"quart" poems
I am unsolved, I am a statue in mortality, my smile has had an impact on society but my life has never been absolved
All I wanted to do was entertain, but instead, someone betrayed me and let my blood fall like rain and with nothing to gain
Before and after, my eyes have always been open so while you figure out who's the killer wheather it was Rob, Ed, or that guy Hansen, I have to wait, invisible to the world and lost until then
I've been killed, tortured but you all just talk about which side they cut first or how my body tore, the name is Black Dahlia and that name has become a media *****
My smile has been smeared ear to ear, my body severed in half, my veins drained of every quart but I am still proud to say my name is Elizabeth Short
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Kingsville, Texas, 1955
A loaf of bread from the Piggly Wiggly
A quart of milk because MawMaw forgot
A Coke and a Mickey Mouse funnybook
A water pistol and Eskimo Pies
A pack of PawPaw’s brand of cigarettes
So he can watch his Yankees this afternoon
On the Sylvania with the rabbit ears
In gloriously static-y black-and-white
Plays called by Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese
In our childhood world, forever at peace
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Dream of the Melbourne Cup by Banjo Paterson
Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
2k
At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!
Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!
My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day
She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!
Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 9:32 AM UTC
I knew an undergraduate at college
who spent his days asleep, or drinking beer;
he never needed academic knowledge
until the day of reckoning drew near,
when, as he found his time was growing short,
he’d borrow books, or photocopy them,
and, downing frantic coffee by the quart,
he’d burn the midnight oil, till five a.m.
It puzzles me a little when I find
the ones who press conversion at the end
expecting atheists to change their mind
in panic, like our coffee-drinking friend,
with fingers crossed and hoping for the best
in case this life’s continuously assessed.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
The human is a whole and the whole is in parts
The whole is for God and for you it is in quarts
A quarter you can keep, and the rest give away
The half and the quarter that are left mustn't stay
The half you should save for your better part
So that leaves a quarter for me and my heart
What makes me believe I'm your quarter, you ask
Well something has to account for
Those half unfinished sentences finished by me
Those half erupted laughters joined by me
Those half-hearted secrets whispered to me
And those half eaten rolls and the half drunk juice
You see, I deserve a half but I'll settle with a quart
Because, well I just remembered the 20 rupee note
And the 2rupees returned ignited in me
The generosity you may expect only from your Quart.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Found on the corner of sleeping dogs lie
Came to the spotlight with one crooked eye
Painted a portrait in spite of the light
Hoping the canvas was centered and tight
Poured off the foam before going to bed
It’s easy to sleep when you don’t have a head
Dreams are the reason I tend to escape
Picking up pieces that fell off the cake
Coupled with sailors now off on a trip
Some sunken treasure on some sunken ship
Last time the cannons did roar at the sea
Green was the canvas of the canopy
Blown into port with a quart in your bag
Looking quite close at the half masted flag
Wondering who might have swam with the fish
And ended up sinking and getting their wish
The mist in the air hung so thick on the ground
The bell in the lighthouse could broadcast the sound
Ringing that rang as the tide wandered in
As night storms from southern most points did begin
Anchors were dropped to the depths of the deep
Big leaks were fixed but the little ones seeped
Batons were hatched or whatever that means
Opening gaps welded closed at the seams
Swabbing the deck seemed like pure wasted time
As buckets were emptied with rain in the sky
Sails were pulled down, pulled in, put away
While clouds housed a marvelous lightening display
A bottle of *** and a parrot named bill
They drank and they sang until they had their fill
When off now to sleep they did fall with a thud
Tomorrow the war and the spilling of blood
The enemies’ close they could feel in their bones
Because of the bank and some late payment loans
They shuffled us off to some brightly lit rooms
And offered low interest in brand new doubloons
They had us signing here page after page
As if fountain pens were just coming of age
Now put them away this place sure is a mess
Or move them to somebody else’s address
If the dog is not home and the cats on the chair
Licking his tail with the long flowing hair
For after this voyage we look up above
And whisper a poem that doesn’t speak love
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Your sweet sugar bubbles
Boil rolling in the pan
Heavy bottomed, 3 quart stunner
With attitude for a handle
Luscious amber satin evolving into
Dark velvety ribbons
If allowed to cool
Heat from the stove opens pores
I'm gathering your heavenly scent
Into every inch of me
Salted caramel sauce is on the way
Covering special occasion cheesecake
You'll blow out your candles and make a wish
Mouth full of the love I cooked up for you
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Imitation Of Tibullus
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle ***** please?
