"corporis" poems
The beast to the beast is calling,
And the soul bends down to wait;
Like the stealthy lord of the jungle,
The white man calls his mate.
The beast to the beast is calling,
They rush through the twilight sweet,
But the soul is a wary hunter,
He will not let them meet.
2k
Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in Loca—
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
TRANSLATION.
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
1.8k
girl, you look in the mirror
wishing you were skinnier—
that's like telling your favorite rock
you wish it were a meteorite instead.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
I see only dark alleys
and hear dull talk,
Max said,
*** imbecillitate
corporis vita
as the Romans
might have said.
She has gone from me
and off to another;
flittering from man to man
like some butterfly,
flapping her wings,
her bright colourings,
le papillon
I named her.
Well named
the *****
Should have torn off
her wings when I
had her last.
Spread wings
and open arms.
La chienne.
She promised much
as they all do
while being filled
and her fruits adored.
Now I have only
her stale perfume.
Wounds where her
talons scratched.
But there was love once,
once upon a time
as tale tellers begin.
That time
in that Parisian
hotel room where
she undressed me
to the sound
of some French ****
(on the radio)
singing an aria
from La Boheme.
She so anxious for it
that she almost
began without me.
Time comes,
time goes.
I see only dark alleys
and hear dull talk.
I do remember
the mouthing
of her fruit,
the *******
of her toes.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 7:26 AM UTC