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"deco" poems
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."* Shall I compare thee... ...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls. or ...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable. or …to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness. or …the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you. or …the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta. or … the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. But of all, I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell; Venus rising from the sea, a lover of many, later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus, by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli, using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model. © Sia Jane
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Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Mythological Lovers
*"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."* Shall I compare thee... ...to the Iguazú Falls River, where legend serves that a serpent; Boi, demanded a sacrifice each year of a young female, and the day two lovers; Tarobá and his beautiful maid Naipí, took to escape, and in revenge of such an act, Boi exuded such anger that he parted the river, thus forming the Iguazú Falls, splitting the river and condemning to two lovers to the falls. or ...to Cristo Redentor; Christ the Redeemer, the Art Deco statue, protecting and looking over the city of Rio de Janeiro, to whom in all its glory cannot escape the force of nature, struck by lightning, causing damage irreplaceable. or …to The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, hundreds of metres into the sky, a place that to this day is unknown, myth being that King Nebuchadnezzar recreated the homeland of his precious wife Amyitis, who was deeply depressed and homesick, allowing her to find comfort and happiness. or …the Taj Mahal, of Pradesh, constructed using marble by the emperor Shah Jahan, in loving memory of his third wife; Mumtaz Mahal, the jewel of Muslim art, a calligraphy written Great Gate reading; "O Soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you. or …the Temple of Artemis; Istambul, on sacred land in honour of the Greek goddess Artemis, the most apotheosized of Greek deities, the supposed daughter of Zeus and Leto, the temple also known as Diana, one of the goddesses who vouched never to marry; alongside Minerva and Vesta. or … the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, of the Persian Empire, whereby Mausolus ornamented four sculptures created in relief for his wife (and also his sister); Artemisia II of Caria, generating an above ground tomb that would become to be listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. But of all, I compare thee to the Goddess of Love, Beauty and Sexuality; Aphrodite arising from the sea, floating ashore on a shell; Venus rising from the sea, a lover of many, later depicted as a painting of the Birth of Venus, by the sufferer of unrequited love; Botticelli, using his muse Simonetta Vespucci as a model. © Sia Jane
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23
a sensual curve to the facade - infinite femininity - arched above rounded windows - innuendos art of love - deco of desire climbing higher - echoing fire - ...descending spiral stairway home to shanty on the bay. r ~ 10/9/14
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Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
art deco
I spent Thanksgiving this year not in the blue-collar comfort of my aunt’s house, nestled somewhere within a well-buried suburb of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood with walls decorated with Budweiser signs juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary, where a football announcer’s voice plays like conservative talk radio in the background. Instead, to save the labor of my weary immigrant grandmother, we dressed in Sunday best and drove ourselves in three well-packed mini vans to some elegant hotel restaurant, ideal for people-watching from the gaudy, art-deco staircase while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby. It didn’t feel natural, though, that beside a modest turkey breast with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful cut of prime rib, carefully ladled with truffle au juis– nor beside a humble dollop of mashed potatoes and gravy, should there be salmon to die for, and berries slathered with brie. The food I nibbled with bites of nervous guilt, as the impeccably dressed waiter exhaustedly refilled our water glasses, nodding his head reflexively to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s” What monsters are we, letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day? Grandma said, calmly, that some people are just happy to be paid, recounting her impoverished childhood in war-torn Germany— that to simply muffle the aggressive rumbling of a days-empty stomach, she and her brother would ****** a handful of potatoes from a government farm, not many, but just enough as she grimaced at the ever-so-slight mealiness of her rosemary-infused pork chop— the woman who couldn’t afford ham until she became a citizen. We nodded quietly and swallowed our privileged guilt, washed down with politely cut bites of perfectly cooked salmon.
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May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
"On Privilege"
I spent Thanksgiving this year not in the blue-collar comfort of my aunt’s house, nestled somewhere within a well-buried suburb of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood with walls decorated with Budweiser signs juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary, where a football announcer’s voice plays like conservative talk radio in the background. Instead, to save the labor of my weary immigrant grandmother, we dressed in Sunday best and drove ourselves in three well-packed mini vans to some elegant hotel restaurant, ideal for people-watching from the gaudy, art-deco staircase while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby. It didn’t feel natural, though, that beside a modest turkey breast with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful cut of prime rib, carefully ladled with truffle au juis– nor beside a humble dollop of mashed potatoes and gravy, should there be salmon to die for, and berries slathered with brie. The food I nibbled with bites of nervous guilt, as the impeccably dressed waiter exhaustedly refilled our water glasses, nodding his head reflexively to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s” What monsters are we, letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day? Grandma said, calmly, that some people are just happy to be paid, recounting her impoverished childhood in war-torn Germany— that to simply muffle the aggressive rumbling of a days-empty stomach, she and her brother would ****** a handful of potatoes from a government farm, not many, but just enough as she grimaced at the ever-so-slight mealiness of her rosemary-infused pork chop— the woman who couldn’t afford ham until she became a citizen. We nodded quietly and swallowed our privileged guilt, washed down with politely cut bites of perfectly cooked salmon.
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60
Chicago's winds were violent that February day. The air was unusually warm, and the city once again bounced up from its winter grave. But all at once her winds blew fiercely, Reminding us of her wrath and power. Her thumb, gargantuan and steam-punk, art-deco, futuristic, craftsman and industrial, pressing down on us as we happily walked down her sidewalks, and crossed her streets. She smiled from way up there and all around, blowing her winds with extra tenacity, forcing us from our comfortable jaunt.
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Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
leap year
Our so-empty lives are filled with pointless plans, Every decision impacts life, and sometimes death. The earth split - death was in that sometimes day, Where unending need became the end of their world. Montana was my home-from-home in Haiti, Art deco paradise, an instant hellish grave. What of my shoeshine man with ***** shoes? Two hundred dead too hard, one is possible. Little things we do to change the world, The smallest possibilities in this nightmare, Saving lives each day with lifeline texts, Today we are the hand of God in hell.
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Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
Earthquake
I pried the Words off the Wall Rearranged and used them All Stacked upon each other in A sentence Said with Style Coco Chanel And Ert'e Flaunt Lesbian Fashion In chic Paris Haunts, In the 1920s, While Albert Camus Late Night Parties Extistentialist Claims *Amid ****** and Champage* Django Rienhardt Played Jazz Guitar To the West Bank Artists in Bars, Toulouse Lautrec had Drank With Prostitutes, in Art Deco Frank Loyd Wright Praised In Architect Circles How He has Designed The Unfolding of the Future The Camera Has Brought Sharp Images to see While emergence of Psychology Has driven Art into the Abstract Paris in the 20's scent of Hedonist Creativity Cultural Gravity To the Inclined De rien, entre amis Prende un jour a la fois All the Work here is licensed under the Name ®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
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Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Scent of Paris
heavenly tipsy, drinking in sights, delights, a few odd sides im intoxified. swinging around poles, singing gleefully because of the tall waters, divine despair is it too humid in here? or can i not breathe in this murky air? headrush, spinning, sirens whirl above me... at thirty five thousand feet to ascend, devour the happiness, anxiety for a few short-- hours? click, flash, paparazzi, lights-- "welcome to miami" art deco, delight... on the beaches, slightly still drunk in nightlife. laughter, singing whats the language? what the hell are they saying? i hear hapiness, sanity... at feet, equal to the sea[s] so watch me, im merely ******** in english, please... tell me what is spanish for "What the ****
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Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
Glitches
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl, I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll. We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night. But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light. My blue guitar should captivate the people every night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. My dream faded out of sight. Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.) She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat. She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea. Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie. She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. Her dream faded out of sight. We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique. Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak. Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars. We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars. Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar? No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled. Our dream faded overnight. The Blue Guitar Quartet was as close as we could get to our vision for the music of today. But we bumbled and we fumbled, our aspirations humbled. So we slowly put our instruments away. "The Blue Guitar Quartet is down, but not out yet. With practice you will crack it," said Marie. "Let Patricia be your singer; she's a musical humdinger, and as soulful as a solo girl can be". "She can improvise a blues based on any riff you choose. Let's have handshakes and embraces — this quartet is going places! Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
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Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
The Blue Guitar Quartet (song lyrics)
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl, I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll. We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night. But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light. My blue guitar should captivate the people every night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. My dream faded out of sight. Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.) She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat. She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea. Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie. She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night. But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled. Her dream faded out of sight. We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique. Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak. Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars. We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars. Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar? No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled. Our dream faded overnight. The Blue Guitar Quartet was as close as we could get to our vision for the music of today. But we bumbled and we fumbled, our aspirations humbled. So we slowly put our instruments away. "The Blue Guitar Quartet is down, but not out yet. With practice you will crack it," said Marie. "Let Patricia be your singer; she's a musical humdinger, and as soulful as a solo girl can be". "She can improvise a blues based on any riff you choose. Let's have handshakes and embraces — this quartet is going places! Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
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38
artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights... ~~~ to, for & from SJR ~ this force,   burnt soul kindling, rampant urges that bow a man's spine write write rite right consumption of the soul straighten up, flex, flex to the curvature of the Earths invitation to write write rite right cast my eyes to the mountains, from whence will come my help? street prowler, heart growler, Art Deco lampposts, the mountain range of east seventy second street, begs the baggers question, each a post begging each other, from whence will come my inspiration? lick the stubbled sidewalks, fall down living in their caverned cracks, light needed needy soft heated orange and green pizza neons say here, if you see upon what be, your homelands colors of veracity from candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights. all queries so queer, so cheerfully answered in the ***** air, in warped woof of city write lights he goes home in the dark of a green moon, and its delighting inviting moonlight, he composes what is his eyes have decomposed into a single memory, and is satisfied unto sleep praising the eyes, light lidded, but eager closing, that had wisdom given to observe light various by which to write write rite right 4/16/16 10:30am nyc
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Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights...
The way I'm going now, I'd probably crash into your living room: tearing apart the art-deco set up with my red car, mashing art and steel into a subculture of hate, and the unrequitedness of love. Baby, I'm rocketfuel and bedding- I'm churning up the cotton into kindling and I'm burning so bright I don't think I'll be able to top this. I won't be able to top this. I'm swallowing air and the sea, the sea can wait a little while, I'm yelling so hard at the waves my throat has more salt than your tears, listen you don't need conch shells to hear me pleading for you; strumming six songs a second and wailing into a chorus of "I'm sorry" and "I love you"; it almost sounds like I'm apologising.
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Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Crescendo
Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors - through the automatic glass doors of persuasion up the revolving stairs of many stairs sail by the portly security guard (who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash) along the imitation marble airstrip passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts that take the well heeled to their desired destinations without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes and I sit people watching, writing this poem on a borrowed napkin with a discarded betting shop pen amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets faced with a thousand fast food offerings and gaudy coloured tables and chairs littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting and giant Art Deco toothbrushes and 30 foot wiggly mirrors and stretched rhombus sails acting as a blanket barrier to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world somewhere between KFC and Burger King.
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Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
St. Enoch
Yeah! - we win! We Aussies win the CoreData 2011 award: each household will spend an average of more than $1000 on gifts, food and deco for Xmas Yeah! - we win! China? $400 only The French? $600 only The Kiwis? $631 only America? $644 only The British? $815 only Britain beats France - but Yeah! - we Aussies beat 'em all! Yeah! - we win! We Aussies also win the IBISWorld 2011 award: Australia will spend $1.2 billion on ***** just in December Yeah, we win! And throughout 2011! the UK? they drink only 10.58 litres average year round the USA? a paltry 8.42 liters average And Down Under? - 10.61 litres this year Yeah! - we win! we win! we win!
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Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Yeah! - we win!
In this tan room cluttered with art deco mirrors The accompanying voice, dancing like a feather, says “I heard you’re very lonely.” This room is an endless labyrinth of rooms turning over on themselves with no explanation like a meat grinder of writhing bodies, A chandelier in God’s sensorium. My dreams are reality; painting the theatre bizarre Mere moments separated by suspended animation Two tiny abruptions ruling my perception. Every bundle of absorbed organisms looking through their own viewfinder, one no more true than the other. Walking through walls like wading pools I often wonder what I look like to other people Behind every I resides the seat of sensation stampeding in blind fear, Trampling and suffocating the observer. I look in the mirror and I only see darkness, an eternal abyss of black depth There’s something there beyond the other side.
