"panache" poems
The world is small even heaven isn't big
but an uncreated Word is,
an expression of love and promise!
The tale of the beginning
the tale of the end without the ending.
Soon God said it 'Qun' be
bang it couldn't be bigger indeed.
Everything small and big the complete
creations panache came to be so big!
The body is small the soul came in the front
and every soul big banged in one go.
All heard the same Word it was only one
that sets the tone for the first to the last
so sweet it took everyone’s heart!
The death wouldn’t touch the soul
that already died but couldn’t die.
Revived there and then instantly,
hearing the 'Qun' the uncreated melody!
Crooned up even through the dead-end
surged up to the other side of the black hole.
Like a waxing Moon passed over, crossing
the asleep body in the shadow, yet in the making!
Unable to resist it, the first big bang
didn’t happen amidst the material entity
not in the star, milky way or in the galaxy.
Adam was yet to be in the body
the physical ear was yet to hear it!
Unlike the tuned in abyss soul there
that harks and the clouds rise and rain
only to revert back to the sea
showering the shallow terraqueous body.
He said ‘Qun’ again and the first physical big bang
on the matter takes place in Fathima’s joint
interlacing her live soul and pre-design body.
It cuts through the irrational pi in between
the soul and body so that gel in melody!
With pure love without a condition
that shall keep up perpetuating the body!
Nature that was yet to be, gets a mirror in its entirety
and bangs big hearing an echo of ‘Qun’ be, says the Almighty
it comes to be and shall perish only to be an eternal body!
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
I write like a poet
I speak the words of a song
I sing like an angel
…who tends to get the notes wrong.
I’m funny and friendly
Or I pretend to be
I’m weird but I’m witty
I guess that’s just me.
I wear my sneakers
To parties with dresses
I paint on the walls
And I make frosting messes
I suppose I’m annoying
But I bet you are too.
I guess that’s my panache.
How about you?
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
The day on a high
reaches the peak
over the pyramid.
Shrouded in twilight
now tucked in light
pushes the envelope.
The whole panache of stars
came out in the pitch dark.
The North Star is on the way
oh do me a favour
I will tell you why.
Veil the angle of dawn
in the black shades of the night.
There are dark caves
even inside the pyramid
scientists, trained eyes
yet to tread on that way.
Put on it only an instance of your kohl
the daylight is already a burnt mole.
Light in the wrap in the night
your muslin veiled silken moonlight
is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.
If the tucked away sun crops up
once again over the morning’s rose petals.
Again it will dive deep into the angle
after an angle in the black hole of the night.
A far cry from the glowing firefly
eyeing blindfolded behind the moon
perfectly beyond every looking star.
Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil
not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise
through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 1:48 AM UTC
She cooks her dishes with such panache and zest,
as if both are two new dishes for me to taste,
her dainty waist, arrested my eyes,
then the mind ****** thunder thighs,
all I want is to stick to her all over like curry paste.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
Ah the inevitability of it all
Made a cup of tea… teabag broke
toast… burnt it
milk in the cereal was off
shower water went cold
Couldn’t find my jeans…in the wash
Had to wear cords
Missed my train
Late for work
Boss NOT happy
Stella cancelled dinner said she had to work late
Charlie rang to see if I was going to the footy
He said Stella said she was going
When???????????? I asked
Just a minute ago he said
Ah the inevitability of it all
Missed my deadline I was preoccupied
Called and had it out with her
**** off she said
You can **** off too
Missed my train
Home late
Checked mail
Stella sent me a ticket to the footy….
A surprise she said
Ah the inevitability of it all
Married her on a Sunday
Had our first child on a Monday
Divorced on a Tuesday
There’s got to be a better way
Joined online dating scheme
Now I lie with panache
And she sure knows how to tease me
And please me…
Ah the inevitability of it all
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.
But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
3.1k
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
_Acceptance that in this life
Blood and sinew define me
And yet my mind can fly,
Doesn’t come easily.
To find the pivot point,
The sweet spot where form and fancy
Co-exist in perfect balance,
Eludes me most of the time.
To lose myself in the dreck of daily life dulls my spirit;
To reject the limitations of my reality
Leaves me stranded in the in between spaces
Where discontent, longing and self-doubt flourish.
Engaging in this power struggle
Between my earth and my ether
Leads me to gainsay one half of my whole,
Either or, vice versa, within or without.
To find a ***** in my own armour,
To prise open the gap,
To embrace the paradox which is this person named “I”,
And walk the tightrope with panache...aha!_
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
Sonnet pour mon épagneul anglais Nils
De son smoking de noir vêtu,
mêmes quand il court dans les rues,
à un artiste de gala
il semble emprunter le pas
Ton ventre est blanc comme une hermine.
Sur ton museau blanc, une truffe
Son dos de noir tout habillé.
Sur le front, il se fait doré.
De « prince », il s’attire le nom
Tant sa démarche est altiere ;
mais de « Nils », il a le surnom,
Car autant qu’un jar, il est fier.
Assis, il paraît méditer,
Sur le monde sa vanité.
De ses yeux noirs il vous regarde,
Comme un reproche qui s’attarde.
Quand il court, parmi les genêts,
Il fend l’air comme un destrier ;
Et le panache de sa queue
En flottant, vous ravit les yeux.
Mon épagneul est très dormeur,
Et aux sofas, il fait honneur.
Mais lorsque se lève le jour,
A se promener, il accourt.
Quand il dort, il est écureuil,
mais jamais, il ne ferme l’œil.
Un léger murmure l’éveille
Tant aérien est son sommeil.
Il semble emprunter le pas
Lorsqu’un aboiement le réveille
De sa voix, il donne l’éveil.
Et les chats, les chiens maraudeurs,
Il met en fuite avec bonheur.
Lorsque dans mes bras, il vient,
Son pelage se fait câlin.
Et la douceur de sa vêture
Lui fait une jolie voilure.
Sur ma table, sa tête repose
Lorsque je taquine la prose,
Comme pour dire ; même par-là,
je veux que tu restes avec moi.
Sous ma caresse, il se blottit,
comme le ferait un petit.
De ma tristesse, il vient à bout,
tant le regard qu’il pose est doux.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
***
Poème à ma chienne Laika dite «Caquine»
Tu as un gros museau,
Cocker chocolatine,
Des yeux entre amandes et noisettes
Teintés d’une humeur suppliante.
Ta fourrure est quelque peu rêche
Mais prend l’éclat de la noisette
et le reflet du renard roux.
La caresse se fait satin.
Ma fille Célia t’appelle : «Caquine»
Pour des raisons que je ne peux
Au lecteur dévoiler ici,
Mais toute ta place tu tiens.
A ta maitresses adorée
Tu dresses ton gros museau
Et te blottis pour la garder
En menaçant ceux qui approchent.
Tu es peureuse comme un lézard,
Et sait ramper devant Célia.
Mais ton museau, sur mes genoux
Au petit déjeuner veille et guette.
Quand je te sors, tu tires en laisse
Jusqu’à m’en laisser essoufflé,
Après avoir d’énervement
Dans ta gueule, mes chaussons saisis.
Sur les sentiers de senteur,
Ton flair à humer se déploie.
Tu es, ma chienne, compagnie.
De mes longues après-midi.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi), Toulouse.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
The Buddhists Teach
There is a door
Between the conscious and the unconscious
On the threshold of awareness
Where, from this sleepy place
Mind-door takes in space
A snap-shot of what’s around
The shapes and the sounds
Be it red, blue or brown
Sensory fed and felt and judged
A conceptual conclusion
Based on memory and illusion
Served up ofttimes with a bit of confusion
The sixth sense of inclusion
Transcending time and allusion.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
The unaware
From where?
Memory Lane
What a pain
Insane and mundane
Tainted and sainted
Familiar and unfamiliar
It’s the object and the flavor
It only makes sense
To bring in the other scents
Can you feel it
Through my poetry?
Because I have no other way
I’m sending you the sweetest berry
In bloom
And tea scented perfume
For some lazy afternoon.
Starting out so poetic
Descended into the prosaic
I’d like to stay in those high-minded places
Between the sheets of my faces
I’m at peace and war with myself
No one else.
I know I shouldn’t get attached
Shrug it off with panache
When I think about impermanence
Makes me cringe and
create another circumstance
A twirling happenstance
A devil’s dance
A devilish lance
It’s getting better
Like frankincense
Then it fades
Like the past tense
How does one let go
When clinging’s become a way of life?
A hunting knife couldn’t pry
My pathetic fingers lose
Holding on to
A hangman’s noose
I’d scream and rail
Holding on
To the nail
That pierced my travail
As life stomped and pounded
grounded me down
But, I wouldn’t let go.
