"gauloises" poems - Hello Poetry

Chasey calls them the dead mama blues. There's sadness, she says, mine has a scent to it; Despair, a shabby **** who mugs me under my covers On winter days at dawn, Catatonia, which only a messy bed,a bong,a bag of Cheetos and a boy can cure, And then way down from there, Squatting *** close to the ground, Smoking Gauloises in the dark, Live the dead mama blues. The only cure for the dead mama’s, Chasey explains, Is a blood rare steak and Etta James greatest hits on vinyl, Played quiet through the sweet spot of the night, All the lights off, the dishes done and dry. Helps if a sister has a slim hip man to dance with, she said, So if you ain’t runnin’, the grill’s on me. Come by sober any time after moon rise, Chasey yawned, Cause this girl could use a shoulder and a polite hand. And bring your slippers, she said Easier to shuffle over **** in sheepskin, plus We might go up on the roof later on And smoke some of my cubans for a while. Door will be open, so please don’t ring, Hell what am I saying, you know the path. Chasey yawned again, a big one, Waited a few seconds because there was nothing else to say And hung up the phone with a sigh.

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Aug 26, 2015

Aug 26, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC

hank-helman

Etta

Chasey calls them the dead mama blues. There's sadness, she says, mine has a scent to it; Despair, a shabby **** who mugs me under my covers On winter days at dawn, Catatonia, which only a messy bed,a bong,a bag of Cheetos and a boy can cure, And then way down from there, Squatting *** close to the ground, Smoking Gauloises in the dark, Live the dead mama blues. The only cure for the dead mama’s, Chasey explains, Is a blood rare steak and Etta James greatest hits on vinyl, Played quiet through the sweet spot of the night, All the lights off, the dishes done and dry. Helps if a sister has a slim hip man to dance with, she said, So if you ain’t runnin’, the grill’s on me. Come by sober any time after moon rise, Chasey yawned, Cause this girl could use a shoulder and a polite hand. And bring your slippers, she said Easier to shuffle over **** in sheepskin, plus We might go up on the roof later on And smoke some of my cubans for a while. Door will be open, so please don’t ring, Hell what am I saying, you know the path. Chasey yawned again, a big one, Waited a few seconds because there was nothing else to say And hung up the phone with a sigh.

26

Jeg tager bøgerne ud af reolen og bladrer manisk siderne igennem For at finde en sætning Eller blot et ord Dedikeret til os Finde sammenlignelige, naive digtere for at prøve at bevise At der i andre tider levede nogle som os Gående op og ned ad de samme gader Med fingrene flettede på præcis samme måde Nogle som os med delt spyt, som vugges med hovedet hvilende på den andens bryst og dette blik, dette hjem vi har skabt i hinanden Men ikke det mest sortklædte firserpar, der skiftes til at tage et sug af deres delte Gauloises Ikke Strunge’s bankende brystlomme, nej, ikke engang Gainsbourg og Birkin, ikke Tafdrup eller Thomsen, ingen, nej, nej vi må være guder i al vores almindelighed, guder der køber cola i kiosken, guder når du skyller sveden af mig, vi må være engle når du ligger med dit hoved så fredeligt på puden, dine øjenvipper der ligner fjer og dit rytmiske åndedrag Vi må være søskende, skilt ad ved fødslen Skulle vi ikke skamme os, for alt det blod vi har delt Skulle det ikke være forbudt, ulykkeligt Skulle vi ikke love hinanden At lukke øjnene til hver en tid Skærme os fra solen

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Nov 29, 2016

Nov 29, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC

Ishauldall

Vores første afsked skete ved fødslen og vi brugte resten af tiden på at finde hinanden igen

Jeg tager bøgerne ud af reolen og bladrer manisk siderne igennem For at finde en sætning Eller blot et ord Dedikeret til os Finde sammenlignelige, naive digtere for at prøve at bevise At der i andre tider levede nogle som os Gående op og ned ad de samme gader Med fingrene flettede på præcis samme måde Nogle som os med delt spyt, som vugges med hovedet hvilende på den andens bryst og dette blik, dette hjem vi har skabt i hinanden Men ikke det mest sortklædte firserpar, der skiftes til at tage et sug af deres delte Gauloises Ikke Strunge’s bankende brystlomme, nej, ikke engang Gainsbourg og Birkin, ikke Tafdrup eller Thomsen, ingen, nej, nej vi må være guder i al vores almindelighed, guder der køber cola i kiosken, guder når du skyller sveden af mig, vi må være engle når du ligger med dit hoved så fredeligt på puden, dine øjenvipper der ligner fjer og dit rytmiske åndedrag Vi må være søskende, skilt ad ved fødslen Skulle vi ikke skamme os, for alt det blod vi har delt Skulle det ikke være forbudt, ulykkeligt Skulle vi ikke love hinanden At lukke øjnene til hver en tid Skærme os fra solen

17

The Day Lady Died It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don’t know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

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Apr 25, 2015

Apr 25, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC

mike-essig

FRANK O'HARA

The Day Lady Died It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don’t know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

30

There has to be a reason that movies still script actors lighting cigarettes. Could it be that tobacco companies payola directors? Most likely not. I think it's a bit like poetry, where compression can **** a lot into a little plot. There's one thing I personally know, that every time the handsome guy fires up , I recollect the Lucky Strikes, the Camels, the Gauloises and the woman that inspired me to smoke.

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Jan 18, 2011

Jan 18, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC

perig3e

There has to be a reason

There has to be a reason that movies still script actors lighting cigarettes. Could it be that tobacco companies payola directors? Most likely not. I think it's a bit like poetry, where compression can **** a lot into a little plot. There's one thing I personally know, that every time the handsome guy fires up , I recollect the Lucky Strikes, the Camels, the Gauloises and the woman that inspired me to smoke.

13

The waitress smiles a little too much but we don't care, our little glass lung of Bordeaux dips away above slatish cobbles. A Gauloises whips ash from a smouldering hand into the corner table fragment. Systems of traffic evaporate. A massive shadow folds above the grifters. The river laps at knees of bread, while empty bottles browse the blackness for their corks. Beside cathedrals a dusted dusk glows & we follow it back to the hotel. It's a little room, our neighbors make love, & the courtyard roars with high orange; I think towards you when sheets of clouds betray a skimmed moon, & we pull sleep around us. The river tongue falls & sleek stones gather to a new language.

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Sep 25, 2019

Sep 25, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC

EvanS

Paris, September

The waitress smiles a little too much but we don't care, our little glass lung of Bordeaux dips away above slatish cobbles. A Gauloises whips ash from a smouldering hand into the corner table fragment. Systems of traffic evaporate. A massive shadow folds above the grifters. The river laps at knees of bread, while empty bottles browse the blackness for their corks. Beside cathedrals a dusted dusk glows & we follow it back to the hotel. It's a little room, our neighbors make love, & the courtyard roars with high orange; I think towards you when sheets of clouds betray a skimmed moon, & we pull sleep around us. The river tongue falls & sleek stones gather to a new language.

32

the cold melts the face upward moving sands drip the hammer strikes a chord time awakens gushing bouches de lavage a hanging pendant light illuminates in anticipation the trestled bust turns light cast, cradles the shadows an emerging voice speaks the damp muslin curtain falls fingers mould by the voice clay splashes bare feet piercing eyes meet their masters the nose is the same affectionate motions scrawl aged lines the voice is his own the curtain comes down blanketed whitened feet now a horizon a dawn chorus arrives the dream starts to avalanche buried in sleep time stops strong coffee to see the world toasted stale baguette to absorb the bitters a Gauloises to feed the soul water to quench the thirst lengthening shadows are a curse an African mask looks on one easel offers up an oil a palette languishes in adoration brushes sprout from a beer glass overflowing ashtrays furbish the easel the spatula jumps from one pile of pigmented oil to another a new eruption pours out of the glassy mantel pryoclastic flows seal the canvas seams of creation ***** forth the point moves in space one aspect becomes two lightness creates darkness celebrates three aspects evolve an intensity pulls the hand deeper the day is transformed a creature of the night bites the table transforms skies below solidify flowers swim for safety sombreroed fish jaywalk a weary smoke film stagnates in layers the soul is transfixed the painting is bewitched the artist is enslaved amusement for some misery for the few enlightenment for less in fine it... a dream is laid bare

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Aug 24, 2020

Aug 24, 2020 at 5:57 AM UTC

kevin-wright-2

Artist in a surreal dreamstate

the cold melts the face upward moving sands drip the hammer strikes a chord time awakens gushing bouches de lavage a hanging pendant light illuminates in anticipation the trestled bust turns light cast, cradles the shadows an emerging voice speaks the damp muslin curtain falls fingers mould by the voice clay splashes bare feet piercing eyes meet their masters the nose is the same affectionate motions scrawl aged lines the voice is his own the curtain comes down blanketed whitened feet now a horizon a dawn chorus arrives the dream starts to avalanche buried in sleep time stops strong coffee to see the world toasted stale baguette to absorb the bitters a Gauloises to feed the soul water to quench the thirst lengthening shadows are a curse an African mask looks on one easel offers up an oil a palette languishes in adoration brushes sprout from a beer glass overflowing ashtrays furbish the easel the spatula jumps from one pile of pigmented oil to another a new eruption pours out of the glassy mantel pryoclastic flows seal the canvas seams of creation ***** forth the point moves in space one aspect becomes two lightness creates darkness celebrates three aspects evolve an intensity pulls the hand deeper the day is transformed a creature of the night bites the table transforms skies below solidify flowers swim for safety sombreroed fish jaywalk a weary smoke film stagnates in layers the soul is transfixed the painting is bewitched the artist is enslaved amusement for some misery for the few enlightenment for less in fine it... a dream is laid bare

56

She stands outside the shop Contra Natura, On Rua Dos Correeiros. I just happen to see while watching the Brazil match, The fans in yellow rushing to the square...Park do Comerico Leaning against the green tiled facade, Cigarette in her left hand. Dressed in faded grey jeans, Black jumper, ***** sneakers, She is beautiful. The shop display holds a blindfolded manikin, Dog collar and lead. See through plastic underpants, He looks happy. She draws on her gauloises Looks to her left. And with a look of distain, Dismisses that reality. In her annual review, Her boss Mr Costa has demanded, That she sells more whips, Beautifully she looks at him with same dismissal. In her garret on Rua Da Madalena, She reads Fernando Pessoa. Cigarette in the left hand, A glass of Douro red to her right, Leg draped over a worn armchair. This is her real life, A world devoid of the Slavery of work. Life and Slavery, Two ships passing unknown, Unrecognised,uncommunicative. Her soul is an orchestra, I can't decern the instruments. Harps, piano, drums don't know, I can only see the music.

0

Jul 7, 2018

Jul 7, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC

GreenWhiskey

A most bored empoyee

She stands outside the shop Contra Natura, On Rua Dos Correeiros. I just happen to see while watching the Brazil match, The fans in yellow rushing to the square...Park do Comerico Leaning against the green tiled facade, Cigarette in her left hand. Dressed in faded grey jeans, Black jumper, ***** sneakers, She is beautiful. The shop display holds a blindfolded manikin, Dog collar and lead. See through plastic underpants, He looks happy. She draws on her gauloises Looks to her left. And with a look of distain, Dismisses that reality. In her annual review, Her boss Mr Costa has demanded, That she sells more whips, Beautifully she looks at him with same dismissal. In her garret on Rua Da Madalena, She reads Fernando Pessoa. Cigarette in the left hand, A glass of Douro red to her right, Leg draped over a worn armchair. This is her real life, A world devoid of the Slavery of work. Life and Slavery, Two ships passing unknown, Unrecognised,uncommunicative. Her soul is an orchestra, I can't decern the instruments. Harps, piano, drums don't know, I can only see the music.

36