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Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
The Observer
Ljudi, hej ljudi, čiji je ovo tužni pas !? Gledajte samo kako se šćućurio tu u uglu, i kako se samo trese od hladnoće… Ljudi, hej, pogledajte, da neko od vas nije izgubio psa, pogledajte, nije džukac, gle samo kako mu se crna dlaka sjaji, pogledajte, pa to njemu suze idu. Ljudi, deco, čiji je ovo pas, poslednji put pitam, ako ga neko ne odnese na toplo, uginuće. E, ako je tako, nosim ga ja svojoj kući. Dođi kuco, dođi. Tako… Jao što su ti se smrzle šapice, sad ću tebe ja odneti svojoj kućici, to će ti biti novi dom, imaćeš i šta da jedeš, biće ti toplo i čuvaćemo jedan drugog. Pa muško si, ček da vidim… Pa jesi, jesi muško si… E sad da te ušuškam u svoj kaput i idemo, ček samo da uzmem maramicu da ti obrišem te suzice, jeste tako, nema potrebe da plačeš više, sad imaš svoj dom. Samo da smislim kako da te zovem… Samo da smislim… Čupko ! E, zvaću te Čupko, mali moj… Eto, obrisali smo suze, samo još da ti obrišem tu penicu sa usta…
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Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Pas
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig like she were the march hare- late late late. I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans, Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card. 15, freshly single, pregamed, and ready to blend in with the co-eds. Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to. The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay and I couldn't wait to go to a real party. Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway- with generic flashing dorm-room lights spilling out of it along with cigarette brigades of Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum. I didn't know it then, but those seniors couldn't escape expectation. There was a pole installed in the middle of the room. A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses, was grinding to Gaga on it, There was no tea- but everyone was equipped with jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller. Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on, throwing her hips around. Her cotton-tail wiggled a little. Passion red lights flashed on her outfit. I danced with her, and this what would now be called "bro" but then just an unavoidable deterrence with a fractioned hat. My vision was getting blurry- must have been the kool-aid. And now my memory is, too, because I keep thinking The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on- Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!" And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one- and the room erupted with lava loudness, ruckus and applause. She giggled a little- as we sat on a love seat, I proceeded to exclaim, "I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed." and then I woke up under a tree.
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Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
First Out Kiss Wonderland
We followed the girl with the flossy blonde wig like she were the march hare- late late late. I was in an art deco trapeze top and size 3 blue jeans, Lord & Taylor boots I bought with a 100 dollar gift card. 15, freshly single, pregamed, and ready to blend in with the co-eds. Flossy Blonde was short and thin- in a red number walking way fast to the apartment I think we were invited to. The crew I was with was incredibly drunk and incredibly gay and I couldn't wait to go to a real party. Flossy Blonde disappears into a doorway- with generic flashing dorm-room lights spilling out of it along with cigarette brigades of Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum. I didn't know it then, but those seniors couldn't escape expectation. There was a pole installed in the middle of the room. A caterpillar man in a tiny suit and bow tie, big hipster glasses, was grinding to Gaga on it, There was no tea- but everyone was equipped with jungle juice that made them bigger or smaller. Flossy blonde was there getting her drink on, throwing her hips around. Her cotton-tail wiggled a little. Passion red lights flashed on her outfit. I danced with her, and this what would now be called "bro" but then just an unavoidable deterrence with a fractioned hat. My vision was getting blurry- must have been the kool-aid. And now my memory is, too, because I keep thinking The Queen of Hearts was there cheering us on- Because a purple cat meowed "We want to see you kiss!" And so I gave Flossy Blonde a sloppy one- and the room erupted with lava loudness, ruckus and applause. She giggled a little- as we sat on a love seat, I proceeded to exclaim, "I kiss way better when I'm not sloshed." and then I woke up under a tree.
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46
i wished i learned how to let go from the get go because i wouldn’t have changed faces like a gecko. her body was temple, i painted art deco. i fell for her tempo, it resonates like an echo. i trembled at her tone, yet her treble alone could break any heart made of stone. she’s known to play her part, she’s shown she can master it. she'll hit every note, she’s drop dead accurate. © Matthew Harlovic
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Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
resonate
There was not a lot to worry about so nothing could be held up without it being sold Faberge' brushed shoulders with art deco pieces money paid guaranteed immediate releases The reps had phones to their ears getting the nod there was a clown's outfit which was rather odd because the clown was still inside - did the body come too? or was it to be stripped naked like me and you? We have lost everything - it's all in the room there was a smile from a man leaning on a broom I want my sofa back, my favourite armchair the bed we made love in where you lay bare Even your smile was for sale, admired from afar golf clubs, personal effects, my teeth in a jar
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Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
THE AUCTION ROOM
She stood there in a world full of glamour, The art deco nature of her edges Synchronising with the slow movements of sound That slurred her into a haze Of small sips of *** and salt that sat on her lips Like an unwelcome guest. She was out of place, a photograph on a window Pained by being made with the wrong grace Of those before. She saw herself in the eyes of those around her, Reflections of those parts she kept hidden In a suitcase beneath her bed Ready to leave behind, Desperate to discard The shadows traced by candlelight. And she'd given up on the fight and heaven For the pocket watch she kept in her heart Had a small inscription Forever engraved in time, "Twenty-seven".
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Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
The Club
I wake up early the tropical squall outside turns the beach blue-grey outside our hotel the bay looks rather bizarre so quiet and still I get dressed quickly we pack our bags just as fast glancing at the paper we check out quickly before realizing that we still had three hours left so we drive downtown past the tropical art deco to get some breakfast two empanadas tea for me, coffee for you watching the local news there's not really anywhere where we can go for an hour and be back in time so you just drive 'round I guess this seems strange because It's usually busy Streets filled with tourists spring breakers and the partiers are now near silent a wet, grey Sunday the streets no longer bustling we wait to meet mom
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May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Miami Rain
The dark second floor passageway celebrates its one blessed feature, a sash window, tarnished panes, pixels, lit in colours beyond RGB. An ordered scene of chevron gables, an art deco arrangement, apex clasping serpentine rust red pantiles, pitched protection for the action below. Steam escaping kitchen windows, conveying today's menu, while shining expectant plates await. A clustered community, mutering togetherness, jealousies beneath the breath.
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Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Beneath the Breath
i wish i learned how to let go from the get go because i wouldn't have changed faces like a gecko. her body was a temple i painted art deco, i fell for her tempo it resonates like an echo. i tremble at her tone yet her treble let alone could break any heart made of stone. she's known to play her part, she's shown she can master it. she hits every note, she's dead accurate. she's a natural when it comes to the art. she's outsmart anyone even the likes of Descartes and depart in the dark just to get a head start. she's a work of art with beautiful quarks that set apart the sharp remarks with the monarch sparks we shared that night we were in my parked car. i swear you might be the most astounding star i have ever found on my radar but you are by far the very avatar of a die-hard wild card. are you barred in? has the flower child outgrown her garden? or were you just starving for a greater havest when you carved out my carcass? perhaps you're a Marxist and my work wasn't up to par with your target market. i thought a monarch was regarded as a god incarnate yet your true colors were scarlet. you weaved a web of lies like Charlotte. have you achieved your dreams yet my darling starlet? are you set on starring in a different light? apart from all the starry nights, and sorry fights? you're such a sorry sight when you hardly ever blink at anything i say yet everything i think. © Matthew Harlovic
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Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
monarch
Icon of Fashion Lady of Passion She invented the Fashion Show... Replete with... Art Deco Staging Jazz Music Blazing Young models sashay On the Walkway The Famed of the Arts Were plied Champagne From the Start as lithe Long legged Models Flirted and Flashed Throwing Kisses to The Amazed Crowd Coco Channel and Ert'e Dared to Dress as Men Wearing Suits and silk ties And swapping kisses and Sighs In Paris nights of Long Ago
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May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
Ert'e
an art stand in Miami deco by January dry she'd be very warm with canary yellow sneakers ran the heart of the sun yet poolside in orange jubilee that orkÿ would retire at noon
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Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 2:36 PM UTC
Neapolitan
The smell of mahogany as you walked through those white wooden doors and the dried lavender that spoke of summers past. She raved about the art deco treasures and wonders she collected and I was mesmerised by the ancient modernity sugar crystals of brown and gold were put into darjeeling tea next to collections of handmade theatre masks hung among portraits of a younger blonde girl. The sounds of a stormy night as we sat eating some honey roasted almonds were a rhapsody to us at candlelight I wanted to sketch her antiques and add them to the painting filled walls one of them I found was an old typewriter a Mercedes that her mother had found discarded in a dump she didn’t know if it worked and so gave me some ivory paper now I sit with the lace tablecloth by the window to the evening street below cars pass with the softest breeze and I write of summers past.
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Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
visiting my aunt in vienna
If you seek to fill a happy place. Then you need someone for sure. But I am surreal. You art deco. And I feel you so square. But somewhere in the frost of my mind. I see us to be.
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May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:48 AM UTC
Seek.