Anthony, Anthony, oh dear Anthony. His face is like a little darling's; with tumults of green and gray cheeks blended into one. I wish there had been no yesterday; for yesterday was when he appeared with his rain-soaked, but gay little cheeks; as he smiled at me by the twin moonbeams. Still he is not him; I care not how he wants to tease me in my dream.

My heart is gay no more; its walls are honed imperfectly, and with no goodwill. Its image and charity hath now gone; I am plain, I am like a shy spider grafting about the chattering winter walls. Oh, Anthony, yet how sweet thou wert under the bald rain; and its unleashed forms of cold clouds! Ah, I wish I could lend to you a wonted breadth of my story; but as I gaze, now, into the very soft metallic eyes of thee; I am afraid my words shall never be impossible. Thou hath that brilliant green gaze of nature, my sweet, but thou art not immortal; thou art vital, but thou art not of the same rainbow as he is. He hath, now, been dried and cornered in the unseen lungs of my heart, but his ghost is there. Ah, he, who hath betrayed me like a sparkle of dead candle! How should I treat this misdemeanour, you think? But to my strange suspicion, I cannot but forget of him, even a sliver of memory; for his memories are too elusive, too adequate for my hungry heart. Oh, Anthony, how bashful I am--for not daring to cope with thy questioning eyes!

Like those unanswered rains; which keep wetting the unyielding soil, damaging toiled crops into the limbs of quavering pits. My love was borne with death by him; within the death of his feelings, in which it was but a fossil of discarded flesh like any other corpse. But where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal? I keep looking for him, in those scarlet hollows, but still I glimpse a sight of him not. I shall keep lulling him to sleep, at least in my dancing dreams; he is the sober prince and I am the guileless princess. Ah, Anthony, tell me how I cannot be guileless; I am honest and decent and carry no defilement of chastity. I am pure myself; with a garden of virginity and its terrific rivulets flowing beneath me. How can my charms be not charitable? Even when I walk, a thousand boughs of blossoms snigger not; they welcome my entry with another thousand wits; they reply to my living steps with a radiance that even heaven cannot forgive. My verbal words might not be delicate, but I am sure my poem is; regardless how hard t'is downfall might be. Ah, Anthony, thou art a miracle still, but thou art no more than an evening story, sadly! I cannot feel my heart become unleashed, as I looketh into thy eyes; I cannot feel grasped by thy cold hands--ah, thou hath grasped me not; but still thy apparition cometh less merited, and rather falsified, than that of his.

How can that be, how can that be, how can that be! Ah, this earth with its villainous glory might blame me once more. It shall toughen my hardship with a whole land of repulsion; it shall intend never again to make me a faithful alliance. It shall satisfy its own self, and metamorphose into a swamp of ungrateful hatred sweated by an edified mockery. Ah, what doth all t'is charm mean, then? I shall face a green apocalypse soon, thereof, before being burned within another blasphemous night. I feel cross, cross, cross, cross, and cross; I grit my teeth whenever I think of my stupidity. I feel as if I was an old dame so gratuitous to thee; I am a luminous fire, but instead I have no seeds and am just as dead as a soundless pumpkin. Ah, Anthony, can thou but restore that lost fire again? I want no speeds, I want to see no miracles, I feel dutiful; but undutiful at the same time. Your heart is right by the doors of Yorkshire--and sometimes grow into the doors themselves; it is funny to see how they are so tidily integrated by the eminence of each other. I shall craft for you a beautiful song; but perhaps a jest like that shall never be enough; it shall be tedious and not pertinacious enough to entertain thy young heart. Thou art in want of my poems, as far as I can see; but all I might do is withdraw my eye and even draw my steps back further, invariably like a rusted old church bell. I am insane; and far trapped in the insanity as I myself am; I am cold-blooded, my heart can, perhaps, be healed only by ease-like murders. I cannot ponder, I cannot think, I cannot consider; I paint the entrance to myself no more-oh, how I miss his laughs like never before! Ah, Anthony, my wintry sun, my autumn soliloquy, my snowy sob; perhaps I shall better be far from thee, for I want not to make thee sore! My heart is as rough as it is; incarcerated in its own heartless panoramic views, brutal like an unattended soil, for hath it just been left unattended for a time; it often wanders to breathe fresh air, but severed once more by the adored's filthy laugh. It comes home and sleeps weeping beside me.

My heart can no longer count; neither can it flinch. It cannot even see colours, including those which were once fabulous; it is far from enormity, but it claims to have one. Ah, Anthony, it is even a brighter scholar than myself! Look, look how hath it conquered my? I have jaws and it has not, I have a heart--ah, I do have it, but I knoweth not how to make it mine. Half of my heart hath been eaten away by a rotten love, even my blood now--as I hath been hearing it, is no longer flowing. I am hurried by the murmurs of the wind every day, ah, but shall I return again to my poetry? I guess, though, I can make time for this gay seriousness; I am poetry and shall always be, I am alarmed by the cries of my poems, and the joys of my sentences. I am mad, as how poets should just be; I am the pictures my poetry paints; and caress them often at night in my arms.

But as you may have seen it, my heart is now dead, plain, and black; my heart who has loved, and still does love, someone. Ah, Anthony, forgive me; forgive me for this solemn labour of my heart; forgive me for choosing to bear this alone. I might love again, someday; I am aware I should triumph over this self-inflicted martyrdom; I shall relieve myself in one blink of wonder, in a more reliable princedom by the sea. Still, I hope, like a gallery of paintings that is planted with a hall of constant transformations, God shall transform the very haven of his souls one day; and refine his atrocious soutane into one righteous and cordial. I might not be the crucial lady yet for thee; oh, how I wish I were! But vain this attempt may be, should we ever doubtfully try it. Ah, Anthony, but gratitude to thee--for once choosing to lay off the puzzle of my heart; for thy gentleness from the very start!

And hath I now finished my breathless narration; I doth miss thee, oh Immortal; I miss thee as I shall miss a piercing sun in these filths and greases winters may bring! Ah, and the clearer picture in my mind carries to me a voice that though thou art fine; thou art dainty no more; and this leaves to me a flavour of
precarious solitude. I loveth thee, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my love is as a sky that remains high; my love shall stay flowery until the day I die.

Every single madness is in my soul,
and fires like t'ose of a tempestuous sea-
are but raging within me;
scratching and tearing
t'is faith of mine so badly
Behind t'ese livid; and torpid
Dull afternoon airs.
Ah, stupid reasons, please go away-
and stun thy own flimsy day
But leave every one of thy bright promise
about thee;
Oh, just here-yet eternally-
everything t'at is as superb
as t'is often-hated hysterical world.
But only th' ones with humbleness!
And before thou retreat-imbue my soul
with silky greatness once more;
As I shalt salute thy carelessness
No matter what shalt happen
But steal not my love out of me;
let him stay like t'at and sleep by me
Until our tales come and greet
Unmarred evenness
And I; dare to spread my sore heart lazily
Under yon distant umbrella
of our oblivious heavens.

I hath the volition to touch th' stars,
And perhaps dream, dream highly
all over again
Of regaining thy love,
and rolling suspiciously
about and into thy waiting arms,
under our liberated celestial blankets
of clouds and its surfaceless haze.
Which might now and then smirk at us;
But before our ignorance rigidly
retreat away; and vanish pallidly into
its own threads
of prim; but unforgivable vanity.
Ah! I shalt but forever dream again
of all yon awesomeness,
and insist on devouring th' tasteful
Ye' immortal madness of thy princedom.
I imagine thy touches-and t'ose feverish scents
of thy fingers, and lavish hands
Free of boredom, but tainted with wisdom
And being sunk deeply in thy justice
Which insofar as it hath been enabled-
been hovering deafeningly in and about me.
Ah! I shalt be th' first one, and maiden
Who maketh thy irresoluteness decisive,
and turneth thy doubtful precisions
once more submissive!
I shalt become thy torch, and lips,
and guiding star!
I shalt bear thy ******,
and be thy own earthly phantom;
Be with me shalt be thy candlelight;
which is as strong as envious daylight
and by whom I shalt remove thy fright
As far as my dreams go with th' night
And visit and fend for thee
In thy portrait
and thy invigorating dreams.
I shalt be thy surprise;
and be a companion to thy delight
As how I shalt seek
and glory in thy pleasure;
Be lost in thy pride
and feel merciful to be thy treasure
I shalt deprave thy greed of its life
and make to thy grave,
one most beloved, and conspicuous wife.
Ah, thou art too striking!
Thy stunning voice fills me with madness-
and shakes my spines from head to toe,
But kills my sorrow and burns my sadness,
cleanses up my sins and blesses me anew.
Thou befriendeth my pride;
and my atrocious passion;
thou listeneth to my heart
and rinseth tears off its horizon.

Ah! So no wonder now
My madness loses its pride-
Overriding pride, t'at at times
becomes pregnant with such arrogance
So t'at despised it is, even by divine spies
sent down to t'is earth by majestic Lord.
What a delight within me it is to see thee-
and watch another brimful
of thy laughter-ah; thou art as captivating
as a little red-cheeked boy
Who sanguinely greeted me
Down th' farms
With a flow of madly auburn hair,
and smiles as agreeable
as t'at morn's bashful sunny air.
Ah, thou, who art even more adorable
than t'is lurid poem of mine;
stained with th' red colour-as it is,
of my own madness-and a tenacious judgment
of my senses,
T'ese merry dreams of thee are but too vicious
As they make me sweet-unbearably sweet,
in th' entire course
Of yon upcoming flirtatious night;
and tease me most whenst I'm awake
with loving chills so painstakingly crafted
about my face.
O, my lover!
My equanimious, long-sought, and
Sagitarius lover!
Thy naive, but sweet-spirited soul,
is as cheerful and frank;
but troublesome and scanty still
And within one terrific; yet ubiquitous
blink of th' hungered eye
Thou shalt sweep and slay away again;
my rigid; whilst disconcerted, charms.
And so how is at heart I am dreamily-
ye' desperately dedicated to thee;
Though far I am from thee-
as how thou defiantly-from me;
And so never may we sing-or argue in unison;
To utter neither choruses; nor grouped ballads
of marriage;
Dreams are but our sole tower and maze;
And morns all over th' earth, our single haste.

And such! Such a gaze of thine
Is addictive to me like white whine
For 'tis forever my melancholy tyranny;
In my selfish world-full of picturesque indignation
And its dearest remorse
and tranquil superfluity.
Birds t'at never fly;
And lilies t'at might not die-
ah, so after all cautious,
but in every way immortal-like thee;
Snoring and aging in thy deathless foreverness;
In which there art profoundly thou and I-
And I with my repentant dead soul
Unfreed yet of its cherry-like buds
Reeking of fascinated; yet disheartened
Longings; and horrors t'at
Unrevealed love canst soullessly take
Out its mortal mouth and sunless tongue-
From which my dissatisfied spirit
ain't bound ever to jump and awake.

Ah, but after all-all t'is suffering
and disruptive madness,
My corrupted freedom all along
shalt find justice
And whole confidentiality
In thy soul;
So t'at let me feel lethargic on thy shoulder
And rest my dishevelled mind for a while.
Perhaps, thou could let me sing t'at silent song
Whilst our dear God fixes everything
t'at hath gone wrong;
and imaginations and joy
t'at have been thrown away
shalt find every single way back of theirs
Into th' secure cage of love, within our souls.
Ah, and betwixt thy indolence
Shalt I laugh again;
For th' at length victories and images
so startling,
and pictures I am thankful of;
for they were formed so adequately
by thy stupendous name.
Ah, and immortality-yes, so which
shalt always be thy name;
With such frame and glory
trapped so idly within whose frame-
Like an odd; but fruitful summer game;
Within which I shalt ever thrive,
and civilly flourish;
Just like in thy love I shalt grow and live
And to our very last breath, rejoice.

Who taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night,
To vanquish satan in the fields of light?
Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown,
How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
War with each princedom, throne, and pow’r is o’er,
The scene is ended to return no more.
O could my muse thy seat on high behold,
How deckt with laurel, how enrich’d with gold!
O could she hear what praise thine harp employs,
How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys!
What heav’nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
What holy raptures in her numbers reign!
To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace,
To still the tumult of life’s tossing seas,
To ease the anguish of the parents heart,
What shall my sympathizing verse impart?
Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sov’reign remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav’nly bow’r,
And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
The raging tempest of their grief control,
And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
To eye the path the saint departed trod,
And trace him to the ***** of his God.

Time upon a once
In a very stranded place
A strange sound came 2 me
It sounded very high-pitched
It stayed 4ever in my heart
While I smelled the exotic fragrance
A song rose up from my mouth.
The words came by themselves
Spreading Love endlessly
With some nonchalance and cavalry.
My Purple host guided me
In his own **** way
2 his Purple Princedom.
Being a ****** 2 Faith and Prayers
Christianity itself excused my sudden integrity.
Back in the day, I can see clearly now
Why Purple is my favorite color.
I apologize 4 loving you so much.
4 acting like a real shrinking violet on our very first date.
Counting the days until our next close encounter.
When will you offer me Rainbow flowers?
I’m trying to mix Heaven and Hell...
But can’t quite make up my mind
Between Adam and Eve.
Maybe we should be having dinner back at Eden’s
Would you eat my apple first, baby?
Or is it strictly forbidden?

(copyright) All rights reserved Written by Julie -July Billong (Bezons- France)

Darling.
Darling love.
Each morning, I say to you.
Hello princess.

To me.
That you will forever be.
The loveliest thing to come before me.
And I proudly say to you.
Hello princess.

You don't have to have royal blood.
To feel the touch of princedom love.
We can build a monarch with principality.
And center it around serene beauty.

I know each morning when you arises.
I state honestly to you.
Hello princesss.
For , this is exactly what you appear to be.
And in this prince's heart.
You're the most important thing.

2/13/2016
"notice how he has numbered the blue veins in my breast.
he is building a city, a city of flesh.
he is an industrialist."
anne sexton

i've seen god themself stirring
subzero confectioner's sugar around this place,
you are the dried up ***** on my face

something acrid that i fell asleep and neglected to wash
i used to cut down swathes of brambles, and the bees
they'd run away

when i was a kid they followed me everywhere.
"you're sweet, kid" my father would say
now he just says i am stupid, so droll

as if i've never known that before
my bulbous arteries run with the notion of
him, sweltering, pointing

"bowie's on sale again,"
the same stamp on the telephone box
there, rotting, gentle

two years later
i say this: there is nothing in princeton
and everything in manhattan

that princedom where you stumble on
***** sidewalks and run hands along bubonic
subway railings

where, really
wanting to throw myself on the freight rail
would just be wanted to throw myself off the Veranzzano.

sylvia said it best, i guess
my own bell jar sour as ever
no matter whether

i'm in Bremen
Lesotho or
in his bed, again

i'd find a way to do it,
i told her
the only place i am willing to.