"lozenges" poems
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean
amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns
I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart
I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers
look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
I should probably accept
That some things will change
And some never will
Your heart is always heavy
With a darkness
So glum
We're like lozenges
And bubble gum
Let me have my fun
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
I do not want to talk about love today.
I do not want to mention
affectionate contact or semi-regular ***
The newspapers are bringing forth
welcome divisions between mankind;
fault-lines of irreconcilable differences
to justify my half-hearted attempt at solitude.
I do not want to talk about sobriety today.
I do not want to bore you
with those nervous hours between cigarettes
and how I fill each moment spent inside myself.
************ offers a ladder of perfume and hair
for me to ascend to some anaerobic bliss,
towards an isolated unity between myself
and the woman stretched out on my astral bed.
I do not want to talk about much today.
I have over-thought all that is worth a mention.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
The
Concrete
Spatial poem
Has varied shapes
Ancient kind of verse
With Traditional Shapes.
Many vague symbolic themes.
From tapers lozenges eggs or spheres
The concrete spatial poem has varied shapes.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
the above is with a Dectina Refrain
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
Why do hackers think so highly of boot camp?
Who pays through the nose to send footwear abroad?
Why use boots and not sneakers nor sandals?
Instead,
Stick with the proven approach,
Used over thousands of years,
Billions of satisfied users,
Faster and cheaper to boot.
Throat lozenges—guaranteed to improve hacking.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
I feel her lungs
Threatening to fly out of that
Little cage as the
Phlegm begins to
Build up,
Growing into a
Bigger ball
Jammed right in the
Centre of her
Narrowing throat
A spoonful of this
Two pills of that
A jugful of water
A pack of lozenges
Why isn't it
Getting any better
And in fact even
Getting worse?
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
The Reader
Experiences Text:
Tastes the corners,
Chews the middles,
Examines the ideas,
Turns them over and over -
Lozenges to be mulled.
Unique to each Reader
The Text must pass
Each Reader's senses:
His eyes,
Her nose,
Their tongues...
And so begins Digestion,
A complicated process producing
pleasant dreams in one,
Nightmares in another.
Soothing sleep for me
Dyspepsia for you.
Ideas have their routes to pass;
The dross is left behind or lost
And what remains is fiber to our souls
(To steal Walt Whitman's term).
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
she doesn't deign to think
the sunflowers are beneath
her, because she's part of
the earth too--her mama
says. With corn rows in
her hair and fingers too
adept for snap peas, she
might be queen of her
backyard and the land
below the bridge, far as
the river can be seen from
4' 3", but her long legs tell
her that they'll grow, that
no cupboard will be too
high, no horizon that
ends, just open lids and
cucumber perfumes
butterscotch lozenges
in every coffee table
bowl and Somebody
along the way whispers
that she'll have it all.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
“Get over here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk
The revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
That shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy,
From that beam through the door,
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.
You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.
Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
As it gets darker and darker.
The pairs embrace, kindling a passion halo.
The glow of the embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of the warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.
By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire;
Are you part of the revellers?
Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
Capsules
Lozenges
And queer pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.
I join you on the moonlit balcony
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf, lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray
My dear the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
Such is the paradox, for I am longing
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I ***** on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!
Time ***** her wings fast my dear, time flies
Even my colts cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed
My puritanism and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
"Once, I believed in you like a poem, turned your heart into a metaphor for my heart, turned our mouths into honey and caramel lozenges.
But metaphors come and metaphors go,
and not even seasons have the courtesy to stay till dawn."
- Shinji Moon
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
She’s gonna sing?
I’ll dance.
**** — what a lovely little voice,
Caressing my spirit and shattering my ego.
Her ambiance brings forth the notion,
That one person can be deemed flawless.
Perfectly imperfect,
What a melodic little spirit.
She sings, I dance.
I listen to her words tenderizing my ear drums.
A fool blabbing love that remains unspoken,
When she rips apart all that is entwines me.
I’m a mere note in her tune,
Her concerto of loneliness and dread.
She rehearses too much,
Calculating each vibrato to the tee,
Anticipating a sore throat,
When I’m the only one in the crowd,
And I don’t mind.
I have lozenges.
All I want is to hear her sing,
And for her to watch me dance,
And cheer me on with her lovely voice,
As I sit in my skivvies, front row, center stage,
Like a buffoon with a lack of rhythm in me.
She better keep on singing.
The key may change,
But notes stay the same,
And I’ll be there to back her vocals,
With my frugal, five-dollar guitar.
I’ll always dance to her tune,
I hope she’ll always sing for me.
When she sings,
I ******* dance,
And I pray that she’ll give me an encore.
Sooner or later,
I need to learn how to dance,
A voice like hers can’t go to waste.
A genius composer,
I can never oppose her,
The sound of her music livens me.
She sings,
I dance,
She belts,
I prance,
She laments,
I advance,
To savor,
Our incestuous romance.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 3:23 AM UTC