"gamine" poems
A thespian
In a play
A strong man
But not strong today
Leading girl gone away
One act
One scene
One line to say
His kōan
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
Silence.
Pretty girl
Gamine thin
Her Ribs
Bent staves
Round a coopers bin
And at the clubs
She picks up men
Who leave her
When they’ve
Had their fill.
And still
It’s courtly love she seeks
A treasure trove
That is for keeps.
Her kōan
"The moon cannot be stolen."
But maybe if she seduces it…
It will be hers.
She’s middle aged
There’s not much left
Her ******* aren’t firm
She’s barrel shaped
She watches soaps
And talks with friends
And fights the fear
That if it ends...
She hasn’t amounted to
Much at all
She could have been more
If she just had the time
Her kōan
"What are you doing?"
Nothing.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
Je voulais tout supprimer et puis me pendre
J’ai préféré écrire
J’ai marché dix kilomètres dans un Paris assommé de tristesse
J’ai vu des enfants aux crânes ruisselant de sueur, des vieux puant l’urine flétrie et des amoureux aux manches rétrécies par l’infinie similitude de leurs journées d’hiver
J'ai erré dans le froid glacial d'une banlieue endormie
Failli tomber trois fois
Souri à une gamine en manteau couleur rose bonbon
J'ai pas mangé, ingurgité un litre de vin sur le balcon des enfants morts
J'ai pas parlé, je me suis juste évanouie
J'ai voyagé dans vos souterrains les yeux rivés vers les étoiles
Le lapin suspendu au fil à linge de la cave se vidait de son sang dans la bassine rouge
Tu peux ****** sur moi, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me fracasser la tête contre ton sale radiateur poussiéreux, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me cracher dessus, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux tout me dire, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me frapper encore un peu, encore plus fort, tu peux te venger sur moi, sur la tête de ma sale conne de mère, je te jure, je ne dirai rien tout
Je ne dirai rien du tout
Embrasse-moi et puis après si tu veux, je te laisserai faire tout ce que tu veux
Tu fais quoi, là
Fais quelque chose, fais-moi quelque chose
T'es une jolie fille, intelligente en plus, tu fais juste un peu peur de temps en temps, quand t'écris, tu fais peur
Alors coupe-moi les mains
Je t'en supplie, coupe-moi les mains
Je promets je ne dirai rien, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux ****** sur moi, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me fracasser la tête contre ton sale radiateur poussiéreux, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me cracher dessus, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux tout me dire, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me frapper encore un peu, encore plus fort, tu peux te venger sur moi, sur la tête de ma sale conne de mère, je te jure, je ne dirai rien du tout
Fais- moi mal
Fais- moi très mal
Je ne veux juste pas y aller.
(Alors sauve-la)
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:49 AM UTC
Your small hand, is all I asked for darling.
The wedding band, well it comes after darling
I've seen your seams and know you're not a human being
But you're the dream that I've been looking after
I've torn off to the East coast and I've gone to the West
Your parents and your siblings have only done what you've said.
I didn't lead you on when you showed me how you liked to be touched,
Do you know how long you've asked me to wait now?
Do you remember when you used to faint and cry?
I remember when you couldn't feed yourself,
I remember when you tried to lie about dying.
Why do you do this? We both have mothers, we've got sisters and dads.
I've seen you broken, sick, and crying while we laid in the bath.
I never thought I'd see you settle or give up on your dreams,
Now I've given up six years for someone I haven't even seen.
It's like when you held my shoulder during that downpour
Driving 75mph in the Mercedes back and forth on Highway-19
I begged you to tell me that unconditional love story,
About the girl who met a boy three weeks before she was to leave.
You can keep the story but I want my penguin back.
It survived Fallujah as well as the war in Iraq.
Even though I ache missing the taste of your skin,
Nothing's more important to me than being in your company again.
Maybe you could stop the torture
While I do more than taking pictures of the talent,
And instead you might consider doing something romantic;
I think you're brave enough to live an incredible life
But can you speak your mind without having to lie.
Maybe one day you'll realize I don't have ulterior motives
Except to earn enough gold so we can live how we want to.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
he always calls me by my given name
whenever he finds himself back in town;
mariela on the dotted line,
mari in the moonlight.
ella if he's feeling smug,
bunny when he's looking for God.
he knows my history is shaded with blue,
marred by narrowly-won home-front wars.
everything about me reminds him
of Heaven and sweet, honeyed beaches.
sandy cheeks from moonbathing, ****
by clyde's stagecoach motel on the coast.
barefoot and manic, he tastes like sugar
and complements the *** on my tongue.
green-eyed with envy, but he's sweet
enough to make my mind grow hazy
with the lust of a woman gone mad from her fears.
he rolls through on the tail-end of a storm
and dizzies me until the dream ends
and i find he's left me only morning dew.
he tells me i'm an angel, lazily smoking
cigarettes while he lounges, gloomy, by the pool.
sunshine bikini singing sailor songs softly,
cool in my gold hoops dancing between
his open thighs, signaling gamine doom.
he's larger than life, starry-eyed,
reading me poetry against his olive chest.
i could die here, i know this, listening
to the gentle tune of his heartbeat.
he tells me he'll love me only until tomorrow,
but i'm not so sure that's the truth.
when the playdate ends,
when the sun dies slow,
when my love goes home
i'll awaken,
but not just yet.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 10:31 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
She was a gamine,
an urchin and a recluse.
Tattered and waifish,
scrounging for some small morsel underneath a city bus.
Tarnished,
a lot like brass that's been exposed to water;
she's splotched.
Even whilst disenfranchised,
she carries some valiance hidden beneath her turncoat.
There is beauty in the loose pages she's giving to the wind.
She is,
and will forever be,
floating in the updraft of a sidewalk vent.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
_Pale-faced beneath twilight’s awning, shadowed time skips
A beat measured in dust motes and attic silence;
Frameless ether holds its breath and portrait likenesses
Swivel eyes right, suspended between the minute and the hour;
In sequence, Whittington’s chiming sepia tones wring out
A tulip of port and one last cigar from drapery long hung;
As floral meanders unwind from a walnut casing
Inlayed with the gamine whimsies of our cherried youth._
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
Could you see this?
Or could you not
The empty clouds above
Veiling blood and bargains
Like a parody
Akin to mundane ghosts
Hey you gamine
This is no place to cry
***** along with me
Through the whistling woods of irony
Look at
The open windows here
The sky lights in your eyes
Against the shadows and silhouettes
We are all nothing
But street urchins on this land
For we were condemned
While we were asleep
Deep into the lights and oceans of
The superior rule, love
Sing along you little one
For this day of spring
Shan’t be the same
You and I will break bread
You and I shall be friends
You and I shall ride together
The giant wheel
For the people to know
May be just once
You are at the acme
In a niggling time frame
You touch the ground
For he, who is from heaven
Is for heaven!
For all who is gold
Will eventually grow old
For all who live
Shall fall one day
I will be here with you
I will be around
And I will mellow down
With the infinite skies
and a canopy of rains….
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
A Cafe is breathing heavily; attended
By elven baristas, fully illustrated.
Tamping espresso.
Baguettes soften canary yellow berets -
Worn at a rakish angle, like a fascinator
At The Preakness.
Ethiopian fumes barricade the open door
Against the effluvium of the morning -
Commute… like tying a kite
To a black truffle. With a blade -
of grass.
My hands fold space into a sweat lodge
Like the scaffolding of a forgotten prayer.
My chin planted at the zenith
Admiring the anatomy
Of an abandoned
Fist.
On the outskirts of a mocha.
She is ineffable. With gamine eyes -
Churning sunlight into green coins shimmering
In tandem. Like koi in a pond.
Her summer dress, a diaphanous affair.
Accentuating the curvature of her
Natural mischief. Clinging to peaks and valleys
As they sway in obedience
To hidden music… poised.
In a state of perpetual
Goddess.
She glides… as I covet. Preaching to the choir
In my ribcage. My eyes caressing the parentheses
Of her stride. She is ineffable.
Words fail as they are want to do
In the presence of effortless elan’. She is cloaked
By her own reality. Like an undertow
Stuck to the heel
Of her shoe.
With nothing to prove.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls with craters for collarbones,
arms so gamine and slender
that they mirror the bend
of a flowers stalk.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who can wake up and go
without spending an hour
scrutinising themselves in the mirror,
so naturally beautiful
that they exude summer.
I want to be of those girls.
The girls who like to dress like the magazines,
that are entirely sugar and spice
and everything nice,
always painted
with a rom com ready smile.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who always know
exactly what to say,
when to laugh
and when to shut their mouths.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls described as ****
and cute
and girlfriend material,
instead of
'one of the guys'.
I want to be one of those girls.
Not whatever I am
who laughs too loud
and eats too much
and drinks too much
and doesn't care
what Kim K wore to the gym last week.
I want to be one of those girls.
I want -
I just want to be me.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
When juiced a spore sized embryo, early in utero; fetus
evinces atavistic miniaturization,
where nascent differentiation wrought
physical resemblance to - seek reachers,
sans Tarzan and Jane forebears,
or exemplification of religious embodiments writ upon taut
lee helical real to reel strung nano deoxyribonucleic acid,
where dome min ant
ander recessive traits pop sic cull, and/or mom genes sought
took comb hing gull, where foxy fiery hander chrome hat tick
microscopic threads ineluctably
hired bot to weave warp and woof for naught
heard interpretive soundcloud issue onomatopoetic beat,
whether as:
the Marseillaise, muezzin, or reveille blown in the wind
by alimentary mechanic, *** killed in all manner of ought
tow mobile craftsmanship, which possibly inflated and made pregnant,
when one seem n
thrashes within timed zona pellucida drawbridge,
hooping an ova to snag,
though odds stacked against the most basic cell fish competition fought
in the **** z of evolutionary biology informing **** sapiens
one errant or defiant game gamete perhaps hinting a gamine
tubby wonderfully woven with wisps viz The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the ***** and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do a ha at last that renegade oocyte
nabbed, analogously the Michael Phelps re: among the flagellated
madding crowdsource qua squirming sperm-faction caught
thence the commencement when trappings for a newborn bought
years later reviewing prenatal sonograms with grown son or daughter
pointing out how ***** editorialized, epitomized, and exemplified
in miniature (no bigger than any letter of the alphabet),
and closely resembled many creatures extant throughout the briny deep
such as an amphibian, reptile or Argonaut.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
she calls me
gamine
for a girl who hides her masculine hands,
an adam's apple forcefully shoved in her throat
and a voice that makes men question their masculinity
her words shed light on
the darkest places i hide the pieces of me i fear to show
and i am basking in her light
proud and loud.
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 7:48 AM UTC
Tu m'as frappé, c'est ridicule,
Je l'ai battue et c'est affreux :
Je m'en repens et tu m'en veux.
C'est bien, c'est selon la formule.
Je n'avais qu'à me tenir coi
Sous l'aimable averse des gifles
De ta main experte en mornifles,
Sans même demander pourquoi.
Et toi, ton droit, ton devoir même,
Au risque de t'exténuer,
Il serait de continuer
De façon extrême et suprême...
Seulement, ô ne m'en veux plus,
Encore que ce fût un crime
De t'avoir faite ma victime...
Dis, plus de refus absolus,
Bats-moi, petite, comme plâtre,
Mais ensuite viens me baiser,
Pas ? quel besoin d'éterniser
Une querelle trop folâtre.
Pour se brouiller plus d'un instant,
Le temps de nous faire une moue
Qu'éteint un bécot sur la joue,
Puis sur la bouche en attendant
Mieux encor, n'est-ce pas, gamine ?
Promets-le-moi sans biaiser.
C'est convenu ? Oui ? Puis-je oser ?
Allons, plus de ta grise mine !
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