"impermissible" poems
Nothing So Sensuous
Last night, I went back in time and met Alice Liddell in 1862.
Alice Pleasance Liddell, known for most of her adult life by her married name, Alice Hargreaves, inspired the children's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, whose protagonist Alice is said to be named after her. See her, greet her, in my banner photo, and all will clear.
~~~~~~~~~
nothing so sensuous
as to watch a woman,
nay, a woman child,
brush her hair
in the mirror.
sensuous,
more than sensual,
all my senses
affected.
luxuriating in a gift that
cannot be
bought,
her head titled,
then thrown
from her chest as far back,
your eyes see waves
of chestnut in
slow motion,
the smile on her face
for the knowing that
she has
sorcerer succeeded
in capturing
all of you.
mesmerizer,
she languidly strokes
her hair,
though it needs it not.
no, she brushes you
to your
knees,
your eyes,
see her eyes,
in the mirror,
the woman's sensuality
maddening.
every sense alerted,
you body fired,
far beyond
merely stirred,
she has you,
and then she asks...
would you brush my hair?
have you ever been in love?
*have you ever had to tell someone
you no longer loved them
though you still did?*
you answer:
Oh yes, Oh may I?
yes, with you totally, at this very instant.
**yes, for I
must leave you
and return to
my time, my age,
150 years from now**
*the only way
I can do that
is to lie to myself,
no, I do not love you
that much,
not that way,
pretense,
for the agony of this*
impermissible desire
is such ecstasy,
that I can
only dare to
write of it,
in my time,
lest I fulfill
it in ours.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
Define a modern day criminal
While hypocritical political beings run our land
Living in a critical pitiful painful physical caving roof
With a senseless empirical prototypical lost truth
Indivisible people with inimical minds destroy the parasitical
But we don’t dream
We don’t wish
And we fear
Impermissible values atypical to the nonphysical morals
Incorporated with subliminal messages conveying hypercritical cynical thoughts
That create a clinical stereotypical that cousins the excremental
Archetypical of hatred and malice of our digital kind
Visible scars traditional to the mental demons in our minds
But we take the beatings
We’re let down
And we disappoint
An occipital which lacks visual of the coincidental
Leading to a sentimental moment where the only desires are miracles
The minimal heart becomes gentle and suffers pain
A pain in the temple far from accidental that can offer supplemental guidance
Unconditional love and fundamental care
But we take for granted
We’re selfish
And we fail
An oriental vibe in the beat box’s instrumental welfare
Which adorns the continental flesh like a spring ornamental plant
Judgmental is the incidental human race, the municipal force of the universe
Oppose the parental control against the environmental curiosity of our infants
Because unlike rental we can’t take back our wagon of mishaps in a world so
hypocritical, cynical, stereotypical, digital, and just mental.
Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2011 ©
March 7th, 2011 5:42am
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:19 AM UTC
A strong rhapsodic feeling
when your face just pops
up for the billionth time.
Emotions just find their way
through and along with it
comes the impermissible pain.
I have started to find pleasure
in pain.
Dancing with the execrable
devil, bare footed on the pieces
of broken glass gets me high
on the poison my soul's dripping.
Reminds me how the wine in the
bottle was replaced with blood
and the scars you left on my
body remained untouched.
The night when I saw fire
in your eyes a feeling was born.
A feeling that brought excruciating
pain.
Fire in your eyes and stars in mine,
we overdosed on **** We danced
all night on the dolorous monody
and bled to death.
Death was only the beginning,
the beginning of pain.
Sitting in a stygian place trying
to find a way to reach your ******
soul, I denied heaven.
I walked alone on the path that
led to you. That led to hell.
Loving you was wrong. It was
painful. It stung me and injected
venom into every single atom
of mine.
Pain o pain you have never left
my side, all the roses in my
hair have wilted and the violets
have died.
Just leave me alone. Just leave me
alone.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
It's really hurts till my soul
Im falling for you
I know it's complicated
But my hearts beating for you
I can't imagine why
Love is really blind
I've been sorrunded
By a thousand people by
But still i choose you
I hope i could surpass this one
Because this is forbidden one
Loving a married one
Like im losing the real one
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
I do not have access to fact. The truth is I will remember you and not remember why. I wish she was here to remind me of what I’m missing. Details leave me as well as the persistent heat of year long summer endures, reinforcing the blatant query of forgone. The once known gently shrugs tired arms and I am loose paper. I am impressed with a deep instinctual need for movement but the reality is I move less and less each day. My ego longs to move on but keeps returning to the bed I don’t belong in. It is covered in owl feathers and blue petals. Someone else occupies it now in another city. I am thirsty, but everything is bittersweet. It is always bittersweet. This tang always like copper in my mouth. A tired hand always spins the spoon. Images overlap of her wet face and sad arms. She is happy now. You can only believe this uncertainty. The truth is there is no truth. Only knowing. This always keeps us looking. Something inside keeps scratching, always twining the immutable self, eating its way out. You have a name for it, but you’ve forgotten. Her arms are forgotten, only now the things she touched. Like the morning. In me always morning, the lament for impermissible time leaks out between the floorboards in blush white light. Even now there is no explanation.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
words, forever,
and their pressing occupations
of living.
the multiplitude is something
that crosses a territory.
say a hand where, somewhere impermissible, still ganders over,
warm to touch. a filigree of
fingers reaching to where
enlightenment is something so small
like a match-flame.
they inexplicably dress themselves
to the soul's penchant
and their redundancies are recurring most over tongues of flame.
sometimes when there are no
words, silence continues to
resuscitate them in their
stations. a mutiny of stone
under the shade of a nook,
or migratory horses seeking
rest at the foot of hills
where their crests look
at them painting them white
with blackness.
where words go,
we follow. even in the tracklessness. our pursuit
knows no ending, like the turning
of a day's page and its finality.
like tasting truths for the
first time, an old moon's wane.
lights athwart where they
cease to fade, a confection
of colours where all men see
fairly, what words inscribe
to riverbed quietude.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:52 AM UTC