Oh no, not me
Fool that I am
Was it a question of pride?
A fear of the night
The ego chasing its’ tale
Personal blackmail?
A forgotten memory
A mishmash
Lack of mindfulness
A Pandora's box?
Nonetheless,
I confess
A little bit of everything.
I tell myself
Baby steps
Baby steps
Baby’s need to let go
And fall and get up
Or they won’t learn to walk
Or talk or grow up
It’s baby talk
And baby steps
Knock, knock
Who’s there
No one
Then come on in
Naked and all alone
Rest on the threshold of time
Rest on the threshold of awareness
But, In all fairness
Don’t expect it to last
Such is the nature of impermanence
Only the bliss shall remain.
You can find it once again.
When you learn to let go.
But,
Don’t listen to my advice
As you can see
I’m still holding on for dear life.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
A trinity of three styles one man no religion one morning over a lifetime
Temporary (we tat too)
Temporary love
has no precision definition
so if I say
love you forever,
as I do,
know know
just know
this particular
phrase
is temporary,
unique and forgivable
as temporary
as our permanent tattoo,
the one embellishing you,
the one marking me,
the two hearts tat
that means
we are a
tat two
If you begin a poem,
a love, a tat
with temporary,
usually, but not always,
you have already failed
See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/if-you-begin-a-poem-with-i/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invalidation
my living bones, twisted.
my words, slurred,
disfigured with a panache,
that makes the mirror
turn away, ashamed
invalid. in valid.
I have been invalidated,
I spit at your too late heroics,
unwanted.
I spit at myself,
for missing the moment,
when choice was mine
I would have self-destructed, freely,
reborn in an act of self-validation,
be my own living will,
if only I had not been enslaved to my
**********
Fear
invalidation, the Cain mark of every failed man
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bootyoir
three day weekend has commenced.
it's con-occlusion
now in rapid descent
mini-vacation, maxi-sensation.
the only question remaining,
present but debated,
as yet undecided,
whose turn is it
to answer
the doorbell,
when the delivery guy
brings our break~fast
for it is forbidden,
a transgress,
to egress
from the bootyoir,
except for the
call of nature,
and naturally,
I am calling
you,
comeback comeback
hungry time
it's time we
co-authored some
bootyoir poetry
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.
That scrawny cry&mdasp;It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
1.8k
for jul
she asks a-rat-a-tat sensible
peppering of questions;
“why do I give away my poems so easy and so fast, why me”
the answer so readily apparent,
so easy peasy lemon squeezy,
my style is who you are!
every-oft and every-then,
a leader-reader believes my words
so profound so entire so joyful wonderful!
that title passes there and then
a poem without a dedication but a-dressed-up-lovely
without a ^hat,^ missing the zing of panache
that makes its DNA complete, then someone comes along
who loves it so more than enough, placing that rakish angled love with a bejeweled hat pin just so, and that hat makes
the poem so much more, the jewel whispering confirmation
vive la différence!
so a dedication to/is
purest dedication -
exactly!
and this one
a jewel for the poem
for jul
be a
just
be cause
5:47am
<•>
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.
...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.
Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
It's easier to tell people what they want to hear
than to hurt and maim with the truth
not wanting to deliver the blow and the fear
providing evidence and the inevitable proof
Some people seek it for attention
confirmation they're shunned and abused
just always there, on vacation
as everyone around them, is used
Playing the game passive and angry
flashing eyes that lie, with a smile
all at the same time, pure lazy
a lack of panache and/or of style
It's a no win scenario
day in and all day out
watching them scheme
as always the innocent victim
un-pious and falsely
devout
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
Growing or shrinking
last star exit in mind
New trend
Is life the dead-end?
Star casting kiss
No exit to miss
A friend
Finding courage
Circles and stars breath
condolences
Feeling nameless no
picket white fences
Eyes adored last glances
Society- Supreme- be
Forget me not Garden- of- Eden
Wish upon a star hidden?
The last digging dandelion
yellow ray
In the end no more suffering
until the day
Like poem book* open and end
Something stiff glued together her life
Paper- Mache
Making amends Sales man
Taking his last exit he picks desire
She's
The spitfire Rare- star sire
Computing- reliving- dying
dreaming
Don't settle for scheming
The last star exit
The last scripture
Vivid mixture
Mind storing like a cache
Rare Robin bird great
panache
Recherche last meal al -dente
Smell the last flower herbal- ritual
Petals open up new portal
Blue elf Viola sing like Mona Lisa
* * * *
Autumn red wine star bridge
Grenache field of mirage
Seeing stars you fell
Where's my falling angel
Strong words vocal
If its the last exit don't disconnect
Dots.. and dots.. connect
God casting
Its written stars for all in our name
Starry- end*
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
Airwaves awash in the new gospel barrage:
calling forth the neighbourhood hack,
Abe Lincoln toon in towering hat,
the corporation is coming -
will you not
collaborate my friend?
Everything good that you ever dreamed of is here:
Marbonite floored flats with self-terraced roofs;
The swankiest of cars, in imported hues;
Your arm candy drools,
now, brands, bigger brands!
All in your grasp, now, in community gates
shut safe as society decays.
Skies spitting frogs? Pestilences amass?
Listen to the Gospel according to Bane:
in the desert, smell octane. Hallelujah,
everything we make, from watches
to headscarves - your underwear is cheaper
sourced from the next so-lala-land.
Forget your sources tiny of incomes varying:
Bakers, cobblers, tinkerers, we also have
a uniform for you. Oh you rustic
tradition-bound bandy bumpkins!
Abandon your alleyways, and
welcome to the ghettos...where
What you eat, to where to retreat:
we cure everything from heartache to panache.
Wash away your sins in wonder medicines;
Waters can part, yes, see how the Pharoah
is disarmed; Big city dreams, dream
global manna beams. All that is needed for
salvation, is a little bit of classification. Are you
left-wing or right? Center-left or center-right?
The powerdrill tearing down edifices
resonating through noon. A crane arm's shadow
hovering high by the moon. Tablets from skies
now proclaim the new gospel for the land,
the airwaves are awash
of the miracle of Witwatersrand.
The corporation is coming, to a store near you:
Amen! Will you not, then, collaborate, my friend?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
She is the stained girl, a diffident dreamer
Who looks for the sun and the rain together
Her panache is to craft blissful memories
Festooned with vivid thoughts, her accessories
She is the stained girl, a feeble believer
Who relies on a happy ever after
Yet scared to be seen from her cheerful facade,
Something that would charge her of being a fraud
She saunters in the midst of the piqued storms
Resounding the hues of the jaundiced norms
Like a bird highlighted with vibrant plumes
To fly around the walls of perplexing rooms
She wears the best maquillage, old and new
To make everyone away from being blue
She offers her hair, those gilded strands
Yet they exploit her gift with their vicious hands
She is the stained girl who seeks for uprightness
Yet pain has shaped her with creased faithfulness
In front of a looking glass, there I see
That magnificent, stained girl looks like me.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
Treasury Casino - 2:30 am
From my seat in the smokers section
I can see the Brisbane eye,
the river,
and the performing arts center.
Streetlights are mans answer to the cosmos
"Everything you can do,
I can make better."
Once it was said that we were made in God's image.
Now we can safely say that God was made in our image.
I am in a quiet place of the universe, the night stretches on
visible through the stately
wonderous
walls
carved of old wood and sandstone.
I am in a suede armchair, winged for pleasure.
The ceiling in this room is twice as high as an ordinary room.
Circular steel ***** hang down like a path of bubbles
left by a leviathan.
My water was poured with panache.
Let me set the scene for you:
I'm in the Treasury Casino, this building was once the QLD state treasury, it never changed really.
Sitting next to window that overlooks the river, a glass of water sits to my left. The room is the size of a double garage, maybe bigger. The floor and ceilings are made of old wood, the walls are decorated with a transparent gray fabric that remindsme of smoke. An old marble fireplace sits in a wall studded with tiny lights that resemble stars or candles. Above me is a series of hanging circular light fixtures that resemble a trail of bubbles left by a leviathan.
This room was designed for, and houses opulence.
The TV plays Eminem.
Peter Garrett dances like a Parkinson's sufferer.
And looks like Disco-Nosferatu.
We have killed the night
and neon power
and infomercials
**** the romance
once held
by late night solitude.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
In the shape of your movement
my tummy is stormed
by jingles
and foxtrots,
it leaps a ballet
as you punctuate
air
with glorious panache.
It always tries to run everywhere
when you
come into view;
all the tumbling roams
at the slight tour of your smile.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC