"profusions" poems
Resplendent rose, luminous green,
Lucid paradisaical palette,
The jewel delivers
It's dyed, distinctive sheen
Graciously, unassumingly
Casting a pink and emerald crewel
Coalescing into traces,
Cuisine for sunbeams
Brushing nature's easel --
Bedecking the constellation lighting on earth,
Realizing among tureens:
Scalloped edge profusions offering
The spoonbill waif
Sweet adrenaline,
Fueling it's sojourn in the atmosphere.
Bird of prey, humming minstrel,
Airy, iridescent meddler
Between red blooms,
Distant gem's sparkle
Gracing redolent, languid afternoons
Cloaked in shimmering velveteen,
Beating velocious wings, remaining still.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century ********
I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.
Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
fuckin'socks off).
I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.
She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.
She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).
Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).
In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.
She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.
And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.
And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.
It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.
But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.
(and it has).
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
voices bubble babble 'cross quiet's soft ******* slithering into the cracks between city sounds oral profusions erupting rhythmically with staccato precision her pretty lungs make sweet vibrato with corded compliance i try to hear her i but my sanity blocks its oozing path
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
I find it rather funny
what changes with time,
yet it's also quite strange
what remains the same.
Though I have once claimed
to know my own flames,
I have still burned many things
and been baffled by the pains.
Though I know I used to say
I wanted such in my every day,
I must confess, I wish I knew
of thy rancor, vile ire and ado.
I once was puzzled, baffled,
by the very thought, addled;
that hasn't changed very much
I fancy thy antics yet less than thy touch.
Thou, who claim'th to be so selfless,
who are so caught up, pitiful and helpless,
bound by neurotic, insecure delusions;
a harlot of Shadow, subconscious profusions.
It is not of a person, but of an archetype
within which I find inspiration to write,
yet, I can't help but ascribe to it a name;
a face to complete this linguistic game.
I'm not upset, just motivated,
I do not want this celebrated,
yet here I sit, still dominated,
evermore irked and captivated.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
WIN
-terin
your
1st ******
gown WIN
-ter
in your
unbesmearched
pale ****
lips
WIN
-terin
your
unfucked
lovely
pallor
unbroken whiter
lips WIN
-ter
in your
uncaressed
unbearable
innocent ivory
lips WIN
-ter is
an ugly flower
WIN
-ter
is a homely
monthly
blossoming
ruby petaled
rose WIN
-ter breaking
into colorful
heaps of sticky
callous profusions
WIN
-ter
in your
cheeks WIN
-ter is
a hot blushing
gush WIN
-ter
lovely ugly
WIN
-ter
do
you
like
it
WIN
-ter
when they
break your
tenuous
vilely neat
walls WIN
-ter?
hot running
lips WIN
-ter do
you like
hurting
sharp flowers
ruby
petaled
ultimate
painful thorned
flowers
?between the
untouched lips
of your
snowed lips
WIN
-ter
i will
plant so
deep a little
naked keen
rose WIN
-ter
i will bury
it in
you WIN
-ter
and its
hurting
bloom WIN
-ter will
set you
fiercely on
edge WIN
-ter it
will set
you
screaming
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 6:33 AM UTC
Writing my lines
With my infant ties
Blessed with treasures
Of Muse profusions
Canned in tin
Of seizure of ink
I cling to my sheet
Narrating my hit
In me,
Millennia thirst
Broken by mercy
Given by poetry
But not by poets
I read their lines
Recite them like mine
Inspiring me
To Take bback my jagon
And shading me
From being myself.
I see myself
As a shining star
Glittering from far
Scared of war
Between the sun
and moon
I saw the moon
Flashing the land
With marvelous musings
Guiding my pen
But I suffer from
Seizure of ink
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 6:18 AM UTC
time can be seen
out of sorts--
in a motioning
image a step
behind its light.
a man made
of lightning,
backfiring strong
points of a
thunderous
sensorium.
profusions of
present tenacity--
pursuant echoes
of perfection.
lost in the nick
of time.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC