"decadent" poems
I recognise
those tired eyes
with fond recollections
how we made them so
by the lush warmth of the fireside
through the night:
decadent movements.
Oh,
how those eyes and your body glowed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
You are my dear, decadent desert,
My summer-thyme delight; Starlight.
Tonight’s your night, for you I write.
Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue.
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter.
Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence,
rich scents, then sits.
6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone;
My black swan, a third complete.
You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch -
Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate.
Golden brew dissociates reality -
Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone.
Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass,
Pant for the water, two-thirds complete.
12 years as toll to adolescence;
Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared.
Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era.
Seductive spirits, beautiful brew.
At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme.
The lime-light shines; ten and eight.
Todays the date, stuff immaturity away.
Make room for the adulthoods’ good,
Scooped generously into a bowl
Shuttled and entrapped by me,
Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing.
You awesome angel!
My pleasure supreme -
My dear butterscotch icecream.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
*We all
Dance around
A fire with lipstick
On our cheeks in lines
Powdered in patterns that* will
Accentuate the contours of our bodies
Symbols written in eyeliner so daintily
Adorned like ink meeting paper we are
*Decadent 287 temptation 285 ****** 307* flame 300
*The savages you have created with media we chant
Eninimef eninimef eninimef eninimef we chant*
In a circle circulating the world with our starving
Bodies that whisper of synthetic beauty and
Neglect naked and perverse we are posing
For your cameras capturing exploitation
And degradation because ****** 307 we
Are ****** 307 temptation 285 the savages
You have created with media eninimef we chant
We are the heat of broken records and burnt out cigs
Play us like your out of tune guitar our G-strings are so
Much more loose unlike the noose of your hands grazing*
Our skin we sing what you want no matter how deep
No matter how long the song we are exactly what
You want *the savages you have created of me –
The savages you have created with media –
Eninimef eninimef eninimef eninimef
We chant – we chant – we chant – we
Decadent 287 temptation 285
****** 307 flame 300*
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
There is something violent about how I see the skin on your body
Its so rich and smooth, almost decadent and unlike you
This observation turns into a premeditation when you touch my cheek
Its almost like i can feel the heat melting off your bones
As I laid you down and slipped a knife underneath your sternum
You whispered something hidden in painful tones like a sharp breath piercing the guttural moans
But I dont need to hear words to know the searing desire steaming from your guts as I replaced them with hot stones
The blood on your finger tips remind me of fresh water on leaves after a storm and your severed head looks like its been through famine, disease, and a damaged city plagued and war torn
Yet there is still beauty in the decayed decadence that is your mutilated corpse
The moonlight drowns in the canal of blood begging for remorse while the insects march and sing a song of things that can only get worse
©anthonyasylum
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
In the smoke and haze
I could lie for days
Bound by dreams
Of vivacious scenes
A matriarchal mistress
From Sacher-Madoche novella
Gleaming eyes; a cruel smile
Courtesy could not last for a mile
Spank and strike,
Dearest love and goddess
Do not shirk from such duty
****** and tantalising
Bask in decadent moonlight
By the wisp of cold wind
Cure your sadism
And sate your masochism
Within piquant smell of leather
Find your balance
Between lust and love
Dealt with swift blows so keen and easy
All whilst recounting your ****** burden
Unto lovely Aphrodite
She is taken with vile passion
And laden with fur and velvet
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
Of all the super heroes who exist
like legends, or monuments in entertainment,
or essential cultural commodities,
and
my favorite is Moon Knight.
Never met a good reception.
Never had a particularly well done story.
I like Moon Knight in theory;
a superhero with mental issues,
with friends who face the moral challenge
of playing into his insanity,
versus helping him stop serious crimes.
It seemed like a social commentary to me;
why do we hate dictators, but love superheroes?
How is it we understand absolute power corrupts
absolutely,
yet also think having an alien demigod semi-rule the planet
is really in the best interest of our species?
The design for Moon Knight has always been immaculate
to me; directly representing the fallibility of the hero,
diving into the night with a decadent radiance,
he wears all white, and declares he enjoys it-
for his enemies to know he's coming.
Does it make sense? No.
Much like the Punisher, Moon Knight doesn't struggle with
being morally black and white, but does struggle with
keeping that identity intact. His eyes glowing,
no face shown... just darkness.
All the emotion in the world broadcast through
two glowing orbs. sometimes red, sometimes green,
often white.
A visual hint to clouded mind of Moon Knight;
Marvel's true Batman gone awry. Gone insane.
A failed son who won't die.
Here's to it.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Long lost time stretches blacked out questions and
white
in the place where it should have been
A triple threat of time, continuation, and displaced memories
Backtrack
Slapped back into the
black again
I know it's a sin but I ******* love it
Push it, shove it down, choke on the smoke and the fumes of the ancient
Wisdom is the loss of purity
Awakened
Ravaged
Blended back into the swirling twirling Universes, such perverse pleasure in the pain of it all
I love to fall
The wind in your face, blend it with a trace of sweat and blood as it all
clicks
into
place.
I love the taste
Blasphemous and decadent, giving in and giving out to **** it all back in again
RISE and FALL
I grin a bladed smile all the while, never minding the cries
Such pleasure as it dies
All taint of purity reviled
Desecrate the sacred, mutilate this inviolate aspect of creation
Only a seed of destruction contained within the potential
I see and I lust and I take and I ****
Not a drop of precious life spilled
Without cause
The laws remain, rise and fall, rise and fall,
I saw it all and then I sought a call of FLAW
For in the impurity lies perfection
An insecure dissection speaks the truth
As I now lie and speak to thee uncouth
I regret the best was yet to be
Blinded stumbling through Infinity
....just let it be.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Let me taste you,
let my tongue ripen inside.
Licking your lips,
dryer that sweet wine.
Mix your taste buds with mine
your decadent flavor is fine.
Succulent as is divine,
your taste, I devour
time after time
emotions erupting
The burning passion
never subsides.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
CATERPILLAR recognize me
BUTTERFLY (turning away glances over shoulder) excuse me
CATERPILLAR i’m you before you transformed
BUTTERFLY get away you ****** worm
CATERPILLAR you can’t be serious look at me i’m you
BUTTERFLY look at you? euwwwh you’re a sticky slug with too many legs (pause) i’m exquisite fluttering colorful poetry a celebrity with huge fan base wherever i fly people recognize admire me
CATERPILLAR (creases brow) what happened to you did you forget your past where you come from
BUTTERFLY my past is fiction i’ve always been this lovely luminary (turns profile to audience in exaggerated manner) can’t you see i’m busy go away please leave
CATERPILLAR (bluntly) you’re consumed in vanity drunk on yourself spectacle without substance you make me question my own growing will i become like you
BUTTERFLY stop talking i’m calling 911
CATERPILLAR (sharply) you’re a sickening disappointment another Paris Hilton spin-off i hope to die in the cocoon and be spared the sham of you
BUTTERFLY (speaking into cell phone) yes operator i’m being accosted violated attack in progress please dispatch police immediately
CATERPILLAR you’re pitiful over-reactionary spineless decadent
BUTTERFLY i have nothing more to say law enforcement will be here soon
CATERPILLAR quit fretting i’m out of here i need to find and warn other caterpillars this meeting is a bleak awakening
BUTTERFLY think what you like greasy maggot i’m late for a performance and need to skirt paparazzi
caterpillar trudges off stage left as butterfly ascends over audience
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
6.5k
for all the turbulence i sought
and sought
i was pretty good
i was so good
i battled through all the chaos
my kite was finally flying
but i snorted so much ritalin
my pupils are tar pits
and she calls me a hedonist but
i don't know what that means
i do know that
i fear neither death
nor consequence
you can treat me like your last meal
always at my most decadent
i remember i need to eat
then delete the thought
the only thing that sustains me is the rushing
by now
you should know that
it's all about me
we did the maths remember?
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
The infamous Cuban fog
Roll's of the ceiling
Arroz on Pollo
*** and ice
Flamenca tunes serenade
the
crescent moon
Decadent
bites
Celebrating
Havana Nights
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Stupid infidel!
Transport your riches
To the lands of the believers.
For petroleum...
To make
The cellophane wrapper
That you will throw away,
When you buy a new mobile,
Even though your old one still works,
And you eat your mcdonalds,
And listen to Nicki Minaj
Infidel *****
And drive in gas guzzle car,
As you throw the cellophane out window,
And sext your girlfriend.
And crash your car into telephone pole.
Wasting your life!
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
I fall to my knees,
Kneeling before you,
My Master,
Groveling at your glorious feet,
To reveal the chains of submission,
Weighing down my delicate form.
You gaze upon me,
Beholding soft skin shimmering,
As my body is folded over;
Viewing my tantalizing beauty,
As I bestow myself,
To fulfill your deepest desires,
Conjuring the darkest yearnings,
Manifesting within.
“Rise, Baby Girl’’,
Your deep voice commands,
Reverberating within this crimson colored chamber,
As your figure towers over me,
Beckoning my legs to stand,
Obliging to please you,
As my hazel eyes encounter,
The blazing intensity of your own,
Sending flames to burn,
Down to the small of my back.
Fear is the armor I allow to fall,
Tumbling to the ground,
Cloaking myself in trust,
As I allow my body to be,
Touched by dominant hands,
Trussed up by ropes and chains,
To restrain to me.
Willingly becoming prey,
To the sweet, antagonizing caress,
Before your hand aggressively strikes,
My behind,
Sending me into a realm,
Of pleasure and pain,
Morphing into one sensation.
Free is the response I experience,
As you bounds my wrists,
With your tie,
Pinning me down,
Straddling my body.
Placed between your thighs,
With your heated lips,
Conquering every inch of my body.
The Sting of the flogger,
Is a bite against the skin I crave,
As silence is the language,
I choose to speak,
Feeling your fingertips claim me,
As your territory to reign over,
As you please.
I yearn to satisfy the hunger,
Starving to be your nourishment;
For Sadism to feed,
Upon masochism,
As a balance of power is established,
As we lose ourselves in fiery passion.
Dominance and Submission,
Forces meant to bond to the other,
In a marriage of infliction and reception,
Of blissful agony,
Accepting the temptations you direct,
Towards me as guide,
To obtain our darkest of fantasies.
Submission speaks out within,
The silence as I give you,
A proffered hand,
Succumbing to the sensual dreams,
You promise to me,
Allowing you to possess me in any way,
You wish in accordance to our terms.
May you indulge upon my form,
Like decadent candy you crave,
To devour,
Savoring every taste,
Sound, smell, and touch,
In this licentious dance between you,
My Master,
And me, your fervent lady,
Of submission.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Your lips are like a work of art.
Soft, decadent, a lustful sin.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
There is some decadent rise
limp during afternoon highs and
pulsing at moonlight, the morning
knows something I do not know –
glowing, too, at the clarity
the cut of one’s sum, you and I
we are constructed of limbs and
dumb ligaments, bolted joints
and pivots: but most of all,
tissues that bleed when separated,
is that the value our love holds?
Do our nerves have common
apexes, the sapphire ends?
How we glisten and shine,
but do not feel when torn apart –
I sometimes feel like a classic
piano you are playing, one white
key tortured by the skin that does
not match any other’s but yours,
my player’s, retching for noise.
And I will give louder than
midnight howls of a single man,
his fingers fell from his hand –
he knows the morning such as I,
waking up just to decay,
while muscles keep their color,
the sun, or absence of, gives clues:
like footprints, a duet in sand,
I should not wake up without you.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Just like I would paint a picture in your mind and making you see the way i want you to see it, You will never know me.
I would take years and decades describing my favourite food, how amazing it would taste and how decadent I prefer it to be,
You will never know me.
I could express my emotions of love, pain, past, dreams, motives and all there is to be emotional about
Tell you what i most yearn for
how I want to be held
And play the woman you want me to be
whether its being a wife
Mother of your kids
Your one night stand
or your psychotic rock of emotions
I would invest all of my time
My energy explaining myself to you
Telling you how my day was , trying to acknowledge my actions for the day.
You will never know me.
How I cry
sleeping on your chest
depressed
Making you believe
The love that we share would FOREVER exist
Having you hold my hand
Watching you lead the way
Checking whether the street is safe for me to cross
our Souls meeting through our palms
The warmth of our blood meeting the touch of our hands
the senses, the feel's between us.
You will never know me...
Lip-locking
exchanging our DNA's
exciting adventure that we love embarking
**** how we look foward to these moments
Passing "I love you,
You are my everything.
I don't see myself without you.
I will never leave you!!
You mean the world to me!!"
Trying to make you understand my heart and mind
Wondering what the world really means.
I don't know what life means
I don't know what my interests would be in the next hour
whether my favourite colour would still be black
Or it will swiftly change to pink.
You will never know me coz I'm still getting to know me too
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:31 AM UTC
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
If I were ******
I'd choose Scientology.
Or Mormonism.
Probably both.
Jews are too cool.
I love their culture of practical intelligence
that accommodates science and atheism
in a dark world of savagery and jealousy
their light shines like a radiant star
or the soft glow of a candle-lit minora.
Scientology and Mormonism are decadent, creepy and ridiculous.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I stare at the television news....
Assaulted by violence
Stunned by the inhumanity of a
Godless society
I listen to the radio....
Embarrassed by ads that tout
Promiscuous pleasures
Outraged by the thinly disguised
Decadent discourses of the shock jocks
I read the newspapers and magazines....
Cuckolded by corporate America a
Loser in the games politicians play
Violated
Shamed
Cheated and
Betrayed
I try to turn it all off….
but like a bitter pill the distasteful images linger
nor can I go along with eyes shut and ears muffled
living
or not
in a padded room of my own making
I cannot function without information….
tho my senses are
Wounded by the
Brutality of the media
I yearn for thoughts to ease my distress....
like a mother’s soft whispers to her crying baby
like the beauty that shines from faces that know love
I don’t want the perception of reality that the media rapes me with....
I want the truth revealed by God in His creation
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the ****** ***** of
remov-ed meat.
For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.
The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.
I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.
For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.
And leave me with the bones.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 1:01 PM UTC
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy
Overlooked and simplified
Like a growing urge, a salivating need
That is entrancing and glorified.
Everlasting for moments we call meals
Forgotten in time, lingering above
But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside
Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again
The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight
And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips
Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center
Halved and topped with mascarpone crème
The man with a skin of caramel glaze
Caressing and savoring
With a fragrance and scent
Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin
In the pursuit of a brief love affair
What oral sensation did my taste buds want?
My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await
Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff
Generous portions and humble pies
Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die
Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté
Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce
A robust aroma and savory appeal
Basil leaves with garlic strips
Olive oil to top the surreal
Hubristic meatball aborigine
Elysian cuisine or many dreams
Teasing the senses, warming the pit
Of flowing pleasures
And tingling fingertips
Without moral measures
And succulent wines
Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone
Seasoned with Sicilian herbs
And paired with broiled asparagus
Drizzled with lemon juice
And a glass of Merlot
Spices I hardly know
Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows
With love there is pain, passion endured through the names
Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums
Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass
Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami
Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami
Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor
Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin
red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread
devilish rounds of crumbling rum-swirl bread
Smells and wonders, tastes so ...
oh god
Divine and sublime.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”)
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town;
Heavy languor and dark
Drenches my heart.
Oh, the sweet-sounding rain
Cleansing pavements and roofs!
For my listless heart's pain
The pure song of the rain!
Still it rains without reason
In my overcast heart.
Can it be there's no treason?
That this grief's without reason?
As my heart floods with pain,
Lacking hatred, or love,
I've no way to explain
Such bewildering pain!
Published by Better Than Starbucks
Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of French poets." Keywords/Tags: Verlaine, French, translation, rain, languor, heart, treason, reason, pain, hatred, love, Arthur Rimbaud
Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 2:13 AM UTC