"milord" poems
the hailstones were falling like dragons
attacking the windows of the North Tower
it was a New Moon, the beginning of a golden era,
the end of a long shift
his arm stretched, brought the sun from the dungeon
tied one of its rays, gently to my little finger
and nailed it to the sky with a swift move
the clouds collapsed like a pack of cards
(Queen of spades fell to pieces, like it never existed)
and then he held my hand, his sword and shield
leaning peacefully against the rest of my world
once again
I watched my children play ‘it’, my women washing linen
in rivers flowing into oceans I never knew I had
while men sat in a circle quietly sharpening their arrows
straightening their bows for tomorrow’s hunt
is there anything you ask in return milord?
my fingers touched his arm
for the first time in a thousand years
his eyes whispered in love-tongue, his lips kissed my handkerchief
which gently fell to his feet and caressed the earth he stood on
it was late and we had to close the gates until the next morning
when we woke up, drank coffee and lived
happily ever after
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
Peace! God’s Peace upon you all! The Bishop blessed
The dyed-young congregation: dyed fathers ‘n mothers,
Grandpas ‘n grannies, great-grandpas and great-grannies.
The demons of decadence--Hair dye, ****** and Spirits –
Chuckled and giggled, crouching well under the pulpit.
Dyed gurus ‘n financiers, dyed lawyers, doctors n’ nurses,
****** entrepreneurs and ****** entertainers, dyed judges
Dyed ‘n spirited evangelists, priests and vergers on ******
Peace be upon thee all! Blessed the Bishop from the pulpit.
Now, the demons in the hiding iterated and reiterated it.
A Sunday spirited chat—all smiles! -- in the church portico:
The Viagra-dyed banker in later life smiled a dyed smile
At the elderly dyed mother of three; and she said: they say,
In spite of my age, you know, I look so young and pretty!
And the thick flanks under her chin jiggled in approbation.
The ****** great-grandpa said to the dyed Justice of spirits:
Milord, they say: “The stuff brings cancer;” Fools! Idiots!
“The gloves—the condom-like device—that’s our safety!”
“Milord! This trinity wizard, they bring a million crores
To the exchequer of this famished democracy, milord!”
“Milord! The nature lovers say, we wash billions of bottles
Of these magic stuffs into their rivers and the seas, milord!”
“They say we all-- dyed ****** men-- are sissies and doofuses!”
“Milord! Our tubby women dye young, lest they’d be labelled
Mammy, Granny, Grandma, Old Granny, the decrepit ‘n that!
Now, the dyed media reported: father mated with his daughter,
Mother with a teenager, grandpa with an infant; and Ministers,
MLAs, MPs—all spirits-Viagra-dyed-- are in a ******* spree!
Now the Dark Trinity cried “Wow! In this world of ******
The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory--all are ours! Amen!
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Last evening Adam came to me and said:
Listen, Dorian, let’s lay it on the table. In my garden
I have a house. It is yours, for free. All you have to do is
take care of the garden: cut the grass, get rid of the weeds,
Water the flowers, feed the wolves…whatever…pick up the leaves,
Maybe do a bit of to sweeping…ok?
I looked Adam into the eyes, I watched the way
he moved his bunch of keys, the way he had shaved his beard above the upper lip
and his snake leather trousers, his shoes.
And I said: Yes! With a hand on my hip and the other over my eye
Then Adam got into his car, opened the gates of paradise with the remote control
And I was left alone. I fell to my knees,
On the alley with snails and lemons,
Then I started to pull the weeds with my bare hands.
The sun was shining on my back, rather hard,
But I, charged
With bottles of water, was stronger than him.
Innocently, I set my mobile to play Mozart
And the butterflies hit my chest like a powerful love
The garden was flourishing under my hands. Even the sun was fawning under my knees
And the wolves were eating flower seeds and grass form my hands.
Then she passed, dragging by her bare feet a marble cross.
I ran and picked up the cross, until I managed to throw it over the wall.
She looked at me and said:
Glad to meet you. What is your name? I’m Marianne.
Then she went indoors, with a bag of snakes, in her arms.
Many years I worked at that garden. But Adam never came home.
(At times, from the house, I hear noises, scratching and cooing)
Sometimes, even in my sleep I hear his voice calling me:
Dorian, Dorian, where are you?
I am here milord…here I am.
What did you do?
Nothing, nothing at all..
Dorian, I have a house in my garden. Did I tell you?
Yes, Sir, you did…
And did I agree?
Yes, we both did.
Then, I see him darkening, opening the car door and getting in smiling
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
Fable XVII, Livre II.
À qui diable en veut cet Anglais ?
Il sort du lit avant l'aurore,
Laisse dormir sa femme, éveille ses valets,
Et court déjà les champs qu'il n'est pas jour encore.
Le silence a fui **** des bois ;
Comme ceux des murs où nous sommes,
Leur écho redit à la fois
Les jurements, les cris, les voix
Des chiens, des chevaux et des hommes.
Mais quoi ! le limier est lâché ;
Sur ses pas, en hurlant, le chien courant détale :
La queue en l'air, le nez à la terre attaché,
Des bassets suit la meute intrépide et bancale.
Un commun espoir les soutient.
On trotte, on court, on va, l'on vient ;
On se rejoint, on se sépare ;
On presse, on retient son essor,
Au gré des sons bruyants du cor,
Au caprice de la fanfare.
Point de repos : bêtes et gens,
À qui mieux mieux chacun s'excite.
Mais tombe enfin qui va si vite ;
Tout l'équipage est sur les dents.
Couvert d'écume et de fumée,
Le coursier du maître est rendu ;
Plus d'un chien haletant sur l'herbe est étendu,
Et de sa gueule en feu pend sa langue enflammée.
Milord, qui de chemise a besoin de changer,
Et lentement chez soi retourne à la nuit noire,
À passé le jour sans manger,
Et, qui pis est pour lui, sans boire !
Et pourquoi tant de bruit, tant de soins, tant de mal ?
Pour forcer un triste animal
Qui perd, aussitôt qu'on l'attrape,
Le prix qu'il semble avoir alors qu'il nous échappe ;
Et, **** de nous valoir ce qu'il nous a coûté,
N'offre à l'heureux vainqueur de tous ses stratagèmes,
Qu'un mets auquel deux fois on n'a jamais goûté,
Et dont les chiens à jeun ne veulent pas eux-mêmes !
Toi qui possèdes la grandeur,
Et t'es éreinté sur sa trace,
S'il se peut, parle avec candeur ;
As-tu fait plus heureuse chasse ?
840
You shall bleed!
No Milord, please
You shall harm yourself!
No Milord, please
You shall love the one who does not reciprocate!
No!!! I beg you Milord, no! Don't do this to me!
You shall suffer!
You shall suffer!
You shall suffer!
Till death comes for you!
Y-yes Milord
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
"What should we do, milord?"
"I don't know-
let's sacrifice some virgins,
they're useless to me anyway."
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
who would read that article
a god **** ****** maniac
yes you love the unicorns
do not exist cry for this now
just the ordinary planet earth
wish to see your shoes at my door
birds fall when they are dead
what a suicide to look in your eyes
oh milord want some tea
then i remembered your smile
every song sang for us
who can stand?
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
One more midsummer's eve, just one,
and then I shall become
some pale and ill-fated maiden, bound in the chain links of rosaries in milord's cavernous prayer hall.
Wearing a bride's opal ring, like a teardrop from heaven.
Some infernal dove wept for me
and I boast it on my left ring finger.
Woes hang close. Mine weight me like a tea chest's worth of knotted pearls, or a bridal corset laced marvellously tight.
I flash and darken like a jewelled dragonfly,
dizzied by my own light show, never pausing for breath.
The candle stubs burn weak now.
In the shivery dawn light,
the night air still hangs close and heavy,
Like a thick cloak of regal velvet that I may don
and in doing so disappear forever;
mute, placid, lovely,
a shadow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC