"fauvist" poems
Joy to our lives such Hope, supernal that
who grace this world of darkness rejects hatred, they call forth
once in an aeon. the soul and tend love;
Gripped in sadness we Purgatory cells
who have lost a lighted lamp - imprisoning the human
this mourning season; spirit for small gain;
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
I like to think about her pleasing you
the sloppy drunken kisses planted
her fingers hastily unzipping your pants
hands groping your naked hips
that she would kneel before you
as if pleging her allegiance to you
working her hardest to draw out
sunflowers in fauvist orange
her tongue spiraling around
edges of your handsome sweetness
I only wish you could've enjoyed it
felt easy enough to love others back
there is not enough of it in this world
let her take you in if you'd like
your pleasure and happiness comes first
all I love deserves to be shared and seen
there is no point to hidden artwork
or unheard music, no matter how gorgeous
love, too, ought to be shared
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
I speak sensibly,
Wonder often about what they see,
Mark perfection only as a nominee,
Find a way to make everything out for me,
The older I get the more confusion I achieve,
Like a fledgling, green, senseless thing,
Who are these people wheeling and dealing in well-being,
Refuge, degrees, friends and family,
These are the things that are supposed to be comforting,
But I am in the cellar,
Looking too closely through wide open glass,
Squinting at the lights of the self-proclaimed insane,
Effected for a second giving myself away,
Oh what I would give to have more art up on display,
I would let it be the only thing I want each day,
Let it change how I behave,
Let it live without a frame,
Find the way it likes to hang,
Handle it until it caves,
And colors confined by lines are freed,
In the lair of the fauvist fiend.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
She was thick, erubescent.
Advised not to give her my eyes, I stared:
she was haloed by the diaphanous seat
which held me when she shifted.
Flourishing fiercely, defiant,
she glowered, staining porcelain
like pink tipped damasks; a Fauvist impression.
I believe if she’d had a tongue
she would have screamed,
scolded me for my selfishness-
shrieking as the sorceress’ slain offspring.
My heart cringing, heavy lids like two tomb doors
shielding me like from her quiet contention,
I summoned the scrubs to put her out.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC