"ponce" poems
/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph.
immigrant song, led zeppelin -
probably the only grand theatre
plus,
of thor: rangarok;
i still don't know where those
M16s came from...
and?
given they used
a led zeppelin's song?
i honestly, don't want to know.
i was honestly going to favour
a black sabbath oeuvre,
using only solitude
by the witches' congregation
ask, aspect,
or subsequent, marketing ponce
scheme.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
I lived in a town where Sunny D dreams rested lazily on Mondays.
Nothing is go go go - no - it’s lazy to rise. Lazy to bed. Lazy to meet up with friends at the beach. Lazily chewing on donuts while we listen to songs that lazily leak through the teeth of our radio free censorship both lazily digesting in our sour guts making us lazy in the way we think. Feeding off the television, white noise static permeating the folds of our lazy minds. We now regurgitate headlines at parties lazily arguing, debating, though not a single thought is our own. We are lazy in the way that we say we’ll accomplish something. Making up little kid dreams for broken promises of “I’ll get to it tomorrow”. But we never do. Never did. Just lazily puff on ***** shards. Our crushed bits of ignorance. Every night. Lazy sods. Working, sleeping, working, smoking, sleeping, working.
The cycle goes on.
In this land where time takes a nap. Where magnolia groves now rest lazily in the space of an old man’s memories. You see, even time is lazy among salty air humidity that clings to lungs in a wet rag sensation so that we are lazy even in the way that we breathe. That’s why our grandparents tell us all those stories. So that we are not caught up in the lazy way light filters through the leaves of citrine sunsets that mingle into dawn.
Still, we yawn a question “what was I supposed to be doing again?” Here in this land where we all seem to exist in a static myth. Start another lazy day. Lost to IT. The big IT. The ever growing IT. The IT that consumes our lazy days with lazy work and lazy sleep and too much lazy play.
It’s easy here to let go of what this land used to be. Back when gold ships carried Ponce de Leon upon God’s wings to a place where Highway 19 was no pavement or brick or man made industry but rough and raw and hot
and undiscovered Timucuan territory. We effortlessly lose sight of our own history to lazy daydreaming
That slow,
drip
drip
drip
of time leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
Until your future
leaks into tomorrow
Until you wake up from this lazy hell.
Until you realize there is nothing left ahead on your lazy path
Until the future has become your present and you are out of
Days to dawdle and to say “I will deal with it tomorrow” before it all
None too slowly
Rather abruptly
Comes to a clashing end.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Everyone’s so **** far
away
Everything is on steroids
And as all we know
Swells to sizes more
Than even god planed
They inevitably come in between us
The way a 70 inch TV splits a family apart
To opposite hemispheres of their “living”- room -world
“Can you hear me over there Brother? Sister?”
“Not listening.”
“Can’t see you.”
Electronic wedges that push us farther
And farther from our fathers
“Dad I just called because you never
answered my textual message
And email is too slow as you well know.”
“Come home son.” He concedes
“I lost my way home pop.”
“You’re right, I guess the 50’s are done and The Wonder Years
is long out of syndication.”
So I’m an alien on this ******* like stretch of land.
Ponce de Leon would claim it for his peninsula as
A peninsula of eternal life
A greater man than I would label it “The happiest place on earth.”
But all I know is this:
This earthen ***** might as well be an island off the coast of nowhere
Gainesville might as well be in Russia, rather
The Steppes of Asia Minor
And you most certainly are
An aberration from a softer night far ago
I guess I’ll see it all half full and live
In my State of Confusion
Located somewhere between the North and South Pole
Call it self pity, but no one but people like me understand
The concept of one million miles
Meet me halfway, someplace if you agree
Live in States of Unknown
So then you will
Always have a home
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 2:19 PM UTC
Region of life and light!
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!
Nor frost nor heat may blight
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!
There without crook or sling,
Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red
Round his meek temples cling;
And to sweet pastures led,
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.
He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted, for he makes them go
Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.
He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good,
And fountains of delight;
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.
And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with numerous sound.
From his sweet lute flow forth
Immortal harmonies, of power to still
All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,
And change it till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee.
Ah! then my soul should know,
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,
And from this place of woe
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock and never stray.
