"lycoris" poems - Hello Poetry

you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity; examined the void with intellect- deprived precision, inspected every crevice painted in colour. you left the blue for last because you say the amphetamine matches my eyes. you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth, denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness, reach inside for unfleshly meaning. you say all my filthy secrets implode into ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue and that is why you bite it off. you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes. you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks. i like it when the moon is yellow and not white. spread me across your bones, you make me cold **** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever. you lick the lily, burn away its petals and then you use the ashes in your next drag. there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments. they want anatomised angels and amputated wings. they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments. and electric *** i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness, prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain. i only remember realities when they are expired. the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist. the psychology in undesired sentences. this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat. this vanilla immortality that we no longer need. i'm watching the end of the world from underneath your clothes.

0

Nov 1, 2010

Nov 1, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC

entropik

blu AMP

you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity; examined the void with intellect- deprived precision, inspected every crevice painted in colour. you left the blue for last because you say the amphetamine matches my eyes. you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth, denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness, reach inside for unfleshly meaning. you say all my filthy secrets implode into ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue and that is why you bite it off. you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes. you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks. i like it when the moon is yellow and not white. spread me across your bones, you make me cold **** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever. you lick the lily, burn away its petals and then you use the ashes in your next drag. there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments. they want anatomised angels and amputated wings. they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments. and electric *** i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness, prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain. i only remember realities when they are expired. the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist. the psychology in undesired sentences. this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat. this vanilla immortality that we no longer need. i'm watching the end of the world from underneath your clothes.

33

A red spider Spinning a web At the rim of your way Like a silver flickering net. A red moon Glowering pale Like a blooded pond In the stars eternal vale A red flame Like a waving flag Hissing, crawling, spitting Sparking into a heaven black. A red sun Spilling ****** light With dawn to dusk From day and night A red bird Reaching for the skies Raising in hybris To fear and agony he flies A red fever Burning through flesh n' bone And boiling sweat and tears That are but a drop on a hot stone A read tear That was made of blood Slowly dripping down From the realms of the gods And then there's that red flower Blooming along your long, lone path Meaning nothing but sorrow And black, cruel . . .

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Jun 18, 2021

Jun 18, 2021 at 12:15 PM UTC

aGhostInTheMachine

Lycoris Radiata

A red spider Spinning a web At the rim of your way Like a silver flickering net. A red moon Glowering pale Like a blooded pond In the stars eternal vale A red flame Like a waving flag Hissing, crawling, spitting Sparking into a heaven black. A red sun Spilling ****** light With dawn to dusk From day and night A red bird Reaching for the skies Raising in hybris To fear and agony he flies A red fever Burning through flesh n' bone And boiling sweat and tears That are but a drop on a hot stone A read tear That was made of blood Slowly dripping down From the realms of the gods And then there's that red flower Blooming along your long, lone path Meaning nothing but sorrow And black, cruel . . .

32

These orchids are yours, and with them, all colours known to earthly sight. They shall prove rigid, ever blocking Time's course, professing eternity their right. Roses express my affections well; blooming amidst the warmth of Summer, fed to satisfaction by the dew of your lips . . . yet they shall wither. Then dry dust shall be my affections' well; blooming Lycoris Radiata legions advancing amidst the warmth of Death's banner . . . Towards our love's ellipse . . . YET - These orchids are yours, and with them, the multi-folded papers from which their fibres and petals are equally composed. These are humble gifts, but were they to boast: "We orchids offer to thine love, an eternity; an assurance of perpetuity, by toast."

0

Feb 7, 2021

Feb 7, 2021 at 7:05 PM UTC

Him

These Orchids Are Yours.

These orchids are yours, and with them, all colours known to earthly sight. They shall prove rigid, ever blocking Time's course, professing eternity their right. Roses express my affections well; blooming amidst the warmth of Summer, fed to satisfaction by the dew of your lips . . . yet they shall wither. Then dry dust shall be my affections' well; blooming Lycoris Radiata legions advancing amidst the warmth of Death's banner . . . Towards our love's ellipse . . . YET - These orchids are yours, and with them, the multi-folded papers from which their fibres and petals are equally composed. These are humble gifts, but were they to boast: "We orchids offer to thine love, an eternity; an assurance of perpetuity, by toast."

6

The touch of a hand, The warmth of another, That precious tickle, That burning feeling inside, Living flame, Dancing throughout my garden. The garden I cultivate for you, A field of crimson, the purest red, It is your colour, a sanctity, a shrine for you, This garden, my life’s passion, A never ending field of Lycoris Radiata, Growing inside my mind. Temples and palaces, Cathedrals and castles, The works of generations, They’re all incomparable to the garden I grow for you, Thousands of year in worth of work, the species’ finest art, Rivalled by the Eden I cultivate for you, the moments it took for my garden to grow. Problems are non existent in the garden, Yours or mine, I can no longer tell, But I know for a fact that they cannot grow here, All that grows is the Lycoris Radiata, swallowing all other forms of life or death, That is, before the deluge, Before the moment you walked into my garden. Before the moment you entered the realm I constructed for you, Before the moment you graced the garden with your presence, Before the moment you shattered the illusion of grandeur, Before the moment you trampled the finest of the Lycoris Radiata, The death of my garden, The collapse of my life’s work, that somehow lasted mere moments. But it’s okay, I didn’t want the field of crimson anyway, I didn’t want the garden of Eden, You snake. I hope you know I hate you, Because now I’m growing hydrangea, And it’s going to be the most beautiful garden on earth, lush and green and all for me. By LLL

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Apr 13, 2021

Apr 13, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC

LLL

Crimson

The touch of a hand, The warmth of another, That precious tickle, That burning feeling inside, Living flame, Dancing throughout my garden. The garden I cultivate for you, A field of crimson, the purest red, It is your colour, a sanctity, a shrine for you, This garden, my life’s passion, A never ending field of Lycoris Radiata, Growing inside my mind. Temples and palaces, Cathedrals and castles, The works of generations, They’re all incomparable to the garden I grow for you, Thousands of year in worth of work, the species’ finest art, Rivalled by the Eden I cultivate for you, the moments it took for my garden to grow. Problems are non existent in the garden, Yours or mine, I can no longer tell, But I know for a fact that they cannot grow here, All that grows is the Lycoris Radiata, swallowing all other forms of life or death, That is, before the deluge, Before the moment you walked into my garden. Before the moment you entered the realm I constructed for you, Before the moment you graced the garden with your presence, Before the moment you shattered the illusion of grandeur, Before the moment you trampled the finest of the Lycoris Radiata, The death of my garden, The collapse of my life’s work, that somehow lasted mere moments. But it’s okay, I didn’t want the field of crimson anyway, I didn’t want the garden of Eden, You snake. I hope you know I hate you, Because now I’m growing hydrangea, And it’s going to be the most beautiful garden on earth, lush and green and all for me. By LLL

38

It was a look in her eyes I'd never seen in his- Taken a bit off guard but looking, as it is- Respectfully, she's got respect but don't know how to read a room Respectfully, after a year she stopped making me feel desired Broken finger, love still as tombs-- I miss that look in her eyes. She became for me what he was. Took me a bit off guard but also built up over a year or two- Respectfully, I wouldn't shit-talk her but also sometimes she was mean Don't know, did she intend it? Or are we all needlessly cruel things? By the end I felt disgusting. The beginning was sublime. I read these poems and realize, we did it right, and she was mine... But I see now loving isn't always enough. You have to work at it. She tired of working. I had to leave.

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Dec 15, 2023

Dec 15, 2023 at 9:27 PM UTC

Acora

Lycoris radiata

It was a look in her eyes I'd never seen in his- Taken a bit off guard but looking, as it is- Respectfully, she's got respect but don't know how to read a room Respectfully, after a year she stopped making me feel desired Broken finger, love still as tombs-- I miss that look in her eyes. She became for me what he was. Took me a bit off guard but also built up over a year or two- Respectfully, I wouldn't shit-talk her but also sometimes she was mean Don't know, did she intend it? Or are we all needlessly cruel things? By the end I felt disgusting. The beginning was sublime. I read these poems and realize, we did it right, and she was mine... But I see now loving isn't always enough. You have to work at it. She tired of working. I had to leave.

23

Tulips Common, trusted, beloved. Planted in gardens, gifted in joy, Welcomed without a second thought. And then—me. Fragile, fleeting, misplaced. Sought only in sorrow, left to wither, A beauty seen too late, A name too easily forgotten. Lycoris Radiata.

0

Feb 16, 2025

Feb 16, 2025 at 8:32 PM UTC

Secretly_Sad_Inside

Tulips

Tulips Common, trusted, beloved. Planted in gardens, gifted in joy, Welcomed without a second thought. And then—me. Fragile, fleeting, misplaced. Sought only in sorrow, left to wither, A beauty seen too late, A name too easily forgotten. Lycoris Radiata.

10

Je lisais Platon. - J'ouvris La porte de ma retraite, Et j'aperçus Lycoris C'est-à-dire Turlurette. Je n'avais pas dit encor Un seul mot à cette belle. Sous un vague plafond d'or Mes rêves battaient de l'aile. La belle, en jupon gris-clair, Montait l'escalier sonore ; Ses frais yeux bleus avaient l'air De revenir de l'aurore. Elle chantait un couplet D'une chanson de la rue Qui dans sa bouche semblait Une lumière apparue. Son front éclipsa Platon. Ô front céleste et frivole ! Un ruban sous son menton Rattachait son auréole. Elle avait l'accent qui plaît, Un foulard pour cachemire, Dans sa main son *** au lait, Des flammes dans son sourire. Et je lui dis (le Phédon Donne tant de hardiesse !) : - Mademoiselle, pardon, Ne seriez-vous pas déesse ?

0

314

Victor Hugo

Interruption à une lecture de Platon

Je lisais Platon. - J'ouvris La porte de ma retraite, Et j'aperçus Lycoris C'est-à-dire Turlurette. Je n'avais pas dit encor Un seul mot à cette belle. Sous un vague plafond d'or Mes rêves battaient de l'aile. La belle, en jupon gris-clair, Montait l'escalier sonore ; Ses frais yeux bleus avaient l'air De revenir de l'aurore. Elle chantait un couplet D'une chanson de la rue Qui dans sa bouche semblait Une lumière apparue. Son front éclipsa Platon. Ô front céleste et frivole ! Un ruban sous son menton Rattachait son auréole. Elle avait l'accent qui plaît, Un foulard pour cachemire, Dans sa main son *** au lait, Des flammes dans son sourire. Et je lui dis (le Phédon Donne tant de hardiesse !) : - Mademoiselle, pardon, Ne seriez-vous pas déesse ?

28