"gendarme" poems
Eratic Plastic Dysphemistic Euphemisms
the rain in Spain
falls mainly on the plain
while the dome in Rome
is a place to call home
and the gazoot in Beirut
is in cahoot
with the Neo in Reo
and his brother Theo
and Levi in Shanghai
munches blueberry pie
the roast on the coast
has been burnt like the toast
and my frog on the log
barks like a dog
its a pity how gritty
it is in ** Chi Minh City
never challange Mr Wong to play ping pong
in Hong Kong
or smoke a bowl with a mole
in old town Seoul
or the gendarme will storm
the crowd in Pittsburgh
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
We are the ones,
cast from the warmth and into the cold
where lungs break down
and hearts are left for the wolves.
We bloom in the chill now.
Like a hellebore bursts
from the banks of snow.
We have arrived
where the exiled
were bound to go -
we've packed The Tinguit Inn
and there's no vacancy.
And yes, oh yes,
we remember you,
tugging at our bound wrists.
We can see your eyes- -
your damnable dark eyes,
twist the chains around our necks.
Gendarme, what say you?
Where are your comrades now?
Where are the revolvers
you issued them as you said
"Just in case of an uprising..."
You know, son,
we have a history of
slitting the throats of our cousins
over a handful of stolen grain.
Imagine what we do to a thief
who robbed us from the sails
of our Mediterranean Sea.
Look at the sky!
The plateau and,
beyond,
our land that stretches to
the shorelines!
We are the exiled
from the Tinguit Hotel,
and yes - you will pay.
Tu paieras.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.
I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.
Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.
When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
Mejor será no regresar al pueblo,
al edén subvertido que se calla
en la mutilación de la metralla.
Hasta los fresnos mancos,
los dignatarios de cúpula oronda,
han de rodar las quejas de la torre
acribillada en los vientos de fronda.
Y la fusilería grabó en la cal
de todas las paredes
de la aldea espectral,
negros y aciagos mapas,
porque en ellos leyese el hijo pródigo
al volver a su umbral
en un anochecer de maleficio,
a la luz de petróleo de una mecha
su esperanza deshecha.
Cuando la tosca llave enmohecida
tuerza la chirriante cerradura,
en la añeja clausura
del zaguán, los dos púdicos
medallones de yeso,
entornando los párpados narcóticos,
se mirarán y se dirán: «¿Qué es eso?»
Y yo entraré con pies advenedizos
hasta el patio agorero
en que hay un brocal ensimismado,
con un cubo de cuero
goteando su gota categórica
como un estribillo plañidero.
Si el sol inexorable, alegre y tónico,
hace hervir a las fuentes catecúmenas
en que bañábase mi sueño crónico;
si se afana la hormiga;
si en los techos resuena y se fatiga
de los buches de tórtola el reclamo
que entre las telarañas zumba y zumba;
mi sed de amar será como una argolla
empotrada en la losa de una tumba.
Las golondrinas nuevas, renovando
con sus noveles picos alfareros
los nidos tempraneros;
bajo el ópalo insigne
de los atardeceres monacales,
el lloro de recientes recentales
por la ubérrima ubre prohibida
de la vaca, rumiante y faraónica,
que al párvulo intimida;
campanario de timbre novedoso;
remozados altares;
el amor amoroso
de las parejas pares;
noviazgos de muchachas
frescas y humildes, como humildes coles,
y que la mano dan por el postigo
a la luz de dramáticos faroles;
alguna señorita
que canta en algún piano
alguna vieja aria;
el gendarme que pita...
...Y una íntima tristeza reaccionaria.
1.2k
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere
Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left! Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Nonconformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs
Shot to pieces, picking skin
Benzedrine, adrenaline
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Somebody call a cop
Make Tom Cruise and them stop
I think they’re over the top
We need to close their shop
You see I’ve figured out
They’re just another cult
Who have Hollywood clout
By going the science route
Somebody call the police
At the very least
Their madness needs to cease
And their numbers decreased
Perhaps you find it odd
That I view them a fraud
Both here and also abroad
They need to be outlawed
Somebody call a gendarme
There’s reason for alarm
They have seductive charm
For those fresh off a farm
I see the telltale signs
I’ve peep behind their blinds
And seen their Machiavellian designs
They’re trying to capture minds
Somebody call the Bullen
And that’s my final ruling
Who they think they foolin’
The ignorant need schoolin’
For those who go for hocus pocus
And tend to lose their focus
Easily become the locus
Which they can use to yoke us
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
the classic. defines his essence.
has class but wears slip-on airwalks with a corduroy finish.
he is the un-official fragrance of California.
the blend. defines his unique musk.
creates his own signature scent. the aroma of lust.
he’s there. but not in the center.
the freshest. defines his presence.
casually sensual, yet professionally down-to-business.
his look. that stare. hearts he hypnotizes.
the drift. defines his confidence.
distinctively driven. to be assertive, yet ever so cleverly subtle.
she loves it. he knows the ingredients.
the scent. citrus and verbena.
‘herbal’ with a dry-down of jasmine and thyme.
bound to a hint of petuna’s hide.
the content. 12% oil blend for a compelling long last.
that won’t overpower the girl who’s time is spent basking
in another place. the great lakes.
the dirt. front row parking.
richness of the earth. fresh sea. warm sun.
acqua di gio. gendarme.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
Yo tuve, en tierra adentro, una novia muy pobre:
ojos inusitados de sulfato de cobre.
Llamábase María; vivía en un suburbio,
y no hubo entre nosotros ni sombra ni disturbio.
Acabamos de golpe: su domicilio estaba
contiguo a la estación de los ferrocarriles,
y ¿qué noviazgo puede ser duradero entre
campanadas centrífugas y silbatos febriles?
El reloj de su sala desgajaba las ocho;
era diciembre, y yo departía con ella
bajo la limpidez glacial de cada estrella.
El gendarme, remiso a mi intriga inocente,
hubo de ser, al fin, forzoso confidente.
María se mostraba incrédula y tristona:
yo no tenía traza de una buena persona.
¿Olvidarás acaso, corazón forastero,
el acierto nativo de aquella señorita
que oía y desoía tu pregón embustero?
Su desconfiar ingénito era ratificado
por los perros noctívagos, en cuya algarabía
reforzábase el duro presagio de María.
¡Perdón, María! Novia triste, no me condenes;
cuando oscile el quinqué y se abatan las ocho,
cuando el sillón te mezca, cuando ululen los trenes,
cuando trabes los dedos por detrás de tu nuca,
no me juzgues más pérfido que uno de los silbatos
que turban tu faena y tus recatos.
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