Alas! I wish’d but to o’ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
1.3k
With careful ease he kissed my hand.
It's chemical burns that make a man.
With every quart of blood lost
Salvation, gained.
I know this because he knows this
And you don't even know my name.
It's every broken bone and every lost tooth
That brings us closer to the truth.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 11:28 PM UTC
a quart of tequila,
still no feelings,
spinning ceilings beneath me,
in my venomous state,
we went to comedy night at the viper room.
torn to shreds in the front row,
of a gung ** americanised show.
i came because the river still flows,
with depp and the stageshows from the whiskey a go go,
directly opposite the pavement.
the boulevard was full of cars,
and homeless superstars,
that made it far,
but not past the stars on the walk of fame,
Holly would never be the same again.
******* *******
we walked past the cast of a bottomless flask,
cast in the shadows of the sorrows of rodeo drive,
staying alive is easy,
follow,
the yellow brick road and wish for a dollar.
tomorrow is another day.
i seen a man of my same age,
he was a traveller,
vocabular immaculate,
hair cut ****** dindn’t shave much,
one of the same touch.
grubby hands and unfinished plans.
his sign said, were ******
i teared up,
he looked up and stood up and we hugged.
i could see me in his weird look.
just another rhyme in my page book.
i gave him a bag of survival necessities,
i hunted him down after 24 hours.
i was worried to go back,
and finish what i started.
i consider the concept as an artist,
but the truth is this,
the humanist within,
could never miss that appointment.
he sat there in the same spot,
and if i didn’t come,
he could of lost faith in the promise of a circumstance.
i took a certain stance,
he said he was a traveller,
a poet with grubby hands,
i held him with open arms.
i don’t worry about him,
i worry about you,
a ***** and the truth,
trumps and mansion and no use.
i’ve read between the lines,
and wrote this motion on tightropes and suspended emotion.
they want a showman,
but when we show them the ocean,
the don’t want to know the deepest minds inclined.
absolutley,
mutiny in the ranks,
my heart sank when you decided to revamp,
your opinion of me implicitly.
minor to me,
skeleton key to multiple routes.
i never gave a **** about your opinions then,
and I certainly don't give a **** now,
nor have i ever,
stared the gift horse in the mouth.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
The Letters Of My Name
A is the first letter of my name,
I belong in the Facebook hall of fame.
Laura is the girl made for me,
she is awesome and she would agree.
Living in the lap of luxury,
and we don't need to be wealthy.
Everyday is filled with light,
the sun has never shinned so bright.
Never felt this happy before,
my two kids, I so much adore.
Wheels in the sky keeps on turning,
the bed in our room is always burning.
I used to be one ****** dork,
people always stuck me with a fork.
Living large, I wish came easy,
most of my jokes are a bit cheesy.
Because of all of you, I stay strong,
no matter if I'm right or wrong.
Everyday is filled with sunshine,
life itself is its own punchline.
Rhyming words is all I know,
when aroused, a part of me will grow.
Thank you all for your support,
still don't know the difference,
between a pint and a quart.
I used all the letters in my name,
I hope this rhyme don't put me to shame.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
assembled
our living love being aligned
I tell you we re-union
my dream is boss run
an image of my dad viral to come to me
atoning tall alert and correct, stought 6'6"Utahan
the all knowing blank look on the man
Daaaaaad I say all long and drawn out
something big of the future about
something big say kanye west
the time of the stars coming
a being in the house of daughters mother
the her happy and bright concerned loving
looking like her youth in memory
the web tumblr blog pleiadian-starseed hosting
you celestial being honored kanye west
my pink quart shard from Louis' mom
a deep one full breath the sound
of 1000 honey bees buzzing
my finger tips dripping
how about you
say the Dove cooing
my eye explodes in vision of matrixs
colors designed shapes patterns
all life reflexed is each other...
all thru the mind watching me
now about your shoe our moment over keen
with family moving in the ground and patterns
the non celestial beings losing in his shoe
his eye of greed watching me maligning me
from a half mile away all he knows
is the **** in his shoe...
neanderthal evangelical living dead meat
stop exploiting creatures
let them live amongst all to commune
the cooing dove far ahead of man
mimicking the sounds of crows
I talk given back to the Dove
without speaking
the way of the dove
Starlight insured gjmars 6/27/15
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar
For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat
The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word
The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down
At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space
It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune
The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple
The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin
He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone
He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky
He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around
He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust
As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes
Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go
He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack
He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name
He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests
He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar
The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
I wish inspiration could be injected
intravenously, without delay. That
I could wrap a rubber band around
my arm and pull it tight with my
teeth. Then give myself several swi-
ft slaps with my middle and index
fingers to the inside crook of my arm
to pop the vein. Then without look-
ing, (because I am afraid of needles)
slowly insert the thin metal spear in
my skin and puncture the vein. Draw
back a bit of blood and watch it mix
with my concoction. Then voila: ins-
tant inspiration.
If only I could buy words by the bot-
tle, so I could guzzle them down by
the quart. And they could mix and
swirl, swash and stir, with all my
other ****** fluids. They could seep
into my veins, via my stomach lining,
and warm my body with a toxic glow.
The words would blur my vision, mu-
ddy my senses, and stumble my step.
Then, after I consume more words th-
an I can handle, I would projectile vo-
mit and spew the words all over the
page. Then the next morning I could
rearrange the words into something
remotely coherent.
But there is no such luck.
Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with
each word, each syllable, with the
utmost precision and vigilance.
And let me tell you, these word “St-
ing like a butterfly and float like a
bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook,
a shot to the kidneys, but it does
no good. Most of the time I am on
my heels; forced to be on the defense
But of course I take a hit, or twenty-
two. Until I am punch drunk,
and everything is brilliant to me.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
Just released from the sanitarium
Cold cruel empty world took me down
Malnourished, tooth abscesses'
Manic Depression
Isolation
Brought me to the brink a bad state of melancholy
I went to a hospital ER for help
They don't do dental work
Dentists are Satan in disguise
The AMA knows this and won't let them in their
Genuine Doctors' tribunals
I got released with the bogus diagnosis of ****** abuse
I told them I took the medicine cabinet drank a quart of ***** and that would be it.
THE END
You have heard of Catch 22 here's Catch 23
If your in the nut house for a failed attempted suicide
All you have to do to get out is say I don't feel suicidal any more.
That easy.
A foreshadow to this poem.
Industry took away my know how
I couldn't make my own shoes
I couldn't make a yoke to mount the ox I don't have
To plow the back 40 I'll never own
If my life depended on it
I can't build a house of logs
Would die quickly without central utilities
Food would vanish after days of no electricity
People protect there own and I'm a lone
So I pray I am not the first to go
I try to be a human being
The best was I can
Trying to see through the muck
With prayers, and great hopes
And Luck
I hope I can continue to be.
A human being
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
You lubricate me
Make me run smooth
Careening through traffic
With nothing to lose
All oiled up
No need for an inspection
Plug in GPS
Destination: no affection
Ignore the check engine light
Pour in another quart
Traffic is pretty slow
And this one may abort
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
The human is a whole and the whole is in parts
The whole is for God and for you it is in quarts
Because really a quart is all you need for yourself
I like to believe there's a quart missing in you
So that makes you a half and a quart
The half you should save for your future self
So that leaves a quarter for you and for me
What makes me believe i'm a quarter of you
Well that's easy, something has to account for
Those half unfinished sentences finished by me
Those half erupted laughters joined by me
Those half hearted secrets whispered to me
And those half eaten rolls and the half drunk juice
You see, I deserve a half but I'll settle with a quart
Because, well I just remembered the 20 rupee note
And the 2rupees returned ignited in me
The generosity you may expect only from your Quart.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
No book of rules and regulations
To warn the jar holds just one quart
So all the pushing of the liquid
Will not fit a gallon in
And I will have to mop the spill
Verses spelled on ***** sidewalks
Written in 3 shades of chalk
Embellished with fantastic flowers
Only end up walked across
And smudged from recognition
ljm
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
Pour les yeux de souveraine un coup de crayon pour redessiner les sourcils
Une couche légère de mascara sur les cils des pointes à la racine
Un petit gris léger sur les coins internes et externes de l 'oeil
Et une couleur rose sur les paupières mobiles
Et du khôl pour illuminer ce regard envoûtant de sirène qui hypnotise
Les phalènes jusqu'au fin fond de sa mer d'airain
Sans oublier le rouge à lèvres aubergine
Kiotis Paris made in France
Pour hydrater et satiner le cuivre de ses lèvres :
Mon féminin céleste zéro fausse note est vite prête
En deux temps trois mouvements
Et des secondes interminables
Il n 'est jamais trop **** pour Désirée et ses mille épigones :
Judith, parée, poudrée, maquillée, parfumée
Hérodiade, ****** et dressée sur son trente-et-un
Eve, coiffée, habillée, décolletée,
Sapphô, culottée, chaussée, toilettée
Pandore, prête à jaillir de jour comme de nuit
Hélène, légère comme un papillon
Cléopatre fraîche comme la rosée :
Pulchra Fatale et Désirée
Elle est belle, elle est wow, elle est elles toutes en Une enrobée
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire romantique de Balkis, reine du Matin,
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire romantique de Makéda, reine du Midi
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire décadente de Salomè, reine du Soir
Quelque part ressuscitée
Et je l 'aime comme elle est
Chaque jour que le soleil fait
Jette un baiser couleur de belle lune de miel
A ma sirène métissée de Matin, Midi, Soir !
Ce n'est pas pour rien que ma Pulchra est fille de Mnèmosuné
Fille de Wainaha , saint dragon hémiarite
Par son don de seconde vue
Ma sulamite débusque au quart de tour les artifices,
Les cernes, les imperfections, les camouflages
Les faux cils, les faux ongles, les faux saints
Et les faux poètes, les faux salomons et leurs fausses huppes
Et leurs chants libertins en hexamètres dactyliques
Au son de leur phorminx d'occasion
Eh oui Ma Désirée est Pulchra authentique et fatale
Elle chante tentatrice avec Kiotis
Son cantique des cantiques ad libitum
"Je suis bien, je suis wow , je supervise
Et je m'aime comme je suis "
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 1:59 AM UTC
Wow, that sounds like my Valentine drink.
2 cubes of happiness, one shot of kink.
2 lumps of heartache and regret by the case,
Strain away the baggage, add enough “saltness” to taste.
Maybe a squeeze of jealousy to wet any dried up memories
With option to garnish at any point with glowing Blackberries.
Taste all you want to, try let all the sweet parts last.
Twirl it like champagne in your mouth, shake like antique glass
And if by chance your head spins or scratch like a LP needle broke.
Don’t cuss and badmouth my recipe or any other liquor on the truck.
Just order another round, or two, unless your pockets short
What else can drown you sorrow but love by the quart.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Ce n'est pas parce que
Ce sont des mots doux
Que
Les mots sont confits et éternels.
Les mots peuvent aussi bien être
Fumés,
Salés
Sans sel,
Cochons,
Tabous,
Amers ou aigres-doux.
Il y a des mots qui fondent dans la bouche
Comme des bonbons acidulés
Et d'autres qu'il faut mâcher
Consciencieusement
Pendant des heures
Pour qu'ils rendent leur jus de jade pressé.
D'autres qu'on congèle
Qu'on conserve dans l 'alcool
Ou le formol.
Il y a des mots qu'on préserve
Dans des réserves indigènes
Et d'autres qu'on fume à froid
Au bois de hêtre :
Tous meurent un jour ou l'autre
Sans crier gare
Dans un quart de soupir
De la même mort douce.
Il y a même les mots sans sel,
Fades,
Sans saumure,
Qui sont des nébuleuses
Des nids à étoiles
Qui piquent
Comme le piment et les fourmis rouges
Et qui vous embaument de mer lente
Aux alentours de la onzième heure.
Ceux-là comme les autres
Sont voués à disparaître de mort douce.
Cette petite mort en pente douce.
Et ils y vont en bégayant leur mot de passe
A travers les chemins de traverse
Dans le parc sous-marin de nos mémoires
Jusqu'à ce qu'ils trouvent leur place réservée
Au cimetière des mots morts
De leur belle mort
De leur bonne mort
De leur petite mort.
Certains d'envie
Certains de crise cardiaque
Certains de soif
Certains de noyade
Certains de peur
Certains d'avoir trop vécu
Certains de faim
Certains de honte
Certains de n'avoir pas assez vécu
Certains de rire.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
Fort sort court report, tort port quart, consort contort retort cohort cavort snort.
Black sack fact track Jack, smack wack maniac pack. Back hack knack flack, lack kayak rack tack.
Bust rust, dust crust, lust fussed, just must combust trust.
Bought naught, fought caught ought, distraught draught..
Pent mint sent rent lent, vent bent, went dent, gent glint spent tent rent.
Serene ravine green gene careen, obscene demean. Clean, preen queen, mean lean scene wean.
Fin pin sin, men tin wren zen.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC