"louche" poems
You are pathology incarnate
The sweat on your brow trick of the light
You were the first female
But you are no woman
Just a beast in the shape of a girl
Plucked one year before ripeness
A major at everything
A minor one way
Your eyes betray your true nature
Sharp, louche and depravity reined
Soot-yellow and one dollar green
Some might call it hazel
I call it dirt against your aryan gold hair
If you offered me fruit
I’d force myself to take a bite
So my soul won’t witness my guts feasted in the gutter
Carnivorously carnival-carved cadaver
Stamped under your cigarette-stained heels
Cherry cola chipped out of chapped lips
Cos I didn’t dare take a chockfull
You’re the first girl who has ever touched me
But I’m just the fly on your fruit
Lilith Haefelin
The girl before Eve.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 11:33 PM UTC
The louche magniloquent maladroit malaise of the dense mayonnaise mouth of political palaver and longueur left me with that sad sinking feeling of believing there is nothing left to live for.
Lugubriousness aside, I was nevertheless momentarily nonplussed until I recalled that a bona fide thespian was once president. And to my dismay I remembered to say: nothing in the world can bother you as much as your own mind.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Je n'ai pas pour maîtresse une lionne illustre :
La gueuse, de mon âme, emprunte tout son lustre ;
Invisible aux regards de l'univers moqueur,
Sa beauté ne fleurit que dans mon triste coeur.
Pour avoir des souliers elle a vendu son âme.
Mais le bon Dieu rirait si, près de cette infâme,
Je tranchais du Tartufe et singeais la hauteur,
Moi qui vends ma pensée et qui veux être auteur.
Vice beaucoup plus grave, elle porte perruque.
Tous ses beaux cheveux noirs ont fui sa blanche nuque ;
Ce qui n'empêche pas les baisers amoureux.
De pleuvoir sur son front plus pelé qu'un lépreux.
Elle louche, et l'effet de ce regard étrange
Qu'ombragent des cils noirs plus longs que ceux d'un ange,
Est tel que tous les yeux pour qui l'on s'est ****
Ne valent pas pour moi son oeil juif et cerné.
Elle n'a que vingt ans ; - la gorge déjà basse
Pend de chaque côté comme une calebasse,
Et pourtant, me traînant chaque nuit sur son corps,
Ainsi qu'un nouveau-né, je la tette et la mords,
Et bien qu'elle n'ait pas souvent même une obole
Pour se frotter la chair et pour s'oindre l'épaule,
Je la lèche en silence avec plus de ferveur
Que Madeleine en feu les deux pieds du Sauveur.
La pauvre créature, au plaisir essoufflée,
A de rauques hoquets la poitrine gonflée,
Et je devine au bruit de son souffle brutal
Qu'elle a souvent mordu le pain de l'hôpital.
Ses grands yeux inquiets, durant la nuit cruelle,
Croient voir deux autres yeux au fond de la ruelle,
Car, ayant trop ouvert son coeur à tous venants,
Elle a peur sans lumière et croit aux revenants.
Ce qui fait que de suif elle use plus de livres
Qu'un vieux savant couché jour et nuit sur ses livres,
Et redoute bien moins la faim et ses tourments
Que l'apparition de ses défunts amants.
Si vous la rencontrez, bizarrement parée,
Se faufilant, au coin d'une rue égarée,
Et la tête et l'oeil bas comme un pigeon blessé,
Traînant dans les ruisseaux un talon déchaussé,
Messieurs, ne crachez pas de jurons ni d'ordure
Au visage fardé de cette pauvre impure
Que déesse Famine a par un soir d'hiver,
Contrainte à relever ses jupons en plein air.
Cette bohème-là, c'est mon tout, ma richesse,
Ma perle, mon bijou, ma reine, ma duchesse,
Celle qui m'a bercé sur son giron vainqueur,
Et qui dans ses deux mains a réchauffé mon coeur.
1.1k
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
a sire
of Oliver
is spring
in Baganda
with carafe
here might
muse the
daughter in
craft and
slaughter now
leader for
features incumbent
in the
sprawl of
louche theatrics
to vanish
in mire
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC
Slouching...
From an idea suggested by Robert Graves in
On English Poetry
I. Thesis
Formalist poetry to attention stands
In ordered meters, ranks and files and lines
Of scansion as determined by disciplined minds
And set in place through skillful strategy
II. Antithesis
Other poetry slouches indolently, insolently with its louche trilby askew
Sleeping late, smoking cigarettes,
sauntering off
for a beer
Through scansion as admitted by the heart or the pancreas or something
And seldom set in place at all unless it just sort of happens
III. A Perhaps Unnecessary but Useful Conjunction
But
IV. Synthesis
All poems ramble the same neighborhood
In quest of the true, the beautiful, the good
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 4:04 PM UTC
For better or worse, down will come
heaven: the wife I have and hold
smooth and warm like a shot of ***
her heart made of pure, solid gold.
Bad hands still get played where I'm from
for better or worse, down will come
for those that would take me for chump
up my sleeve fell the fatal trump.
When the lights go out...that is me
sound suppressing louche stridency
for better or worse, down will come
loose ends a means to zero sum.
Ghosts hide and seek confrontations
not smart enough to know they're dumb
signposts at omega stations
for better or worse, down will come.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
“There you are once again in my reverie,
Entering once again into a never ending dream,
I hold you near you ask do I love thee,
I love you as the shadows fall upon the earth,
Between the sun rising and the sun setting,
It is of inescapable moments of life,
As the clouds form before the storm,
As the leaves fall from the trees in fall,
This is the simplicity of how I love thee,
For I could not live any other way but within,
I love you with the obscurity of your impasse,
To cascade around and aegis you always,
The essence of louche ******* before me within grasp,
Like the influx of the ocean beating onto the macrocosm,
The scent within the air carries within it,
Words of love speak more directly to your soul,
Such an exquisite virtuosity of beauty,
I cannot love you any other way but that,
My love of infinite efflorescence”
By A.G. 2/2018
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
"Sometimes you meet someone,
And it’s seems risible,
Whereas the two of you,
On some level belong together.
As good friends in no way louche,
Or as that of a family acquaintance,
You just click as if you have,
Known each other always,
You may meet people like this,
Through your entire life,
Out of nowhere under,
The strangest incredulity,
But they help you feel conscious,
I don't know if that makes me,
Believe in concomitance,
Or inevitability or sheer fate,
But it definitely makes me believe,
In something that is valuation,
Of discovering,
Under Strangest Circumstances"
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
Pre somnabulation
I would taste the breeze
tease
the dew-lit louche
revealing airborne revelations
tingle,
soft of foot, divining
cool uncomplication
drinking deeply of
the hill-born wood
contented
in
passive eccentricity,
I celebrated unison
a humbling becoming
only dignity condones
When transitory laxity
forgave my foreign callowness
I took the private brook
to where the quiet rooks row home..
Oct 14, 2023
Oct 14, 2023 at 5:38 PM UTC
Lorsque Abd-el-Kader dans sa geôle
Vit entrer l'homme aux yeux étroits
Que l'histoire appelle - ce drôle, -
Et Troplong - Napoléon trois ;
Qu'il vit venir, de sa croisée,
Suivi du troupeau qui le sert,
L'homme louche de l'Elysée, -
Lui, l'homme fauve du désert ;
Lui, le sultan né sous les palmes,
Le compagnon des lions roux,
Le hadji farouche aux yeux calmes,
L'émir pensif, féroce et doux ;
Lui, sombre et fatal personnage
Qui, spectre pâle au blanc burnous,
Bondissait, ivre de carnage,
Puis tombait dans l'ombre à genoux ;
Qui, de sa tente ouvrant les toiles,
Et priant au bord du chemin,
Tranquille, montrait aux étoiles
Ses mains teintes de sang humain ;
Qui donnait à boire aux épées,
Et qui, rêveur mystérieux,
Assis sur des têtes coupées,
Contemplait la beauté des cieux ;
Voyant ce regard fourbe et traître,
Ce front bas, de honte obscurci,
Lui, le beau soldat, le beau prêtre,
Il dit : « Quel est cet homme-ci ? »
Devant ce vil masque à moustaches,
Il hésita ; mais on lui dit :
« Regarde, émir, passer les haches !
Cet homme, c'est César bandit.
« Ecoute ces plaintes amères
Et cette clameur qui grandit.
Cet homme est maudit par les mères,
Par les femmes il est maudit ;
« Il les fait veuves, Il les navre
Il prit la France et la tua,
Il ronge à présent son cadavre. »
Alors le hadji salua.
Mais au fond toutes ses pensées
Méprisaient le sanglant gredin
Le tigre aux narines froncées
Flairait ce loup avec dédain.
Jersey, le 20 novembre.
334
I'm pulled down the boulevard,
the shining hide of the hired car
reflecting all the salted yellow blots
that fringe the crashing air.
Speckled city, I climbed her stair
when the night grew late and taut:
I embraced all the darkest angles
of her room, the candied tangles,
the breasted murmurs, the knot
made of half-started words,
until the mind got waxy, slurred
by louche, unchaperoned thoughts...
O car, this hour with desire's bruised -
if you take me back, I won't refuse.
Nov 15, 2023
Nov 15, 2023 at 12:02 PM UTC