"moulin" poems
psychologism, i.e. neo-racism, neo- due to it being without any collective ethnic collectivisation, best insinuated by marijuana users, grouping alcoholics with ****** sharp shooters; they think they have the moral high ground, but they talk jack sh-: medicinal marijuana is synthetic marijuana / ore without casual-use effects, it's not the sh- you put in your **** have a *** change and tell me about children suffering from cancer while you're at it: because those starving children of africa adverts... are really really working... knowing that the man in control of such charities earns over half a million a year - post-colonialism only really works while you have former colonial indigenous peoples nearby, then you can milk that ***** cow from the locals... make sure you think the nairobi international airport has a dirt runway and you'll feel all ******* fuzzy giving money to these companies... post-colonialism only works like that... import some former colonials to milk the former colonial whites into coughing up money & guilt... then watch the irish get leery with sarcasm at almost anything... and the scots gear up pride and become politically malignant... the good friday agreement? tony blair did as much as / avoiding-tax cigarettes smuggled from eastern europe west of the ural mountains exchanged in belfast... but geographic borders were never used in rhetoric in politics... because ireland was always further west than iceland: as oaths go... it was a neighbour of liberty iseland... with the true statue of liberty in a moulin rouge cancan attire, skirt up, flame extinguished - although ***** as hell: and in koranic reality, requiring a harem for her three holes.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
While these groupons cutting coupons I mean and croutons with Grey Poupon with the flight crew on an Islond off Moulin Rouge -- these dudes calling me rude, how I took'em to school. went from second hand shoes to licking silver spoons eating delicious grapes, in luxurious estates, and plush lagoons. Leaving the monkey business to the buffoons. Instead I'm watching CNN news being amused. LeBron making his moves on the tube, setting screens, and running schemes, on the big screen, HD clarity got me taking three, I'm catching charges too. This is the life. I'm just manifesting what they said I couldn't do -- nothing new.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
~-English-~
The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas II)
The garden trellis
Climbing Salêt Moss rose blooms
Perfume light and sweet.
Light lavender-pink blossoms—
Nice outside or in a vase.
English bluebells dance
On either side of the path
In the cool forest
They nod and sway in sunlight
Lifting their heads to the dawn
Meadows full of blooms
Larkspurs, Daisies, and Poppies
All create beauty.
So splendid a sight to see
In the Spring and Summertime.
Near the Dutch windmill
Daffodils and iris bloom
In the warm sunshine
During the sweet summer day
They look towards the blue sky
Waterfalls o'er stones,
Mossy and slick though they be
My eyes do behold;
Trillium of white and mauve,
All amid Running Cedar.
~Timothy & Marian~
~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas II)
Le treillis de jardin
Escalade Salêt Moss rose fleurs
Parfum léger et doux.
Lumière des fleurs de lavande-rose —
Nice à l'extérieur ou dans un vase.
Danse de jacinthes des bois français
De chaque côté du chemin
Dans la forêt cool
Il hoche la tête et se balancent en plein soleil
Soulever la tête à l'aube
Prés de fleurs
Larkspurs, marguerites et coquelicots
Tous créent de la beauté.
Tellement splendide un spectacle à voir
Au printemps et en été.
Près du moulin à vent hollandais
Les jonquilles et les fleurs de l'iris
Dans la chaleur du soleil
Pendant la journée été doux
Ils regardent vers le ciel bleu
Chutes d'eau sur les pierres,
Moussu et luisante, bien qu'ils
Mes yeux Voici ;
Trille blanc et mauve,
Tout au milieu des Cèdres en cours d'exécution.
~ Timothy et Marian ~
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Paris, France
October 12, 1889
It's been nearly a week now since the Le Premier Palais des Femmes has opened. I gander about, and see all the free faces. Misters in their best outfits slobbed themselves over the glories of an actual woman that was not their wife. They saw beauty and an opportunity for a feeling of strength and masculine power. Different attire worn by the women reveled much skin. The men gathered two or three mistresses and a bucket of *** and went off to their homes. I was disgusted and delighted to be here. I recently resigned the Misses just to do this tonight. It's 21:47. I look around for faces that I would be delighted in claiming my own for a night and two. Nothing caught my eye. I started to gather my stuff and leave, but suddenly a face I hadn't seen appeared in front of me. Her breath smelt of mint leaves and joy. She spoke to me and asked me for the night. Asked me! Such a remark from a woman of that low should earn a punishment, but she seemed like she was innocent. As rude as it was, I took her offer since I had no other plans for that night. She took me back to her home where she had set up a fire and food. It was as if she had planned it for me. It was so beautifully laid out. I looked around her home, it was astonishing. She then leaded me to her bedroom, where she left rose pedals on the floor and one candle lit. She grabbed me. That's when I met my Mistress from the Moulin Rouge.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
While the wine and cheese and skinny upturned mustaches
Were all there,
Wrapped in gold tissue paper and tied with white bows
The passion, desire, and spark
(which were promised by the $24.99 guidebook)
Were nowhere to be found,
Not even floating down a gondola on the Seine
(or am I thinking of Venice now?)
I wrote home in two postcards
(not because I had so much to say)
But because I thought my family should see the Eiffel Tower in both day and night
As plastered on the pair of plastic, flimsy cards I mailed away.
Being away from Mom and Dad, I thought I’d enjoy it
But after investing in a French-English Dictionary
I learned that the love letters I’d been receiving here
(voulez vous coucher avec moi?)
Weren’t so lovely after all.
I told them that I’d tried French Onion soup,
That I’d walked down that street featured in Midnight in Paris,
and that between the guns slung over shoulders
(worn like fake Louis Vuittons advertised by desperate venders)
and the solicitors outside the Moulin Rouge
the city of love
had shattered my unprotected heart.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:53 PM UTC
Dancer
by Michael R. Burch
You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.
Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled
of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.
They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
stages
slipping by.
You pause;
applause
is all you hear.
You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.
Keywords/Tags: dancer, waltz, waltzing, applause, drink, drunkards, neon light, strobe, flash, flashing, crystal ball, chandelier, lap dancer, exotic dancer, stripper, peeler, strip, striptease artist, burlesque, Moulin Rogue, dance, passion, champagne, gin, beer
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 12:56 AM UTC
If only you knew
What I really thought of you
My knight in shining armor
But now you just devour
It is like you eat my soul
******* the life as we go
Maybe you don’t realize
That you have left me paralyzed
Not by love, or infatuation
But by a soul disruption
Leaving me numb and blue
Suffocating, If only you knew
Do you see what you are doing?
Do you know where we are going?
Because I screamed it out nice and loud
I stand alone, but I’m going to find my crowd
Because you refused to let our souls live
We will wither away, nothing to give
I AM TELLING YOU I AM DYING
Do you hear me screaming?
I tried, but soon they’ll say “she died
Suffocated by a soulless life
So sad, she should have tried
Could have been so much more
Than a ‘perfect wife’" .. that's for sure
Do you see me now?
HERE I AM, I bow
Not in submission, NO
But to signal a dramatic completion
Of a play that is too long for the screens
A sad, sad play full of numb and blank scenes
You see, I am ending it now
so we can take our bow
You may choose to stand on stage for the end of time
But I will build my own Moulin Rouge with a bright sign
I will live life, and enjoy my ride
Goodbye goodbye, I officially resign
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 4:48 PM UTC
this one starts where so many have
bed-begun
a weekend morn,
sun flooding the chamber,
we swap YouTube fav's,
over cups of almost
hotter coffee
I ******
with
"Roxanne" by Police;
she subtlety point counterpoints my
unsubtle advances, parrying by
sending me dreams of
the **** promised land of
"El Tango of Roxanne,"
from Moulin Rouge
I concede,
she pleased,
pleases me,
that her triumphed victory came so easy
not realizing my plan all along,
realizing, my all along man plan
ah,
Saturday, Naturday,
making natural spring water
poems
drawn from the saucy source
mother (bed-sun-music) earth
this one ends where so many have
bed-begun
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
only English has disgraced itself, as a language,
it didn't learn from it's other Latin
orthographers, whether french or german,
just didn't learn from them,
i mean, English, the language,
could have started improving its style,
its orthography, adding accents, here and there,
improving elocution, it's worth the
particulars in harbours, ironically it isn't
a universal language, there are no universal
instances in using it, there are plenty
of particular instance that do require stresses
and other such involvements,
but the six brothers dreamed up too much
technology prior, the Grand Father of the Empire
split the cabbage patch between the five brothers:
gave much to the American son,
much also to the Australian son,
much also to the Canadian,
the South Africa got a part of Europe from the 1940s,
the Caribbean son received a pretty sunset,
the English son got ****** in the ***
and given what the newspapers are covering
i'm really sceptical while only children migrants
are welcomed... ********** the tournament
of who can shove an ice-cube into a teenagers
*** to make **** *********** seem cool?
really sceptical while the prime minister only
wants children... come, you following-up
the hot topics in british journalism?
but like i said, the one chance the English language
had to improve itself, to succumb to the
judgement of the preservation of the Latin via
a - z was to add diacritical marks, instead the internet
emerged and we simply got an Eaton mess...
look how mishandled English is among the young!
omni acronym omni short-script,
omni dyslexia,
lazy lazy buggers... while the Germans are fiercely compounding,
Rindfleischetikettierungsueberwachungsau
(law delegating beef label monitoring) - now let's
do some syllable surgery on it to get a tennis ball
bouncing rhythm:
rind' fleische' tikettierung' sueber' wachungsau' -
or thereabouts in Pomerania - and the French
such hark rather than trill Rs and produce excess
spelling via tongue ties upon tongue ties
(every time i hear it i just hear bubbly blue
bubbly blue bue bue and Moulin Rouge cancan) -
English is shrapnel, empty pistachio shells in comparison,
and yet still the internet proved how ugly
things became... *** LOL (e.g.); and yet i'm
finding it the most effective language for volume.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
"Love? Most of all I believe in love. Love is like oxygen, it lifts you up where you belong! All you need is love."
"A life without love? Why, that's horrible! A life without love is no life at all!"
"Freedom, beauty, trust, and love."
"Come what may, I will love you till the end of time."
"I hope you don't mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is now you're in the world."
"I was made for loving you baby you were made for loving me."
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian.
i'm always depressed before composition
and the first whiskey to
stop me throwing up anything i might
ingest,
but then the seemingly graceless magpie
with its extended tail flies into eyesight,
then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?!
30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)...
and then i open my eyes a second time,
take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours
and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles
of looking at a white page and typing for a while...
and then a song crops up and it bothers me,
mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell
of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god,
we'll be constantly thinking about it,
it will be an ontological implant of ours to
then debate whether we're atheists, theists,
gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed
an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly -
but then the other description floating about,
the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight,
sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis...
the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding
in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy,
a host is someone who contains a parasite,
why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in
me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting
myself an atheist, theist, etc.?
atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this
song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god;
i among the jews a parasite of the host of
ancient egypt;
i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever,
they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering
*hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry,
Hugh)*, but when it comes to
defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and
such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label,
followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions,
and since i'm not a fisherman in that department,
i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
My last night at the Moulin Rouge
Was spent coated in heartbreak,
Regret, and tears
Which would have overflown the Seine.
I can never return…
The dead have no need
For cabarets, alcohol,
And the world’s amount of exotic women.
But most of all,
The dead do not pine for
Lost chances
And a fate written in error.
The dead do not have to forgive
And make amends.
The lights will go out…the conflict…
Resolved.
My last night in the Moulin Rouge
Was spend covered in absinthe,
And the other poisons I needed
To remain alive…
If even temporarily.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
come on, Natalie,
there's a heart in there somewhere.
we watched "Moulin Rouge"
and you begged me to sing to you.
now, five years later, i'm sorry.
i know i missed your wedding,
but i just couldn't bring myself to watch
you give yourself to someone else.
you called me during the reception
wanting me to **** you in the church kitchen.
that was the nicest thing you ever did.
now i can hate you.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
acute autism... now that's a Moulin Rouge of fantasy, watching pure, un-inhibited solipsism in action!
autism is just a medical term
for the philosophical term solipsism,
in my dictionary someone who's
autistic is also someone who's a
solipsist... and to get the balance right,
to become a feline solipsist,
so un-inhibited, conjuring rain fall
with your own laughter after two beers,
blocking a mosquito entering your
room because of the rainfall,
that's something... and the other thing...
there are many more female (large)
mosquitoes in england, the ones
without the sharp pucker of a sting,
the larger ones, sized about the same
as a daddy-long-legs spider...
mosquitoes in england are rare;
and when it rains, the earth becomes
more porous, and the air becomes sweeter.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
My soul tells me your ghost is around me in this haunted mind of mine,
Wishin you would touch me, hold me, push me even
for a sign.
A brush of your cheek against mine or your fingers stroking my
hair...Don't mind I really don't...dont leave one hair spared.
Your kisses on my lips linger and I smell them,
I have memorized 'em .......Even kept some.
Your stare gazes right through me when I look at your photograph
I hear the erie far off laughter when I remember how much we laughed.
Your brown arms I sometimes think of when you spooned me wrapped against me tight...laying on my side always.....waiting for it to happen again...I know it might.
Feeling your breath against my neck as we watched Moulin Rouge
So relaxed...I fell asleep and felt like our bodies fused.
You woke me up so gently not wanting me to miss the love scenes
but then I wake up from this ghostly almost haunting dream.
Ghost around me ...Silent Ghost....Ghost so far away
Please come back to me and appear to me today.
I know I work the Secret and I know I ask and do it right.
I know I have dreams about you in escrow and I believe with
all my might.
Ghost are spirits that some say don't believe ...I know this is real, and You, I will receive.
The Ghost of you is fading around the edges,
I close my eyes and write my words, tears soaking my dread
Its there I found the heat of my tears and know its
real and not just ghosts in my head.
Not just the few pics I downloaded on my phone
so I can stare at you and not feel so alone
I have the picture of the anime we drew one
night together...and I did have that sign, when down fell one feather.....
They are supposed to be from Angels, allowing me to see,
Feels like they are more from you....The Ghost Around Me...
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:59 PM UTC
i went to model myself
not an easy job
today´ s elf
a sweet old cob
not interested
in what..
lily woke
dream gazed
in the act of recalled
do you want to know
a dream
(a raisin in the sun..)*
i was in the shopping
mal and yet all the shops
empty and escalators
named heaven..
all the mirrors and
cameras
played catch
the end said
why what did
you then find
but i could not
stop laughing..
madame,it said
you are a shine
and i began
to be..
i understood
the purest
futility
and was good..
i believed in
love
it was me and
you
nothing was on
sale
knock out
a bargain
only your
only mine
on the air
all about
and when i
reached
and could
get no
there was
around
white forest
the sky blue
i looked into
my hand and
there was yours
too..
i said here is
gold and sand
here is promise
here riches..
i looked into your
great wise eye
and a tear fell
like avalanche..
you went down
and i went up
and then gone..
shopping..
from a dream deferred*
by langston hughes
ii
at the local tech
with any ****
looking through
the window..
the moulin like some
happy
space ship..
the night soft
and the river fine
i took my forms
went to the pub
for a jar..
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
we had plans to watch Moulin Rouge for months
to curl up on the sofa with sweet and salted popcorn
to listen to the songs which you thought summed up
everything we felt.
we had plans to have word wars together
all in the name of NaNoWriMo of course
to write and write until we both got fed up of
everything we'd created
we had plans to go wherever our hearts longed to be
i wanted to go back to my home, and you said you'd follow
not only for your career but so together we could grow up
everything we dreamed of
but now im sitting on the couch munching away on my own
wondering how many words you've done while im writing by myself
ive cancelled my plans to travel, i dont want to go alone
nothing seems right without you.
~E.Y.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
In my dreams is that place.
Where we meet, you and me.
When I arrive,
sweet moon of mine,
grey dream gets colour
and shine.
I put on high heels for you
so we can kiss at our moulin rouge.
Shell✨🐚
Jan 5, 2025
Jan 5, 2025 at 6:07 AM UTC
god do i think i love her
lord do i want to hold her
feel everything that makes her so bold
striking and evil and red
where now she is so keenly radiating
a powerful and tiny joy
before she was so sharp
so dark
years crawl beneath primeval distances
still her scent remains prominent
i was eleven years old when i first saw her
a flower in her hair, a buttoned blouse
i sketched her every day
enigmatic attire
she adored
two years pass and i am in her basement
2am, face painted white and red
we watch Moulin Rouge
and we talk of moons and suns
and in the morning i use her shower
for the day, i would have her scent
she is deeply gone and will i remember
her gracious form
and flirtatious laughter
her glasses and her tap shoes
and her will
a girl who outreaches her own arms
she is soaring today
mythological in word
in her voice
in her skin
in her black nail polish and biker rings
in everything
that everyone hated her for doing
in her
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC