"moustaches" poems
Light hearted William twirled
his November moustaches
and, half dressed, looked
from the bedroom window
upon the spring weather.
Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily
leaning out to see
up and down the street
where a heavy sunlight
lay beyond some blue shadows.
Into the room he drew
his head again and laughed
to himself quietly
twirling his green moustaches.
3.1k
glasses 'you look beautiful'
her teeth are a little yellow, she
brushes in the morning. somehow
they're still a Colgate white. she mouths
Iluvu eyes squint quiet smile arches it's
spine and finger caresses the barely stubble of my face. her blonde peach fuzz mini moustache tilts left and kisses false worry, charisma. she takes
it as insult when I read line about peach
fuzz moustache. obligatory insult *shes a
woman, women don't have moustaches
haha* she stretches like a resting cat and
returns to thought as my suicide
hangover crunches into a headache of
blind relief
relief
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
— and from basement entries
neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen
with orderly moustaches and
well-brushed coats
2.9k
Light hearted William twirled
his November moustaches
and, half dressed, looked
from the bedroom window
upon the spring weather.
Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily
leaning out to see
up and down the street
where a heavy sunlight
lay beyond some blue shadows.
Into the room he drew
his head again and laughed
to himself quietly
twirling his green moustaches.
2.3k
No tribal scarring marks your face
no cinder walk or thorn-pierced tongue
to prove you are no longer young
but fit to take your rightful place
Your generation never fought
And you have wished that you could see
the selfless, brave camaraderie
of which you were so often taught
Alas for you to fetch ashore
when we had lost our appetite
for making children go and fight
and briefly grieved, and said "No more!"
Condemning you, unreconciled,
to shed no blood, as real men should;
to feel that life is mostly good
Oh foolish knave! Oh hopeless child!
And saddled with this gross mistake
your quiet kindness gently spread
and harmless fascinations fed
and left no corpses in their wake
To think we looked to one unmanned
as children, hungry for a clue
of what it's right for men to do,
led, blind, by your unbloodied hand
Sought thoughts from one who could not brag
of marching forth to suicide
for waxed moustaches' sense of pride
Nor bleeding dry beneath a flag
But you had naught to tell us, save
that life is hopeful and sublime
and we should use this precious time
And I'll be grateful to the grave.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC
Like a bra
She held my heart
in the right place
Covering my soul from the firey eyes
Bitter than *****
Sweeter than wine
With a kiss
she heals
And heals and heals
I had something like a house
But it was just a place to live in
I had a language
But it didn't express my urges
I had a lot of poeple
But not truly humans
Now; Now i have you
And you are the home
To scream by our words
over the top of my chest
World of moustaches no more exists
Underneath her smile i hid my joys
To release the madness
Control the clouds
and let the rain flow
Splitting the reality of us
Away from
Their horrible happeiness
Sally S. Ali / England
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 4:38 AM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
They do
have a lot to be sorrowful about
their dark mindset understandable
those that grow and wrinkle
in the blink of an eye
hirsute till even the females spot moustaches and beards
and most males are gifted with little sausages
and no great stamina in use
education is optional and ignorance rules ok
the painted hues are catching up
while hometown losers are busking begging money
its all going south for them
so its blame game all the way
so they make it up as they crawl along
hiding their shame in foreign tags
and their cowardice in numbers
too dumb and weak to excel they seek refuge in bullying
as if we haven't got their measures
and know they bathe only once a week at most
my, my! they do have a shedload to lament
their miseries plain to see
so please excuse their puerile defensive scrabbling's
they are poor in heads in pockets and in their minds
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:28 AM UTC
The vibrancy of youth now succumbs to the anaesthetic of indifference, like testicular feminisation of the masses.
I often contemplate the indifference of cacti in Arizona, where handle-bar moustaches curl with the worldly-wisdom of motorcycle gangs.
So, strip meat from the perimeter of the wishbone and feel the waves of nocturnal celebrations, as we slide into a deep winter slumber.
You will waken from a crisis of identity and be emancipated from stereotypical cavities where thorny plantations thrive amidst unforgiving terrains.
Snap it in half, and you will see mystical Arabian genie’s arise from magical carpets.
Oh, one more thing: I am not a detective.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
*
●^●
Little
bangs of pop
pop poppin', corn snacks
made for tiny stockings
Tree are decked
(with needles
dropping) as
snow outside
shows no signs
of stopping Tasty
moustaches from hot
choccy mugs, smiles warm
Home, all snug. My Christmas
always filled with
love
X
*
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
Hey Brain
You again
Yeah...you ready to write now?
Nah
Seriously!?
Throw me a bone, I beg you I plead!
Don't make me grovel from down on my knees!
I want to write verses, stanzas, and rhymes
I want to write odes that span hundreds of lines!
You don't understand the depths I would go
if only you'd let my creativity flow
within me there's power of unfathomable wonder
I will rip apart planets, I'll tear universes asunder!
I want to dip my brush into the paint of my mind
and just go to town until my mind paint is dried.
Paint that will land on more than the canvas
the floor, ceiling and walls will be stained with this madness!
My mind is spinning with various hues
greens, reds, and yellows -- purples and blues
My heart's 'bout to beat right out of my chest
and trust me, dear brain, that'd be a magnificent mess
If I go too much longer, I may go insane
and start writing of kumquats who dance in the rain
with whom are they dancing out there in the rain?
Why, none other than the late Saddam al Hussein
and those kumquats are making Saddam a mite jealous
due to the fact that they have much better moustaches
And why do kumquats have moustaches you wonder?
I'm so glad you asked, 'cause they're from the Down Under
Yes those kumqats were Australian, but they're not long for that land
Tom Selleck just ate 'em. Rhyme like Yoda, I can
See what you do, when you do this to me?
When the one thing you do is not a **** thing?
My apathetic brain, why must you sit here and fight
Put down your defenses, and
just.
let.
me.
WRITE.
Umm...you just...kinda did
Oh. Thanks...I think.
Whatever
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
We got those 1800s vibes
Men with moustaches
Women with moustaches
You ready to Hunt for your lives?
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
It's that time again, we close to sittin' pretty
Lord I pray for courage, so light that soul fire in me
Stacks of crucifixes, so we don't run out quickly
Hang it loosely round my neck should it get dark and dingy
Ward off the devils spirits, or beasts made from three sixes
Martini firepower, and no I don't mean drinkin'
Sometimes be something sicker, for demons I be killing
I'm off to hell and back, to stop em from existing...
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Guess its our turn now, y'all ready for a feud
Ain't no stopping this crowd, we're simply too imbued
That cross around your neck, its just a waste of fuel
The venom flowing in us means conditions won't improve
We'll just keep on marching, until you're twice removed
This is our land you're farming, the boss is not amused
The biggest baddest of us here, do this **** just for fun
You'll never take us all something wicked this way comes
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 6:11 AM UTC
Leaves settling against a transparent wall
Strips of gold and white swam, from winter to fall.
The voices would often bicker, quarrel and fight,
But the ripples in the water promised hope and delight.
Throw pellets, ask why fish needed 'air'
Giggle at their curled moustaches, in contrast with their fair
Give them titles and names, stories and goals,
Dip fingers in green, trying to create non existent holes.
Years passed and my pond became nothing but decay
And lips still throw insults, even as I lay,
Mosquitoes and their infants, wriggling in my watery home
But from finger to lip I decided, 'The fishes will once more roam.'
A young adult! I could have been mocked
At how in amazement, I stared; in a plastic bag they rocked.
Childhood flooded in, as I imitated their gaping lips,
I followed their words, and measured them from tip.
I set them down and with pride I looked,
As they counted their freedom, and knew they were not hooked.
They at last together, set to the deep,
and only at the sound of pellets, would they often leap.
The arguments grew colder and the hisses relentless
But I carried on feeding and cleaning, proving selflessness.
Yet to my horror, and beyond my control,
The fishes' paces grew slow, turned barely to crawl.
Panic and fear tightened my throat
At the thought limp bodies will cast and float.
But still the war carried on without a halt,
The inner sanctum of peace, turned into an untouched vault.
A week passed, and I sat beside arched spines.
Strips of pond **** carved in feeble lines.
Their marble eyes, glazed with question.
Their lungs stained with emerald resignation.
The clash continued even as I held,
One slick body of scratched brass and felt,
for a moment a weak patter of frail heart beat
saying, "This is your tale," then a whisper: "Your greatest defeat."
- N. C.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
Love be the nearest, love be the furthest.
I see an *** doing the donkey work of to be earnest.
The self identifying; of those among truly purposed.
A garden of roses in carousel; rowing around a carnival park,
Ice cream stains, candy moustaches, brands tomorrow's marque.
People giving loose handshakes; lost it's grip to their love. Their once true love,—
Of all the hateful glaring eyes looking down on us. And what they told us, to then give up.
But love in the nearest? Is of things I hold closely.
As in it's furthest; are those coldest nights I feel so lonely.
Like bare toes inside of the snow; their feet are too cold to move.
Which of my souls do I anticipate to be holy or holey; of my old red shoes?
Glaring, teasing, laughing, shaking, commenting, and pointing,
I expect of others looking at them,— judging my worth at these worthless red shoes.
For a love had. I walked the nearest. And too walked the furthest.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 12:33 PM UTC
Snakes have skinny shins.
Birds have wiry fingers.
Fish have fat necks.
Horses have moustaches.
Monkeys wear shoes.
Cats preen feathers.
Turtles soar on airy drafts.
I get confused about most things,
Except One.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
He was on a training mission down south,
There, his landlady told him to get married.
He hesitantly agreed to flash a matrimonial,
He anyway did so in a local newspaper.
She responded to his call in the newspaper,
She was attracted by his description.
They got married in a minimalist manner,
Saving money for a combined future.
The first demand she had surprised him,
She asked him to maintain a moustache.
With time, when he grew that mouser,
She was impressed with his manliness,
"I've seen denser moustaches,
None looks as elegant as yours."
Then they went to his home in North,
For the honeymoon, they went to Kashmir.
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 12:44 PM UTC
Pass the mead, friend, see the fires blazing on the hilltop proud;
Watch the horn-men dancing madly, hear the chanting of the crowd!
Smell the wood-smoke, taste the toadstools, greet the spirits of the night,
hail the chieftain, praise his cattle, give your woman full delight!
On the common by the village, peasantry and yeomen race;
who will win the ten gold pieces given by his Lordship’s grace?
On the spit an oxen roasting, minstrels sing without a care;
jousting knights and bowmen aiming, children tease the dancing bear!
See the mighty traction engine gaily painted red and gold;
carousels and big wheel turning, hot punch keeps away the cold.
Showmen with their curled moustaches; bearded ladies, giants, dwarves!
Hear the ***** music playing; freaks and side-shows, cheap gee-gaws!
Slot machines that steal your money, silicon chip siren call,
onions and greasy burgers, throbbing speakers, rip-off stalls!
Young girls hang around the Dodgems, trying to look seventeen,
ogling a tattooed feastie in his oily skin-tight jeans.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
what happens when I mess with your hairs
what happens when I touch your slight moustaches
what happens when I accidentally grab your wrists
what happens when I caress your eyes
what happens when I twist your ears in ease
what happens when I keep my head on your shoulders
nothing happens
it's just my imagination.
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 6:59 AM UTC
À Camille de Sainte-Croix.
Vous cachez vos cheveux, la toison impudique,
Vous cachez vos sourcils, ces moustaches des yeux,
Et vous cachez vos yeux, ces globes soucieux,
Miroirs plein d'ombre où reste une image sadique ;
L'oreille ourlée ainsi qu'un gouffre, la mimique
Des lèvres, leur blessure écarlate, les creux
De la joue, et la langue au bout rose et joyeux,
Vous les cachez, et vous cachez le nez unique !
Votre voile vous garde ainsi qu'une maison
Et la maison vous garde ainsi qu'une prison ;
Je vous comprends : l'Amour aime une immense scène.
Frère, n'est-ce pas là la femme que tu veux :
Complètement pudique, absolument obscène,
Des racines des pieds aux pointes des cheveux ?
439
THE SUPREME SURREALIST
****** has had
too much.
He has passed
his Art Diploma.
He is very drunk
and happy.
His paintings sell
quite well.
He meets a nice
Jewish girl
gets her in
the family way
does the right thing
by her.
He has 7 children
over seven years.
Dotes on his two
sets of twins.
He is happy.
Changed his style
the one Surrealist everybody
knows
he is interested in History.
Devours books.
The Second World War
doesn't happen.
It's an "...a what if. . ."
People thought it was
all going to blow up back then.
How the history books
got it wrong.
"How many shall pass on and how many shall come to be.."
A ****** now will sell
for quite a bit
at the time of his death
oh...a million or more.
He and Dali
the two most recognisable
moustaches
in the world.
He is a big
Alan Ginsberg fan.
****** dead in '68
there isn't a dry eye in the house
It is the day of Atonement.
His son says
Kaddish.
"No more to say and nothing to weep for!"
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 5:20 PM UTC
As I sit at my dining table this morning,
The already hot sun
Caresses my face,
Lifting my eyes,
Golden rays singe
My retinas, my lids shut like a vault.
My mind teleports me
To a summer in South America.
I can hear fingers picking at guitar strings,
I see men with scruffy moustaches
and sombreros. And I
Smell fresh limes.
I lick my lips and sigh,
“Oh, to be back there!”
Fully adjusted to the darkness,
Reality informs me its time for work.
Can I wear some earrings, a bracelet, a necklace
To remind me of this treasured memory?!
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 3:53 PM UTC
Why don’t the Portuguese have their own main?
Errol Flynn fights only Spanish baddies
Who twirl their moustaches in sneering disdain
And the villains are never Portuguese ladies
When ships do battle on Warner’s sound stage
The English are haughty, the Spanish snooty
Prince Henry’s brave men are never the rage
And the heroine is never a Lisboan beauty
Harken unto this repeated refrain:
Why don’t the Portuguese have their own main?
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
All through dinner
Sara gazed at the guests,
but said nothing.
Her sister, Maggie,
did most of the host's job
of conversation,
and the MP, whose name
she'd forgotten,
some back-bencher
from so and so,
did most of the talk.
Sara ate little;
sipped the wine;
she sat listening
to this and that
and other idle chat.
It was they themselves
she gazed at
in her own fashion;
taking in how they talked,
gestures of hands,
moustaches of the men,
necklaces of the women,
wives and their chitter-chatter,
leaving the men
to their smoke
and conversations,
their wit, their talk
not for the ladies' ears.
Even amongst the women
she said little,
just once saying
how Pascal feared
the wide expanse of space,
leaving the other women,
including her sister,
with raised eyebrows
and blank face.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC
Lorsque Abd-el-Kader dans sa geôle
Vit entrer l'homme aux yeux étroits
Que l'histoire appelle - ce drôle, -
Et Troplong - Napoléon trois ;
Qu'il vit venir, de sa croisée,
Suivi du troupeau qui le sert,
L'homme louche de l'Elysée, -
Lui, l'homme fauve du désert ;
Lui, le sultan né sous les palmes,
Le compagnon des lions roux,
Le hadji farouche aux yeux calmes,
L'émir pensif, féroce et doux ;
Lui, sombre et fatal personnage
Qui, spectre pâle au blanc burnous,
Bondissait, ivre de carnage,
Puis tombait dans l'ombre à genoux ;
Qui, de sa tente ouvrant les toiles,
Et priant au bord du chemin,
Tranquille, montrait aux étoiles
Ses mains teintes de sang humain ;
Qui donnait à boire aux épées,
Et qui, rêveur mystérieux,
Assis sur des têtes coupées,
Contemplait la beauté des cieux ;
Voyant ce regard fourbe et traître,
Ce front bas, de honte obscurci,
Lui, le beau soldat, le beau prêtre,
Il dit : « Quel est cet homme-ci ? »
Devant ce vil masque à moustaches,
Il hésita ; mais on lui dit :
« Regarde, émir, passer les haches !
Cet homme, c'est César bandit.
« Ecoute ces plaintes amères
Et cette clameur qui grandit.
Cet homme est maudit par les mères,
Par les femmes il est maudit ;
« Il les fait veuves, Il les navre
Il prit la France et la tua,
Il ronge à présent son cadavre. »
Alors le hadji salua.
Mais au fond toutes ses pensées
Méprisaient le sanglant gredin
Le tigre aux narines froncées
Flairait ce loup avec dédain.
Jersey, le 20 novembre.
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