"fru" poems
Femenina, pero sin excesos,
que fluya la luz de sus ojos
pero sin apagar los neones
de MONSANTO, luz biodegradable
pero agradable al tacto.
Libre y Natural, como un sombrero.
Mezcla sutil de lana y jacquard.
Silueta relajada a la altura del *****
como una virgen romana,
y un concierto de colores húmedos
según va cayendo la tarde
Muy casual a partir de los labios
y un lindo ABCdario entre las piernas.
Transmisión sin pausa, dejando un eco
al volver a casa, sin caer en brazos
de una sonrisa armada hasta los dientes.
El color blanco es su aliado
y los pájaros pintados en el jardín
de sus sueños, en las manos, la imprescindible
lencería de una imaginación sin prisas,
y la siempre impredecible pasión
en su fresquito pequeño, aroma a alba
con un poco de opio en los cristales.
Un look de muerte para terminar
con el ideal de hombre, todo sin dejar de ofrecer
la cara oculta de su luna, un poco descabellada
al caminar por el Mercado
dejando claro que su hogar no se marchita.
El éxito como una póliza de seguros
guardado a la altura de su láctea paradoja.
Y de vez en vez mostrar la plantación de flores
cultivadas por la maniquí secreta
que en ASIA o en los fiordos del alma, arde.
Sin dejar oír nunca un si te quiero
que no sea el fru fru de su trastienda,
seda y sede de coral ***** y una navajita
para degollar pecado como peces
sin dejar de ser sofisticada con los dedos
y una delicadez a prueba de balas.
Es lo que se va llevar en las Avenidas de este Otoño.
Y un cielo en rama para amar un poco.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
You know, this journal does not even contain half of what we know. I hope we never forget.
(sonnet #MMMMMMDCLV)
Now, while cicadas drone 'neath blue skies' pale
Glance, or to deeper shades of that, what hence?
Remember Starbucks' "Friends Day" for intents,
The prompt last night, as yesterday's detail:
We rode the bike path 'gain whose wildflowrs hail
As wont in clover's pink, and yellows thence
With brown eyes, thistles' purple, grasses dense
On either side, while goldfinch laughed t'avail.
I'd hated these auld trails we knew, as poor
Since Mum's death, but now I belong to you,
Oh! all's sae sweet like ne'er before as twere.
My car'mel fru-fru drink was tasty too:
Cuz I am yours. That means I can't write fer
All that cuz evry minute's yours who woo.
08Aug17
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
GILDED CAGE*
Unlike the pampered, well heeled clients of my "faith", I didn't enter the Fort Harrison Hotel via the opulent main entrance. I made my appearance through the back. The garage entrance was less than hospitable. And, I noticed, there seemed to be people living in the cold, drafty motor housing! When I asked about this strange berthing, Noah was much less than forthcoming. "RPF", he mumbled. Well. What's an RPF when it's at home? Then I saw a few of the denizens of said "RPF". I knew very little about it. Only that it was punishment. For people were "out-ethics". WOW. The RPF "sleeping quarters" had bunks three high, and was protected only marginally from the winds that swept through that garage.
There was an RPF person who was coming through the breezeway as I entered. He stepped aside very deferentialy, and said, "Excuse me, Sirs!" to Noah and I. WOW. I'd never had THAT kind of treatment in my life! I guess I was someone important! This bubble was burst immediately. I met the I/C of the FRU.
She was not in a good mood, as I recall. But, then, who ever really was in this Organization? She DID TRY to be nice. Greeted me clammily, and put on a spurious smile. She recognized I needed sleep, at least. Upon walking through the building, the rooms got more and more posh. I was to get to my berthing through the hotel lobby, apparently. It was grand! But in a sort of an outdated way. I really don't remember much else. Except for the conditions in my sleeping quarters. Only marginally better than the RPF! bunks three high! Junk everywhere (some of the new recruits had yet to figure out that they should cull their possessions to a minimum). Guess who was designated the top bunk? You got it. And moi was not a happy camper! As I climbed the rickety ladder to the top bunk I remember thinking, "How much lower can a person go?"
I WAS, EVENTUALLY, TO FIND OUT.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
Dov'era la luna? Ché il cielo
notava in un'alba di perla,
ed ergersi il mandorlo e il melo
parevano a meglio vederla.
Venivano soffi di lampi
da un nero di nubi laggiù:
veniva una voce dai campi:
chiù...
Le stelle lucevano rare
tra mezzo alla nebbia di latte:
sentivo il cullare del mare,
sentivo un fru fru tra le fratte;
sentivo nel cuore un sussulto,
com'eco d'un grido che fu.
Sonava lontano il singulto:
chiù...
Su tutte le lucide vette
tremava un sospiro di vento;
squassavano le cavallette
finissimi sistri d'argento
(tintinni a invisibili porte
che forse non s'aprono più?... );
e c'era quel pianto di morte...
chiù...
875
bourne the weight of the day
with the faded strength of yesterdays hopes and dreams
but it suffices to carry me forward
i light a candle
curse the darkness
stand against all the things
which try to lay me low
i have come this far
**** if im going to let anyone knock me down
im not hurcules
im stronger
im not superman
im faster
i belive in me
i have people eho love me
and belive in me too
thats enough to get me through anything
this life can toss my way
and if anyone reading this needs superman
you got my freakin number
peace the **** out my friends
:-)
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Brea-
Fru- -sts.
-its
.
.
.
E
K
O
M
S
I was once...
...a pile...of leaves.
© 2014 J.S.P.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
My dear
Modernity
I do not believe in what the Devil hath seen
but how do I not believe in what the Devil seen?
Creation? Destruction?
Fear? Hate?
What hath we sought that we not deserve?
Crucifixations caught through gopros
Electrical diction, photons in slow mo
Billy clubs used to break bones
Bullets know how to stop the beating heart
Blood punctures provide insights on poverty analytics
Flood lectures absistence from the soul
Stress dominants king dr$$SS$Falalalzzzs
S
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
It was a small cafe, the sign that hung
outside appeared wider than the shop
itself.
The logo was a purple monkey
with a large cup of coffee in his hand,
it read "Worlds Grapest Coffee".
Once inside the first thing you notice
is the place smells like brewed heaven,
not like those fru-fru places with all their
exotic flavors, this was just good ole
coffee aroma, thick in the air and
delicious to the nose.
As far as the ambiance,
there wasn't any,
no pretension here.
The wooden floor was old,
worn and uneven, It almost felt like
you were standing on the deck
of a small boat in the middle of a storm,
if you didn't know better, you would
swear the tables and chairs could
come sliding your way at any moment.
The counter looked like it was installed
in the 80’s it had a blue gray formica top
with tiny speckles.
The woman who took my order
had these remarkable sea green eyes,
I was taken aback immediately
when I saw them,
she wore a white button up blouse
with a black apron wrapped around
her waist, the kind with a pouch
in the front.
Short slim, long dark, chestnut
brown hair with a contagious smile,
definitely not hard on these old eyes.
When asking for my order, her voice
had a smokey jazzy feel to it, adding
yet another layer of soothingness
to the place.
I ordered a regular coffee, black with two sugars
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC