"efface" poems
724
It’s easy to invent a Life—
God does it—every Day—
Creation—but the Gambol
Of His Authority—
It’s easy to efface it—
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford Eternity
To Spontaneity—
The Perished Patterns murmur—
But His Perturbless Plan
Proceed—inserting Here—a Sun—
There—leaving out a Man—
5.8k
(I)
Her hour upon the stage,
She struts and frets.
Applause, admiration
Behind a mask to reflect.
In moments of true emotion,
Behind closed doors,
The mask would slip off
And shatter on the floor.
(II)
As years went by
And her heart withered,
She’d rather keep the mask on.
Revealing her true-self she feared
So secure behind the guise
So full of her-assumed-self.
She diffused into the mask
And the mask into herself.
(III)
Two eyes in the crowd
Shone apart from the rest.
They were there for the she,
She had always neglect.
While the crowds cheered on,
In those eyes at her affixed,
For a few flickering seconds
Her true self she glimpsed.
By the mirror she stood.
Hand clasped to her face,
In futile agony,
This mask to efface.
(IV)
“A mask may be adamant.
It may cover the face whole
But it can never drape
Those windows to the soul.”
“It will be difficult to search
The true-self long concealed.
Let these drape-less windows
The path reveal.”
“Look deep in mine eyes,” said he.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
Spinning on the north pole.
Truth be told, it's being pulled
in all directions thus the spinning inflection.
A prosaic misdirection.
4 cardinal directions but when they conflate
you get eight. If you prorate
in-between you get sixteen
directions you can take.
The only mistake you can choose is standing in place.
At the pace your face is rotating on your flesh case,
your bones will displace. your mind will efface
from it's designated space.
Don't be a waste. Move along.
Pick one of the 16 directions you can take
Whichever one you pick is the road you belong.
Just get to where your going before your swan song.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
Je suis exatlé de voir dans ce ciel de nuit,
Auquel je dois cette plaisante fortune.
En compagnie d’étoiles clignotantes,
Subjugué par ce spectacle, j’admire ma Lune.
Lave-moi dans ton eau argentée, translucide.
Sois près de moi lors de mes blanches nuits.
Veille sur moi tel un garde sans faille.
Enveloppe-moi de murmures, un calme répit.
Ô comme tu guides les flots ardents de mon âme!
Baisse les yeux, les eaux abordent ma plage…
Érode le fardeau qui étouffe mes écueils brûlants,
Des sables noyés, oppressé, tendres otages.
Peu de nuits à présent… Épris alors que tu t’en vas.
Des brins épais et sombres de cheveux en cascades,
Dissimulent ton visage d’une manière séduisante.
Il n’en reste qu’un croissant, qui s’efface dans le noir.
Les nuits s’écoulent… Maintenant la lune se délite
M’en laissant qu’une moitié; la nuit le veut ainsi.
Reste encore, plus longtemps; ne pars pas si tôt,
Je ne me sens pas prêt à être anéanti.
Je lève la tête sans dire un mot, alors que les nuits passent.
J’ai vu mon amour lunaire se dissoudre dans l’espace.
My coeur, aussi, déchiré bout par bout…
Enfin, elle était partie; partie, sans laisser de trace.
Depuis, chaque nuit abonde de vide et de souffrance.
Je supplie les étoiles d’apaiser le vide en moi…
Mais ils se contenteraient de briller, indifférents…
Même suite à tous mes appels, mes émois.
Desormais je suis incertain sur le nombre de passages.
Les nuits n’amenèrent que l’assaut des étoiles moqueuses.
Cependant je joue des promesses celestes,
Pour le retour de ma folle quête amoureuse.
Je sais que c’est frivole de penser que je suis le seul…
C’est vrai, ils languissent; ma souffrance est la leur.
Mais c’est moi qui désire le plus ton fameux regard,
Car nos coeurs ont chanté dans toutes les couleurs.
Ma détresse à son zénith, emplis, presque brisé,
Lorsque soudain j’entends une belle chanson, lointaine.
Une chanson pareille à celle que l’on prononçât,
Encore garnie d’argent translucide, je soupire avec peine…,
“Te voilà....”
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on the roofs and walls
But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
3.3k
I
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!
II
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
III
You like us for a glance, you know—
For a word’s sake,
Or a sword’s sake,
All’s the same, whate’er the chance, you know.
IV
And in turn we make you ours, we say—
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.
V
All’s our own, to make the most of, Sweet—
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet.
VI
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet.
VII
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there—
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
VIII
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder
That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.
IX
As,—why must one, for the love forgone,
Scout mere liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
X
Why with beauty, needs there money be—
Love with liking?
Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey bee?
XI
May not liking be so simple-sweet,
If love grew there
’Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
XII
Is the creature too imperfect, say?
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!
XIII
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection—
Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
XIV
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
Into tinder
And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
XV
Or else kiss away one’s soul on her?
Your love-fancies!—
A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
XVI
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose.
XVII
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Precious metals
Ape the petals,—
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
XVIII
Then, how grace a rose? I know a way!
Leave it rather.
Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!
2.8k
No present royal favour could efface
The memory of the love that once she knew.
Seeing a flower filled her eyes with tears.
She did not speak a word to the King of Chu.
2.8k
take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
[lost it]
. . repetitious fallacy?
[got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
our foci, [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
[next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth. [break
to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
[disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
The old man told his story, lost within his troubled youth
His words quite labored, heavy... his raspy voice by now uncouth
At times mixing the conversation with gin and ice, and sweet vermouth
His eyes were clear however, and I saw therein...
a quiet truth
He talked of her at length, his thoughts concise,
composed... serene
At times he’d pause, efface another silent tear he’d wished unseen
His dreams would countermand the years... love and youth,
would reconvene
She’s waiting there for him you see… The girl with eyes,
of Paris green
Some had said her ways unsound, disposition... introject
He said she knew the rumors, and she thought them all quite innocent
He told of how she’d laughed at them… of narrow minds,
and intellect
He found in her the love he’d sought, although his hope remained suspect
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest touch of sorrow there
Shining through the gentle mist, and the eglantine within her hair
He felt somehow her pain, although she’d kept it obscure...
nom de guerre
And so his own mistakes were viewed, in Paris green...
and sad despair
Their time together thus unfurled within this anguished declamation
Of years now spent in solitude, with lost and lonesome lamentation
For one whose essence still bestows upon his dreams, in meditation
Aspirations there arise, to leave his heart in desperation
His thoughts remained unchanged, unbroken...
memories demure
He stood to mix another drink, then paused...perhaps his mind unsure
Gathering his memories, so past and present touch... concur
And then continued once again, his sad and doleful dream of her
I listened there, throughout the night... I lie in sedentary pose
Then as I fall asleep I see the here and now,
and then... transpose
I see myself in dreams with her, but why? my heart has not disclosed
I'm lost within some late, late hour envisage... or so I suppose
I then awake alone, to find my thoughts of her and then, no clearer
The snow outside my window cannot bring her memory nearer
Though I can dream of Paris green, and all those places, so familiar
Tonight I'll listen once again, and tell my story..
to the mirror
Dean Evans
1-06-15
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
1315
Which is the best—the Moon or the Crescent?
Neither—said the Moon—
That is best which is not—Achieve it—
You efface the Sheen.
Not of detention is Fruition—
Shudder to attain.
Transport’s decomposition follows—
He is Prism born.
2.5k
*peace
please*
private property..
intruder hurtled over
seeking who knows what
screaming obscenities
perfect pitch..
find little solace
but by going within
hide well beneath veneers
possible perfection..
but with one
so very far away
loss near calamitous
pardon presumption..
get over discomfort
pick up sad face
work with it
passable poetry..
may reveal a layer or two
if the inner eye ready
shove preconceived away
puerile pretence..
try to prove points
only to efface the truth
lose bits of the light
petty prisons..
all just deadly excuses against living
get locked in by the self
unlock the cell, throw key away
*please..
peace*
S T, 12 June 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
Oh, Friend! for ever lov’d, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier!
What sighs re-echo’d to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears ****** the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst liv’d to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade’s honour and thy friend’s delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction’s semblance bends not o’er thy tomb,
Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none!—a father’s tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother’s woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
2.1k
1507
The Pile of Years is not so high
As when you came before
But it is rising every Day
From recollection’s Floor
And while by standing on my Heart
I still can reach the top
Efface the mountain with your face
And catch me ere I drop
2k
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
515
No Crowd that has occurred
Exhibit—I suppose
That General Attendance
That Resurrection—does—
Circumference be full—
The long restricted Grave
Assert her Vital Privilege—
The Dust—connect—and live—
On Atoms—features place—
All Multitudes that were
Efface in the Comparison—
As Suns—dissolve a star—
Solemnity—prevail—
Its Individual Doom
Possess each separate Consciousness—
August—Absorbed—Numb—
What Duplicate—exist—
What Parallel can be—
Of the Significance of This—
To Universe—and Me?
1.8k
I Martius am! Once first, and now the third!
To lead the Year was my appointed place;
A mortal dispossessed me by a word,
And set there Janus with the double face.
Hence I make war on all the human race;
I shake the cities with my hurricanes;
I flood the rivers and their banks efface,
And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains.
1.7k
I must efface
the heron vase
so it will never be replaced.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
On the edge of the Milky Way, way, way out in space
There's this planet called Earth; we've all heard of this place
A place where all the inhabitants are a complete disgrace
They allow millions to starve, while a few stuff their face
And no matter the size of their knowledge base
They can never understand one another and begin to efface
With their swords, knives, guns, bullets and bombs all apace
They will soon go at one another in a nuclear arms embrace
They have the ability to end themselves in one last Coup de Grace
....and with disparaging tones, we call them, the human race
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
“When people move-when they travel-they look at where
they come from,
not where they’re going.” -Martin Amis, *Time’s Arrow
*
Let us now take this chance
to praise those dancing demons
of ambition,
whose feigned clairvoyance
of fortune
and exactitudes of fame
burn as the smell of smokey fallow
to the new-retired mare.
Travel, and all its takeoffs,
all its energies in skidding towards
an unopposed truth, makes its mince
by outlining all we ever look for
but leaving the chalkdust prints
of what we fail, at first, to find.
Yes, spaces contrary to the familiar exist
Carnivore cities of grind and result
cascaded above the floodwalls that save
the vagrant’s midnight search.
Coastal clearings of pacific civs,
best kept secrets where trees are still planted
and further kinds of nowhere that you never expected
to simmer with all the prospects of bored and implacable youths
who pine to efface the status quo, which ,after all, is quite the average,
is quite like “HOME”
Though I suppose, we eventually find
whatever space can be considered our own
when everyone grows up and stops
pretending they read Burroughs,
have a lot more going on, or are a lot less busy
than they make out over infrequent coffee meetings
(where it is also admitted
that they brew their own hot beverages,
or tell their own jokes)
Somewhere in the near-space continuum where Travel has
become for us what essentially differentiates
the commonplace in nature from
that most human of neuroses,
the acceptance of a willing to improve the conditional.
And so to Ambition, and its fiery fops who make us refute
steadiness, accountability, the routine of the resolute
Who let our ships of sanctimony attack
implied with the luxury of steering back.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
Le Baiser de ton rêve
Est celui de l'Amour !
Le jour, le jour se lève,
Clairons, voici le jour !
Le Baiser de mon rêve
Est celui de l'Amour !
Enfin, le jour se lève !
Clairons, voici le jour !
La caresse royale
Est celle de l'Amour.
Battez la générale,
Battez, battez, tambour !
Car l'Amour est horrible
Au gouffre de son jour !
Pour le tir à la cible
Battez, battez, tambour.
Sa caresse est féline
Comme le point du jour :
Pour gravir la colline
Battez, battez, tambour !
Sa caresse est câline
Comme le flot du jour :
Pour gravir la colline,
Battez, battez, tambour.
Sa caresse est énorme
Comme l'éclat du jour :
Pour les rangs que l'on forme,
Battez, battez, tambour !
Sa caresse vous touche
Comme l'onde et le feu ;
Pour tirer la cartouche,
Battez, battez un peu.
Son Baiser vous enlace
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour charger la culasse,
Battez, battez un peu.
Sa Caresse se joue
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Tambour, pour mettre en joue,
Battez, battez un peu.
Sa caresse est terrible
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour le cœur trop sensible
Battez, battez un peu.
Sa caresse est horrible,
Comme l'onde et le feu :
Pour ajuster la cible,
Restez, battez un peu.
Cette Caresse efface
Tout, sacré nom de Dieu !
Pour viser bien en face,
Battez, battez un peu.
Son approche vous glace
Comme ses feux passés :
Pour viser bien en face
Cessez.
Car l'Amour est plus belle
Que son plus bel amour :
Battez pour la gamelle,
Battez, battez tambour,
Toute horriblement belle
Au milieu de sa cour :
Sonnez la boute-selle,
Trompettes de l'Amour !
L'arme la plus habile
Est celle de l'Amour :
Pour ma belle, à la ville,
Battez, battez tambour !
Car elle est moins cruelle
Que la clarté du jour :
Sonnez la boute-selle,
Trompettes de l'Amour !
L'amour est plus docile
Que son plus tendre amour :
Pour ma belle, à la ville,
Battez, battez tambour.
Elle est plus difficile
À plier que le jour :
Pour la mauvaise ville,
Battez, battez tambour.
Nul n'est plus difficile
À payer de retour :
Pour la guerre civile,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser le plus large
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour l'amour et la charge,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser le plus tendre
Est celui de l'Amour,
Battez pour vous défendre,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser le plus chaste
Est celui de l'Amour :
Amis, la terre est vaste,
En avant, le tambour.
Le Baiser le plus grave
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez, pour l'homme brave,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser qui se fâche
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez pour l'homme lâche,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser le plus mâle
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour le visage pâle
Battez, battez tambour.
La Caresse en colère
Est celle de l'Amour :
Car l'Amour, c'est la guerre,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser qu'on redoute
Est celui de l'Amour :
Pour écarter le doute,
Battez, battez tambour.
L'art de jouir ensemble
Est celui de l'Amour :
Or, mourir lui ressemble :
Battez, battez tambour.
L'art de mourir ensemble
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez fort pour qui tremble,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser le plus calme
Est celui de l'Amour :
Car la paix, c'est sa palme,
Battez, battez tambour.
La souffrance, la pire,
Est d'être sans l'Amour :
Battez, pour qu'elle expire,
Battez, battez tambour.
Le Baiser qui délivre
Est celui de l'Amour :
Battez pour qui veut vivre,
Battez, battez tambour.
La Caresse éternelle
Est celle de l'Amour :
Battez, la mort est belle,
Battez, battez tambour.
La guerre est la plus large
Des portes de l'Amour :
Pour l'assaut et la charge,
Battez, battez tambour.
La porte la plus sainte
Est celle de la mort :
Pour étouffer la plainte
Battez, battez plus fort.
L'atteinte la moins grave
Est celle de la mort :
L'amour est au plus brave,
La Victoire... au plus fort !
1.7k
Romance.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour :
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
En vous voyant, je me rappelle
Et mes plaisirs et mes succès ;
Comme vous, j'étais jeune et belle,
Et, comme vous, je le savais.
Soudain ma blonde chevelure
Me montra quelques cheveux blancs...
J'ai vu, comme dans la nature,
L'hiver succéder au printemps.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Naïve et sans expérience,
D'amour je crus les doux serments,
Et j'aimais avec confiance...
On croit au bonheur à quinze ans !
Une fleur, par Julien cueillie,
Était le gage de sa foi ;
Mais, avant qu'elle fût flétrie,
L'ingrat ne pensait plus à moi !
Dansez, fillettes du Village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
À vingt ans, un ami fidèle
Adoucit mon premier chagrin ;
J'étais triste, mais j'étais belle,
Il m'offrit son cœur et sa main.
Trop tôt pour nous vint la vieillesse ;
Nous nous aimions, nous étions vieux...
La mort rompit notre tendresse...
Mon ami fut le plus heureux !
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Pour moi, n'arrêtez pas la danse ;
Le ciel est pur, je suis au port,
Aux bruyants plaisirs de l'enfance
La grand-mère sourit encor.
Que cette larme que j'efface
N'attriste pas vos jeunes cœurs :
Le soleil brille sur la glace,
L'hiver conserve quelques fleurs.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour,
Et, sous un ciel exempt d'orage,
Embellissez mon dernier jour !
1.6k
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art;
For there thy habitation is the heart—
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,
—To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom—
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor and altar, for ’twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace,
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard.—May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
1.4k
As we pull away,
From the house,
Your mother's eyes, sheer pools of grey,
Foretelling a journey bound--
to chains of dismay,
As I pull away,
The cigarette from my lips
We cackle as if it is the end of days,
Chanting a ruckus sound,
To neighbors cross moonlit bay
As you pull away,
From our embrace,
I detect desiccated roots--that signify your decay
In an attempt to efface
Forgotten apologies
I pull away
Removed and frayed
What remains
Is a pile of ash
To be swept up in time by the wind
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
"qui es tu?"
qui es tu? Je ne sais plus. Avant tu étais l'amour, l'âme soeur, l'ami , l'amant, le tout. Mais maintenant qui es tu? Une blessure, une vilaine cicatrice , une épidémie, une nuit blanche, un malaise constant, une pensé qui honte mon esprit, un passé douloureux, un présent douloureux? une éternité? Je ne sais pas exactement comment te qualifier. Je sens que bientôt tu va devenir un souvenir lointain, un soupire désolé, une remontrance. Mais va tu un jour allez jusqu’à en être un regrée? Qui es tu? Un lit chaud pendant la nuit, glacial au matin.Qui es tu? Un étranger, une âme perdu, un esprit fou. Qui es tu? La colère, la jalousie, l'envy, le mal, la souffrance. Qui es tu? Le plaisir, le bonheur, la vie. Qui es tu? Un espoir ou désespoir? Joix ou tristesse? Qui es tu? Une leçon? Une plaisanterie? Qui es tu? Le mensonge ou la vérité? Qui es tu? Une envie ou un besoin? Qui es tu? Un départ ou une arrivée? Qui es tu? Gloire ou perte? Qui es tu? Le début ou la fin? Qui es tu? Un chapitre ou toute l'histoire? Qui es tu? Un sourire ou une larme? Qui es tu? Franchise ou hypocrisie? Qui es tu? La folie ou la raison? Qui es tu? Le bien ou le mal? Qui es tu? Qui es tu? Qui es tu? Non ne me lance pas ce sourire narquois! Non ne me dis pas que tu n'es juste pas comme les autres! Cela ne me suffit pas! Arrête! Ne t'en va pas, reste avec moi, aime moi, protège moi, prends moi dans tes bras et dis moi des mots doux comme tu le fessait avant. J’abandonne, je me rends, je suis a toi, fais ce que tu veux mais ne me brise pas ..pas pour la énième fois! Efface ce regard victorieux de tes yeux , je sais que se cache en eux de la bonté. Tu sais la bonté et le pardon ne sont pas des faiblesses, au contraire c'est de la force. L'amour non plus n'est pas une faiblesse mais une bénédiction . N'aie pas peur de me faire confiance. Pourquoi cette hésitation dans ton regard? Je t'aime! Comprends le. Je ne te ferait pas mal promis. je sais que demain tu partira encore une fois, que tu n'es pas encore prêt et que tu dois vivre libre de tout ça, libre de moi, mais embrasse moi quand même, laisse moi le souvenir de tes lèvres pour me garder saine. Peut être que c'est ce que tu es a la fin, un baiser passionné qui laisse nos lèvres rêvasser d'une prochaine collision entre eux, ce désir fou qui fait battre nos cœurs, se plaisir qui laisse nos corps tremblant après une nuit torride.. Tu es le ******
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
I will make of you a face. It will turn to me in the night, breathe a sweet sigh of a dream and pose unanswered questions to hang above us in the moonlight. Your lips will be marveled, your lips will sit upon the greatest words ever told, and on your lips i will hang my soul , and on your lips, i will hang my soul. I make of you a bridge for your nose up on which your forehead will sit, it will stand high and heavenly upon your nose, and i can place my toes, grounded, bit by bit. Your nose will slope downwards towards my whispers and silence my monologue and soliloquy, upon your nose will i bear my vows, and my vision, like a precipice hanging over the sea.
I will make of you a face. It's chin will cup my hand, and it will hold my bones and fingertips, your chin will stroke my face, as it stokes a fire, poker in the wood, drinking fire by the sips. Your cheeks will be broad and tight, and hold my defences and my punches and blows, it will move with the wind, and catch the first light, and catch my tears and absolve my woes. I will make of you your jawline, a structure so bold by any a man, it will proudly stand fierce to gain some ground, battle hardened by the burning grass, and cutting efface and rock hewn, without a ink of a sound.
I will make of you a face. Your temples will be where i worship, my prayers will be my hands, i will send you bidding of heaven and watch as they grin and bear tight across my rough seas and dry lands. Your eyebrows will be a gourd, they will frame and catch the sun, they will shadow the morning, day, noon and night, they will find catcher in the rye, a thief on the run. I will make of you your eyes, my irises are yours my sweet love, I will cut them from marble, coal and the universe, i will chisel them with great care, for these are mine, the glory and the power, the greatness and the worst.
I will make of you a face, my dear love, for if i make for you this great vestige of vision then, my powers they are yours, as they see me, only me, and they will understand my ever expansion of succinct precision, for in the making of you a face, my greatest work that has ever been, i see your face, as it sees me, and perfection is gained from something wholly, and magnificently unseen.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC