"milano" poems - Hello Poetry

Non è che dalle cuspidi amorose crescano i mutamenti della carne, Milano benedetta Donna altera e sanguigna con due mammelle amorose pronte a sfamare i popoli del mondo, Milano dagli irti colli che ha veduto qui crescere il mio amore che ora è defunto. Milano dai vorticosi pensieri dove le mille allegrie muoiono piangenti sul Naviglio.

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838

Alda Merini

Per Milano

Non è che dalle cuspidi amorose crescano i mutamenti della carne, Milano benedetta Donna altera e sanguigna con due mammelle amorose pronte a sfamare i popoli del mondo, Milano dagli irti colli che ha veduto qui crescere il mio amore che ora è defunto. Milano dai vorticosi pensieri dove le mille allegrie muoiono piangenti sul Naviglio.

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I still see the trees and feel the wind that gently shakes the leaves and the big buildings when the light is fading and the evening is more than a promise that people going back home like ghosts of June can't keep even though Milano is looking great and you come to me and say hello pumpkin can we live in this park forever and eat melon.

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Nov 13, 2017

Nov 13, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC

gonzalobartleby

hello pumpkin

I still see the trees and feel the wind that gently shakes the leaves and the big buildings when the light is fading and the evening is more than a promise that people going back home like ghosts of June can't keep even though Milano is looking great and you come to me and say hello pumpkin can we live in this park forever and eat melon.

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I’d rather drink my **** than take another word ‘Cause all that “telemundo”, ***** you know I’ve heard I should have killed you when I had the perfect chance That very moment when I caught your sorry glance You said “Nutella honey baby, just don’t tell’er And I will make your every fantasy *** true I’ll make your life a beach ‘cause you’re my light, so stellar And there will never be another one but you” Now, what a load it was, don’t know where to begin The “candy ‘licious” or the “sugar mint Milano”… You’re Michael Angelo but when you touch my skin I feel like I’m Alyssa hot-ass-boobs Milano I should have killed you, **** I could have killed you twice Before you made my life much darker than your eyes But now that you’re alive and chained against this bed Let’s play a little game I call The Walking Dead

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Mar 4, 2018

Mar 4, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC

mikumiku

I Should Have Killed You

I’d rather drink my **** than take another word ‘Cause all that “telemundo”, ***** you know I’ve heard I should have killed you when I had the perfect chance That very moment when I caught your sorry glance You said “Nutella honey baby, just don’t tell’er And I will make your every fantasy *** true I’ll make your life a beach ‘cause you’re my light, so stellar And there will never be another one but you” Now, what a load it was, don’t know where to begin The “candy ‘licious” or the “sugar mint Milano”… You’re Michael Angelo but when you touch my skin I feel like I’m Alyssa hot-ass-boobs Milano I should have killed you, **** I could have killed you twice Before you made my life much darker than your eyes But now that you’re alive and chained against this bed Let’s play a little game I call The Walking Dead

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Delgada y sinuosa como la cuerda mágica. Rubia y rauda: dardo y milano. Pero también inexorable rompehielos. Senos de niña, ojos de esmalte. Bailó en todas las terrazas y sótanos, contempló un atardecer en San José, Costa Rica, durmió en las rodillas de los Himalayas, fatigó los bares y las sabanas de áfrica. A los veinte dejó a su marido por una alemana; a los veintiuno dejó a la alemana por un afgano; a los cuarenta y cinco vive en Proserpina Court, int. 2, Bombay. Cada mes, en los días rituales, llueven sapos y culebras en la casa, los criados maldicen a la demonia y su amante parsi apaga el fuego. Tempestad en seco. El buitre blanco picotea su sombra.

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676

Octavio Paz

Golden lotuses - 2

Delgada y sinuosa como la cuerda mágica. Rubia y rauda: dardo y milano. Pero también inexorable rompehielos. Senos de niña, ojos de esmalte. Bailó en todas las terrazas y sótanos, contempló un atardecer en San José, Costa Rica, durmió en las rodillas de los Himalayas, fatigó los bares y las sabanas de áfrica. A los veinte dejó a su marido por una alemana; a los veintiuno dejó a la alemana por un afgano; a los cuarenta y cinco vive en Proserpina Court, int. 2, Bombay. Cada mes, en los días rituales, llueven sapos y culebras en la casa, los criados maldicen a la demonia y su amante parsi apaga el fuego. Tempestad en seco. El buitre blanco picotea su sombra.

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