1.2k
when teenagers "think" they can
take over the "internet"...
from us... the 20th century
teenager pioneers...
you're kidding me, right?!
**** it, let's get delusional:
i am the shadow at the birth
of dawn,
i am the shadow on the moon's
face...
i am, i am, i am...
the hunting figment
of your imagination....
teens don't own the internet...
freaks, geeks,
pioneers...
these softball parenting skills
and their *******
wait wait...
you let them snap-chat...
and at the same time censor?!
swoon-smooch-flake
these ********
you have to be kidding me...
no, you, seriously,
have to, be, kidding, me....
next time i hear,
growing a beard will be deemed
offensive...
******* snowflakes...
that's what calling us millennial(s)
your "supposed children":
how about?
**** you!
i'm tired of listening to
20th century artifacts!
tired of them giving their
tenure of insurance!
tired of them propagating
Jane Eyre rather than
Frankenstein!
begotten not made,
forthwith:
with no one uttered to be
sanctified to be made to serve!
i am: übergebieter....
i serve no belittling English
feudalism...
nein! nein nein nein!
**** my **** and call me Charlie...
you! ******* English!
ponce!
für meine vater!
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
So you know
How the whispers of the night
Call upon your name
So you know
the trembling of one's soul is lost
So you know
A chest full of empty hearts
Has taken to the edge of earth
So you know,so you know
Reaching back as my strength fails
In times of trouble
I'm noble,but humble
Like a lion
Quietly & waiting to ponce
So you know
That weakness of blood
Is spilled upon my hands
so you know, So you know
You're the woman
Of many faces
Who is conquering
My freedom from the world
So you know,so you know
I bid you,
Farewell
My lady of the night
So you know
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 9:41 PM UTC
Miles and miles and miles away,
is a big lovely place we like to play,
we jump and bounce,
we we spin and ponce,
all in the middle row's house
Daisy,Zack,Seb and Fi,
we all wonder so dearly,
how they are such a fabulous family,
And we wonder in the middle row's house
Meanwhile downstairs the adults are all fine
until they start drinking sebastian's posh wine ,
suddenly everyones up and dancing,
their all drunk and some are prancing,
They drink in the middle rows house
Upstairs the kids play and play
Maybe they think it's the only way,
say play Ava say play
Everyone plays in the middle row's house
WE ALL LOVE THE MIDDLE ROWS
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Yes I know my sense of humour is dark,
But if you didn’t want to know then you should not have asked.
Yes it offends, that’s the aim of the game.
But it’s all in jest, done in humours name.
No you don’t like it, but why should I care?
If you don’t like me or my humour then stay over there.
Because when you whine about it I will fail to care.
When you complain about it you will get aired.
I don’t involve myself in your pathetic goings on,
Never at all, not even once.
So stay out of my life and mind your own for once.
I’ll never be interested in your life, so leave it you ponce.
You’re a fully grown man, that I can see.
But a pathetic little boy you will always be.
You want to give your opinion but really there’s no need,
We’d get more useful info from talking to a tree.
Your mind is tiny but your voice is loud.
You have nothing to say but you say it so proud.
I don’t care what you think and I never will,
So stop flapping your gums and keep them still.
Call whomever you like and feel you need,
Bring your army to little old me.
I will politely ask you all to leave,
And when you don’t I’ll call the police.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 6:04 AM UTC
china: never put all your eggs into one basket. true that, we gave more riches to china than anyone could have thought, riches that aren't gold or diamonds or champagne bottles or restaurants with £500 a head meals or a grand fashion industry with designer labels... we gave them the single most important of the riches: work.
odd, isn't it, back then it was work,
but the steel industry
is collapsing in the west with
cheap chinese steel, cheaper even
than the indian steel...
manufacturing jobs are gone,
obesity is on the rise because we have
no ****** outlets, only the hamster
palaces of treadmills and weights...
and that's counter-productive it would seem...
all the menial jobs were exported and
in came bureaucratic jobs and fancy ponce
jobs of the office dealing with branding
and aesthetics... making a brand of yourself,
getting paid a million quid to post a video
of eating a tablespoon of cinnamon or
a whole jar of peanut butter...
the jobs that created the gigantic market
place by feminism... i know women did the heavy
duty stuff like making shells...
but that was during world war ii...
i know they're capable... but why suddenly
clap and applaud where there are female
engineers on building sites... but no female
bricklayers? such a successful theory?
women soldiers but no female bricklayers?!
might as well say that i'm the broken outdated
robot in the dungeons of a ***** bank.
- everything now has a sticker: made in china...
made in china... vietnam... etc.;
obviously i'm stating the obvious -
but there's a slight warning floating about
the place... erziehung macht frei (education
sets you free) does not mean: go to university
get a degree... it's the persistence of education,
education becomes like working,
there's no achievement basis...
good example, i got a degree, but **** all work
in my desired education training -
they're not even employing people
with chemistry degrees in places where,
technically, chemists are intended to be...
poetry became the only option, the last
resort... not for therapeutic reasons either.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
*it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******** to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*
after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Seven Caesars
A haven in Bensalem
To come in from the storm
The Banquet Hall from Heaven
A zesty place to keep warm
Seven gilded statues wearing breastplates
All seven with spears and raised golden fingers
Its lavish atmosphere scintillates
The overall effect still lingers
Long after the garlic aftertaste
Has departed from your tongue
Sumptuous food will never waste
The ambience is always fun
Pizzaro had his City of Gold
Ponce De Leon had his Fountain of Youth
But we’ve found our treasure hold
Ride Route One North for the proof
@1995, 2006 Linda Barrett
A Time for Love
@2013 Linda Barrett
Two lovers
On Society’s opposite sides
Meet together:
One upholding its
Age Limit laws
Preventing citizens from living
Past their expiration dates
The other
seeks the Spirit world
for answers
Outside of Society’s rules
Both unite as a single unit
Run from the Eye
Which sees them both
Seer and Reaper
Two individuals divided
Against One Society
Add love to the formula
Now what is the product?
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
no controlled response
part or whole nonchalance
body's toll at the whim of this ponce
maniacs a troll named Hans
need to wake from this dream,
still sleeping while the scream
ripped from my lips, a jet stream
of profane pain in the extreme
duck pond near by, fetid pool of duck **** floating
as eyes stare inches away, drool drips from Hans gloating
as I sit with legs wrapped around a pole, body weight totally
resting on one ankle hands behind my back, pain brutally
stay upright
fall back
the punishment will not be light
...oh yeah ...pain
my only friend
this is the end
give me a pen
I'll sign the ****
blank paper and
Hans will be sure to fill it in with anything he wants
he has a hankering for my soul...
he will start
with my heart
go for the nerves
take all my verve
get my mind
in a bind
then leave me
all alone.................................................................. miles from here
who will then
teach me
to walk
on two feet
again.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
and sometimes magic, a scene from the book
of genesis, chapter verse whatever,
buying whiskey and beer in a supermarket,
the cashier, Tara, knows me,
she's my gym coach,
she tut tut struts and tuts when i buy
beer telling me to keep the beer off -
i told you alcoholics are mobile,
we go sightseeing most of the time,
on a double decker bus we bemuse and
lipread: and here's the Elizabeth tower (formerly
known as Benjamin "big **** Disraeli -
the English by the French after the 100
year war: if they're not retards, they're perverts) -
**** that shit's brushed off on me! am i a **********
if i hold dear a British passport? phew! no? yes? huh?!
i must be a Mr. Khan in waiting...
no, but seriously, a scene in the cave of an iceman,
5 lasses buying wine lonely,
me my beer my whiskey,
i get a lemon added / **** i told you it was a lime not
a lemon on the conveyor belt -
i get a lime, lucky Adam got an apple
and one asking, i'm doing double-up fevers waiting
for Saturday night with Paris, Hilda, Venus and Hera..
Adam gets an apple from smooch slick Eva
naked and i get a ******* lime on a conveyor-belt
in a supermarket while buying whiskey...
Jonah! call the whale! i'm sure we'll both
be calling it Noah's ark when tomorrow comes;
**** you not, we'll be boarding dry-land at
Arsuk - **** send a message to Columbus -
we discovered North America via Greenland
like you discovered the same via the Caribbean Islands,
ha ha! call it dynamo of Erik versus Kristopheren;
i just got a lime on a conveyor belt in a supermarket,
Adam was handed an apple in Eden -
i guess that's worth a 50 50 chance of coincidence
with my sex-starved libido and the English "roses":
not that i'm guarantying anything good either,
it's not like i'm a vacuum cleaner based guarantee -
but **** me, the ****** **** wrinkles and all,
bamboozle clad the salutary march for applause -
and the fainting bearskin trumpet-brigadier at
the ro- -yal parade onto Buckingham Ponce;
n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
most days i'm thinking:
thank god i didn't give you a smile;
for all the love that abounds and binds man,
thank god mine was not translated into a failure
of dis-encouraged children not achieving
a higher ideal; leave me dreaming,
and you too left the happiest
ably resourceful
in me minding the outer
so-called existential suburbia;
i know, the english vocabulary
does not like the ponce of philosophical
involvement... it doesn't even like
the word as such... it prefers:
manager of deleted files,
safety manager of hammers,
contract supervisor of termites,
you know... all the Monty Python ha ha,
goose strut ha ha (funny walk ministry);
very debasing contrasts of
"real" jobs not being kindred of coal-miners...
no real jobs in the office, although
sold as such they are considered "real",
to get to grips with
underused triceps
and quasi-haemarrhoids of sitting
on your *** all day playing candy crush
sh'aga... or some ****
about the Shanghai stock-market
creating a booming Hong Kong
housing experiment of noodle lovers
ready for some artificial intelligence *****
chat; hey, if pink is the new *****
of fluffy handcuffs... sign me up!
i'm ready for the near voyeuristic
claustrophobia of living in over-crowded
high-rise accommodation.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
who wants to know
the exact day one will die?
(not I, not I, says the fly to the spider)
but she tells me, this crooked old lady
from a dream…
she circles me, prods me
with bony fingers, ogles me
through blue blinking eyes, her mouth
curling in curious, curdled smile
you will be here a while--you have
until you are seventy-five years plus a day
how do you know this? mostly in your eyes, she says
but they are not red, from lack of sleep, I protest, and
my blood numbers are grand, all within those blessed ranges
still red, she says, and being duly desiccated
by wily winds you do not control
but I still climb mountains, I proclaim
and look for Ponce De Leon’s fountains? she asks
why do you argue with me, in this liquid world
of sleep, for I am thee, and you
are me
when I awake,
I know not where she went
or from whence she came, but woefully
I concede, the old lady, and this teller of tales
are one and the same
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
Youth has killed them all,
the lunatic screams,
bemoaning his plight
to all who will ignore.
*those who cry for their
mothers at night,
THEY are the madmen,
whimpering and sniveling*
'I don't want to be responsible'
*only to realize at some point
later in life that no one
gives a **** what they
want just as long as
they keep their mouths
shut and shovel their
**** to keep the system
as one, man!
All this bull about free will
will take them all of nowhere!
The more they try to capture
youth, the older they
will get and the quicker
they will die!
Don't they see it?*
And even though he
warned himself,
he died the same way.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
First when there’s nothing…
But a slow glowing dream…
Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
All alone I have cried…
Silent tears full of pride…
Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
What a feeling...
Bein’s believing…
Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
Take your passion…
And make it happen…
The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
Pictures come alive…
You can dance right through your life…
As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
I am unrecognizable to myself…
Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
It was black and whispering as the rain…
With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…
Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
I can feel myself fading away…
Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
There was a time when men were kind…
There was a time when love was blind…
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Acknowledgements:
1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
My half life becomes me
I laugh at pain
Because it's all I know
Three ducks in a row
Three blind mice
Me all alone
The farmers wife is angry
My dying energy
I can not find the source of strength
I used to know
So I go searching
With feeble hands and aching back
Into a new world
My mind is reeling
Ponce de leon thought he found the fountain of youth
He was wrong
Still I am much like him
I thought I found you
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
I cross the bridge to nowhere, in the cold, in my underwear
Intense winds push me to edges, where I contemplate ledges
Looking down, spirits swim and stare; icy waters are their lair
I levitate and meditate; medicate with mental dredges
Such mundane nonchalance; my bridge leads to idiot savants
I would be crowned their King, kindred soul of unsound meditations
We've left our lost souls unburied, unhurried to right the carriage
Take a deep breath of the ether of dregs and suppurations
Take the one whom you love, not in marriage, in ************
On the bridge, I pass a young ponce and hear echoes of "Bon Chance!"
Purple rags greet me at the gate, royal flags of highest distinction
Winking my eye, scratching my head, the dead are now forgotten
Deep in my pit, so deep I forget, a pang of extinction
In my palace of darkness, no light will shine on the rotten
In the court of fools, coarse avowals can't be washed by the fonts
So lines are drawn by idiot courtiers and indigent warriors
Cities with no regret or sorrow, tomorrow trampled to tatters
Through smoke and burnt flesh we ***** we hope to soothe the worriers
We are all Babylonians, babbling on as if nothing matters
The bridges to nowhere we cross, we cross bridges to Babylons
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
i swear to god they put chocolate samplings into
this distillation,
maybe it's the pepsi?
i very much doubt it,
but the ******* who distill the famous grouse
are really adding something to the skotch...
i'm seriously getting hints of chocolate on
the tip of my tongue...
now... i've read newspaper
articles citing wine-tasting sessions...
mmm: full bodied...
mmm popsicle rose!
mmm dry candy white!
whiskey tasting? a whiskey palette?
you down one and you're like:
smoked salmon! all of them!
but what about the tokai?
or the grouse for that matter?
you ever get into the chocolate in
the famous grouse? there's a hint of chocolate
in that liquid amber.
drink enough as i have... and you'll be saying:
bourbon... mmm... **** juices.... brothel!
and are we going there? yes! we are!
this puerto rican whale of a woman just beached
and we're going to "poke" her, to see if she's still alive.
**** me though...
who tickles the palette with a dash of chocolate
in a whiskey, such as is the case with the famous grouse?
and apart from that... i'd love to read a newspaper
where there are whiskey critiques... rather than
some ponce / **** of a man oozing ridicule
sniffing up a glass of... chardonnay: ooh, look at ya'h
bossy? bozy? ***** ****** choose!
i don't have enough hours in my day to think about
what sort of **** you are!
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
Espera, espera.
No marches, espera.
Quédate, entreguémonos a este idilio.
Espera, quédate,
que el esperar nos puede cambiar la suerte.
Pueda ser que las aguas cambien nuestro destino,
y nos entreguen al más fríos de los fatalismos.
Espera, espera,
que no es cierto que Ponce de Leon
encontró la Fuente de la Juventud.
No es cierto que exista
una fuente de juventud para el amor.
No es cierto que el azar tenga compasión
por lo que a su tiempo no se concretó.
Espera,
que esperar el tiempo correcto
para entregarnos a este amor es un error.
Pueda ser que sea el tiempo que venza al viento
y termine mareando y subyugando
las ráfagas de este amor.
Espera, quédate,
que este amor precisa nuestra inmediata entrega.
Que al marcharte, estas sentenciando mi corazón
a una larga,
permanente,
y eterna espera
de innegables años sin primaveras,
de una soledad avasalladora,
intermitente,
doblegante,
y en un aterrante precipicio de amargura.
Espera, quédate,
que si marchas, reinara la penumbra
de saber que un solo beso,
en el preciso momento,
hubiese cambiado mi fortuna,
y la senectud de la única fuente de la juventud
que es el ahora en tu entrega.
La fuente de la juventud de este amor
…………………….es el hoy y ahora.
Por favor no marches.
Espera.
LeydisProse
5/15/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
we once ponce’d carpets like it was coral,
and we said: love love love rhythm -
able on the broken legs with allegiance to rhyme;
we once ponce’d carpet like it was coral
all puff-up fluffy on the singleton’s touch consecrating a legislation of marriage
of opposite materialisation to craft god’s itchy snap magic spontaneity
to bulletproof the genesis fake into an exodus -
and decided it was a lifelong ambition to be 29 and retire;
well, enough millionaires around us to suit such ambitions -
so we just pranced to striptease tunes and begot our mothers’ virginity,
provided we saw the ***** and the antarctic to be less walt disney
and more walter docile si si.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC