
all coarse & ugly,
with knitting bonneted-crones
anticipating as the drums roll,
& the blade falls,
to a mighty
cheer,
we can see
our own bewitching
Marie Antoinette,
our own sly & whispering
Rasputin,
our gold-folly Sun King,
but I cannot say
I want Madame
La Guillotine
to be set up,
in the square
this time,
no …
no that,
but a victorious
cheering mob,
does sometimes
haunt my dreams,
I confess
to say.
“I send them to the guillotine for the future happiness of the human race, but I do not allow torture.”
Robespierre
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
.
From their private jets,
The primal privileged
Spot a spark earthwards,
The glint of the rolling
Out of guillotines.
Guillotines so tall, waiting,
Just for them and they know
It was coming, as they know
They have it coming.
The rabble they so despise,
Yet pander for as they pull
Wool and leave all in cold,
The wretched who someday
Read injustice in the leaves,
The Princes of sham, cloven,
Always bearing woven bags,
Carpet dreams of desperate,
Down trodden, never fearing
To be trampled, till the blade
Is shining in the searing light
Of new day.
For retribution is a fable
The reptilian upper classes
Are cold to see as it strikes,
Their forked tongues,
Eventual as slimy winter
Strangles themselves
In a hollow cave,
Unmarked.
Even the dirt is soiled
With their fame, their
Scaled names, even
Sun will not shine
On the bloodied blots
They have wrought.
Such murderous stiffs,
Who enslaved all warmth
And empathizers in a rug
Fit for a tomb. And all their
Art as false as they!
The earthy shall rise
And salt their mortal
Wounds, songs will not be sung
For the indifferent masters
Who now pour into streets
Made for severed muck.
The only beauty they left:
Opulent, soppy-red coiffured heads
As they roll on the potholed,
Sooty pavements.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Mayor Koch accepting the fact. Myself,
far from crisis central, in North
Manhattan, measuring the temperature
of my apartment. In the sun it is
warm. The crows have returned again
for Spring.
Today life and the city are o.k. Watching
cat in the morning sun. Drinking tea.
My 1300 dollars will melt like summer
snow, but in the meantime, like samurai
I do not show my fear. I remain still
as on the subway and prepared to fight.
I am sitting under the emergency brake
when a coiffured Latin woman rushes aboard.
The doors close but she decides she wants
out. She bangs on the door as the train begins
to move. I see it happen on her face,
she finds the red cord and pulls,
no hesitation.
Maybe someone's hand or foot was caught
in the door. Maybe she's just selfish and
impetuous, got on the uptown not the downtown
side. Maybe the friends she could have
been with didn't get aboard. Whatever
her reason, she acted and the train obeyed.
Some of the passengers sit through the
whole thing, some of us stand. Myself,
I stand, look for the hand caught in the door.
Later, walk home through the pouring rain.
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Sky blue, temperatures mild. Democracy
is great.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Oh Weather Girl, so smart and slim,
Safe in your air-conditioning,
Coiffured and prinked, make-up in place;
No freckles on that flawless face,
Nor sweat upon your marble brow –
I wonder if you’ll ever know
How much your dulcet verbiage
Sends me insane with helpless rage.
You tell me, as the best of news:
‘It’s a good day for barbecues,
‘for the high pressure over Spain
‘will block out the Atlantic rain;
‘the outlook’s fine, with lots of sun,
‘and we’ll have highs of thirty-one’.
And then you flash your perfect teeth,
Complacency beyond belief!
You stupid woman, don’t you know
My flowers and veg need rain to grow?
And since there’s been a hosepipe ban
I have to use my watering-can.
It hasn’t rained for days and days:
Do you know how much water weighs?
Of course the fault’s not down to you,
You only read the autocue;
But could you, please, once in a while,
Just switch off that ****** smile!!
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
Is the sun too bright
for the sky? Does it burn out
the azure like a moth trapped
in a light fixture till it dies?
Is the ocean too deep
for the land? Does it swallow
the green as it stands?
Is the nightingale too melodic
in her song? Singing all night
in the moonlight. Does her pitch throw
the switch on his wand?
Is the dandelion too strong
for his coiffured lawn? As he
cuts her down she rebounds, poking out
her head like a foot from under
the spread. He can’t shell her
like a prawn.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 6:55 AM UTC
Pinnochio and The Queen
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
I found him standing on the side road
leaning against his
red Mustang 1946
with silver rimmed wheels
and black leather seat covers.
His eyes draped with
the black shades
and his hair,
spiked like a dude’s
but also, coiffured
like a gentlemans’.
His maroon polo neck,
making a perfect match
with his grey chinos,
underneath which he wore
black sneakers
with a watch in his hands.
Did I mention the veins on his hand !
I looked at him and caught him winking.
With a new gained confidence,
I walked up to him and touched his bulging manhood.
In a flash of a second,
he grabbed me and
laid me on the hood of his car.
And just when
he was about to kiss me on my ****
I stopped him,
with a new found courage,
I stripped him of his chinos right there,
and held his ******** in my fist.
And my mouth gave him
the best *******
Up down, rubbing my hands all over him,
spitting on the right times,
he came for me, grabbing my hair.
He put his hands on me
and came onto me.
I said “you taste like heaven’s personal brand of maple syrup”
and he gave me the most wittiest smile ever,
and whispered his phone number in my ear which is still etched on my mind.
I turned and he grabbed me, because that wasn’t the end.
He laid me on the bonnet again
and kissed me on the **** so hard that I still get wet, just thinking of it.
The way his tongue rolled around my ******** touching all the right places and how his fingers found my spot just on time, when I was about to come, and his touch triggered something, which I never knew existed in me before.
I came hard, on his mouth, and then he whispered in my ear, “you taste like heaven’s *** angel”
And after it was over, he went his way, I went mine,
both with a memory of the best ******* ever.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:22 AM UTC
I’m feeling beautiful today.
Is it because
of this dress of velvet
like molten sapphire
against my skin
or the shimmering gold
a finest thread
lining my silhouette
in a filigree thin
Is it the mascara line
curving out
and making my lashes
flutter and sway
or the tint of pink
in a creamy blush
that on my cheeks
has come to stay
is it the curl in my lips
a contrived pout
or the click of my heels
on the floor it clouts
the bangles on my wrist
that sing as they jingle
the sparkling earlobes
as the earrings ******
is it the perfumed rose
that blooms in my scent
or the coiffured scarf
a colored accent
is it the swing in my gait
or my elusive trait
it is my voice, my gaze
or how, when i talk
my pupils dilate….
I feel beautiful today,
but i do not know why
i have thought all day
and now dark draws nigh
I feel beautiful today
so I should enjoy….
Arshia
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC