"rococo" poems
I would like if I could, to venture out
into a baroque cave where the walls are translucent
and all that surrounds it are rivers of coherence
and incoherence
where I can scream, and when my echoes
radiate they bounce off on me and touch
the spaces in between my fingers
bizarre and ornate
rococo chimes lift my spirit
progressive, regressive
subliminal rising, into the sea of whispers
and final decisions
and crazed hands
and melting lips
and bruised knuckles
and fighting wrists...
I subsist to consist
of the fluid that makes me up
lavender barely breathing
flowers/continue/endure
hang tough, low by lakes of conspiracy
and hate/ block eyes/ shed those ill states
I carry this entity/essence/life gentely
in my arms like a ancestor. mother .
press its head against my skin and give it everything
in my blood filled hands, sinful/blessed/ tiered creatures
I feel beautiful in these worlds.
eyes closed in sleep, palms spread forth
oceans cleansing, I feel like an infant
stomach twists and hearts bat burnt wings
and learn to fly
I radiate.full hearted. eminence spoke to me
through her portal of solid grass and dieing trees
in the outskirts of the vagabond, slowly unraveling
like a child speaking
slowly growing like new love
stricken instantly
I am in
between Cleopatra and Mark
between Orpheus and Eurydice
between Odysseus and Penelope
between Elizabeth Bennett and Darcy
between Salim and Anarkali
I shiver in that love
that breathes in determent
and breathes out fragrance
temperate plasma hooked onto
the grind of my woman I beat like
the robins breast/ trembling in awe
like a living leaf blowing in the winter wind
resisting/giving in/ perishing/ breathing
to the sound of this beautiful life
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 5:53 AM UTC
My soul whispered a secret to my heart,
It spoke of spilled blood upon a rose,
Rouged lips within the garden,
Drops of crimson liquid blush.
[CHORUS]
Nature’s beloved colour is green,
So red speaks of originality,
Blood is a passion,
Scarlet bleeding from thy own,
A claret sun dawning beyond,
Sanguine stained skies.
When the little cardinal sings sweetly,
A doorway opens I never chose,
Visions of a bloodshot key,
A lock rusted with dried blood.
A glimpse through the keyhole,
A pale forest awaits on the other side,
Showers of cherry blossoms,
Falling upon the snow.
Red berries bloom under crystal snow,
Glints of sunlight touch down,
Sparks of fire captured within,
Just beyond this rubicund door.
[CHORUS]
The dreams I am allowed,
Burn and scar my will,
When the door swings open,
Of its own accord.
Damask petals on the wind.
How warm and gentle that spray of blood,
Like a hundred tender kisses,
And the golden keys to Heaven.
I glimpsed the gules of true heraldry,
A suffused spirit at the dawn of memory,
Imprisoned by a cage of vermillion frost,
Warmed by a glass of spiced wine.
[CHORUS]
A roseate palace at the end of a long walk,
Painted titian by my tear drops,
Caress a florid complexion,
Carmine not my own.
Roan stones dusted,
By the fall of Angels light,
Make-believe incarnadine carpet of,
A mirrored auburn dusk.
I settle back into the maroon night,
The darkness flushed by concealed art,
Bay canvas touched-up with unreal imagery,
Indifferent to the passing of my former life.
[CHORUS]
Rubies fall from ruddy clouds,
These gems are not for me,
Reddened glass has come to pass,
The moment of my undoing.
[PAUSE (Epilogue)]
Red is not for me,
Red was not meant to be...
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
a daunting bolero sends a shiver through a dream
a forlorn melody haunting a hazy delusion
crooning on a whimsical note
and breaking a melancholy tone
an elusive song opens into an abyss
of mambos and rumbas
that thrill like a superfluity of delicious electricity
strumming at our deepest treasures
buried in woebegone memories
seeping into our cellophane heads
and enveloping our entire being
until we heave our way back to reality
and dissolve into a sea of people
who are only twinkles
in the scudded windshields
of a rococo world
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:03 AM UTC
Flushed thoroughly by
The sink, lukewarm
My face a weathered apricot
Pore-scape.
Mirror twisted like a landslide
Hushed glances
I'm bitten by miscellaneous pupils
And iris'
Widen'ed like copulation
Given honeydew twilight hours
Shaken estranged to breath cold and thick like smoke.
Crossing over-incarnated
Begrudgingly.
A longing for Rococo
And VW buses.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
As far as I can see, elocution and declamation
Thee this and thou that
Whence and wheresoever
Isthmus and anemone
Vitriolic and Diatribe
Bloviate and aplomb
But feeling has no discrimination.
Rococo words are not needed
Simply put is just as good
Too much icing makes a cake too sweet.
Bon appetit
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
I am a broken toilet
Spouting crazy ideas in the basement of some brutalist mansion
My thoughts gone lurid, growing on the whitewashed cement into flowery moulds.
I am a scarlet stain on the ceiling and I am loud and furious and I reek of guilt and decay.
editting editting editting becoming becoming becoming
I am an alpha particle.
Writing writing writing down everything.
I am a ray of light.
I cannot tell if I am real so I feel my face.
I am superfluous, overdone, like a Christmas sweater, Rococo, overtilled to the point of erosion.
I am last night's espresso into this morning.
I am twenty strange projects
and I scrap them as if they were funhouse mirrors.
I am shaking like a leaf.
I am manic and I am happening all at once and I can't ******* stop.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
Flight of Rococo
The marina was quiet this Sunday afternoon
The horde had gone back to their offices and factories
The pensioners who take vacation in September
And October walks slowly about and eat well they are
Not going dancing, the women will be tiddly and feel
As they did forty years ago, perhaps tonight the hubby
Will be frisky, but having drunk wine he will fall asleep
She has been going in and out of shops I'm outside
Pretending to be elsewhere I think of Goya's women.
Ah, this slimming craze why do so many women think
It is **** to look like freed concentration camp victims
She is tired now sits on a bench I walk around and look
At boats, I could never afford, except for a few ocean
Ship made of wood polished by rough hands by men who
Are not politically correct calling the ship a she that have
Or possess what men like about women
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
No fresh blank board with a blizzard surface
Only tears and dirt stained ridges.
I don't have acrylic paint,
Yellows so bright it awakens the night
Reds so passionate it brings forth lovers.
The paint on the road is but dried up in corners.
There's no painter behind the painted.
No one watching its old and rusted creation.
I'm an art period with no semi-colon.
Rococo, classicism, baroque... they're not me.
People remember the names of long ago,
With curves of dead nature and spirals of pleasure.
Everyone recalls the beautiful old centuries,
Never someone will recall the painting of me.
I am no ship reck in the bottom of the sea,
There are no historians curious for me.
No lost treasure hides beneath the blue tapestry,
Where beauty had lied for centuries.
I am that road you overlook,
Driving on the one-way lane without thought.
There are rats and garbage and broken sidewalks.
I am the painting painted with regret.
I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
I'm another crack in the timeline,
Lost in the hypocrisy of centuries.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Vestal Virgins forbidden to have ***
spent their days getting groped
as they stood silently around the temple; having
to watch the sacred ****** clean up; treated like goddesses,
they'd have preferred to be treated like
women, like the Senators' wives, who per custom had to serve as temple
****** for a good part of the year; harvests
flourishing; | little ******** born & set adrift; picked like apples
from trees & plucked out of streams,
yet the Virgins were busy scratching their pious itch,
that became the
sanctity of Mother Church [Mary never got her freak on? oh, no -- I say she & Leda had much in common: here's a tip, ladies, don't let birds get too near ur snooch: weird **** happens:
& eunuchs became the priests & bishops;
perverts doing the paper
work for free; for the chance to go frolicking in pre-Deluvian
Bliss
w/ fair-haired
boys forced to dress & act as maidens,
inspiring fantasies of the long ago past;
when we think of the Golden Age: [our ideas of Erotica are very predicated on the 19th century's idea of ****** fantasy; which we regurgitate erzats back into our own cultural spaces; ******* ******** & peeing & vomiting going hand-in-hand w/ giving birth;
Life has forever been ***** & in the mud;
conscious Fascists manipulate Pomp
& Circumstance
to enslave the World; Fascists Never Win
b/c a Lone Ranger rides out of the Sky
& saves the people after much destruction,
sadly, new things need to be built;
so tear down the old & burned & obsolete
& build new powerful spaces for people
to live & thrive
We think the Golden Age was like Rococo, but they were ******* Barbarians,
just like today & tomorrow
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
A rococo armchair
a balcony with a view
pale in comparison
to you.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 7:24 PM UTC
catherine is in blue
and bandages her finger with grass and a feather
her mother is sure she took on grace whilst in the womb
who is first and and yet an afterthought?
catherine is bleached
between girls breathing rococo and the washing machine that doesn’t distinguish the separation of her name or fabric
ever maid
where does she go and you begin?
that brother has the ocean compressed in his eyes
and it’s the ships that go by in the night
that make her as penitent as the Magdalene
catherine is moving
and if she takes on the sun it’s best to leave some in Catalonia
if she carves herself in flesh
she should do so herself
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
What love lay here beneath me: pressing softly upon the concave of two bodies.
Heart to heart; hairs tickling soft *****
If ever there was a want to believe in a divine, omnipotent force - it would be now, though entirely unnecessary.
For we have seen a many hardship, no excuses or apologies suffice.
No rococo or garish design - this is you and I, in the midst of the chaotic rhythms that naturally brought forth existence.
Insufferable at times; a compulsion, a weakness completely devouring us. Leaving ourselves open, vulnerable, to the intentions and propositions of the other.
We hesitate. For at times there is no better purpose, never a greater need, never a solemn moment, never a permanence. Yet, we welcome in the reality of these understandings. Changing and growing with the respect of time.
We must be compassionate with each other, yes, we must also be hard, but never forget the power and privilege we have inherited with such union.
For there has never been a more trialling, damning, passionate..... beautiful, pleasing, patience.....
What love lay here beneath me.
What life lay here before me.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:21 PM UTC
I.
J'errais. Que de charmantes choses !
Il avait plu ; j'étais crotté ;
Mais puisque j'ai vu tant de roses,
Je dois dire la vérité.
J'arrivai tout près d'une église,
De la verte église au bon Dieu,
Où qui voyage sans valise
Écoute chanter l'oiseau bleu.
C'était l'église en fleurs, bâtie
Sans pierre, au fond du bois mouvant,
Par l'aubépine et par l'ortie
Avec des feuilles et du vent.
Le porche était fait de deux branches,
D'une broussaille et d'un buisson ;
La voussure, toute en pervenches,
Était signée : Avril, maçon.
Dans cette vive architecture,
Ravissante aux yeux attendris,
On sentait l'art de la nature ;
On comprenait que la perdrix,
Que l'alouette et que la grive
Avaient donné de bons avis
Sur la courbure de l'ogive,
Et que Dieu les avait suivis.
Une haute rose trémière
Dressait sur le toit de chardons
Ses cloches pleines de lumière
Où carillonnaient les bourdons.
Cette flèche gardait l'entrée ;
Derrière on voyait s'ébaucher
Une digitale pourprée,
Le clocheton près du clocher.
Seul sous une pierre, un cloporte
Songeait, comme Jean à Pathmos ;
Un lys s'ouvrait près de la porte
Et tenait les fonts baptismaux.
Au centre où la mousse s'amasse,
L'autel, un caillou, rayonnait,
Lamé d'argent par la limace
Et brodé d'or par le genêt.
Un escalier de fleurs ouvertes,
Tordu dans le style saxon,
Copiait ses spirales vertes
Sur le dos d'un colimaçon.
Un cytise en pleine révolte,
Troublant l'ordre, étouffant l'écho,
Encombrait toute l'archivolte
D'un grand falbala rococo.
En regardant par la croisée,
Ô joie ! on sentait là quelqu'un.
L'eau bénite était en rosée,
Et l'encens était en parfum.
Les rayons à leur arrivée,
Et les gais zéphirs querelleurs,
Allaient de travée en travée
Baiser le front penché des fleurs.
Toute la nef, d'aube baignée,
Palpitait d'extase et d'émoi.
- Ami, me dit une araignée,
La grande rosace est de moi.
375
what happens when
Dark Fetish meets Radiance Sutra
finding it is like looking for a needle
in a haystack of needles
a dog meowing
night park astral planes with erections
a chromosphere with starry swollen labium
a purity purge, then taking it back
a pro life run away embryo
Debbie Dare and Bridgette Beware
with 3rd eyes blinking like traffic lights
trying to become tasty
while turning up their bottoms
for starving breatharians
who can't resist the allures of
Pandora's portable rubber genitals
they bought
at the five and dime tinsel towns
Queen ***** Emporium
not everyone can walk in the light of truth
some people burn
like country fair corn fed Iowa lesbians
clucking kisses
asleep and awake at the same time
donut bumpers expecting the unexpected
in an unfathomable matrix
at a witches broom barn dance
during partner swap night
among straight couples
who only like rococo
Jekyll & Dad Samadhi
health, wealth & unhappiness
licking, spitting on each other
and having tantric *** the wrong way
you're safe now bwahhahhahaa
codependent sadomasochists
drift infinitely upward like psychotic marble roses
while Queen Opalala @ ****** University
gets **** buttered and buckarooed
during the downward dog
to the music of the spheres and poems to **** by
a red head
bed head
**** in a cinematic pillow of flames
mouthing her ruby red lips
in a soft voice
saying
a day without being forced to her knees
and a slap across the mouth
is a day without sunshine
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.
a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez
Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…
personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings
Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.
my arm breaks off like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli
You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…
carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern
You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:
(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo palais)
Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC
The sky is a Rococo masterpiece
Baby blues and pinks- natures pastels
And clouds reminiscent of a God
But where are all of the fat little cherubs?
Fluttering freely admist the gaps in the clouds where the golden bars of sunlight stream through to the ground?
Or buzzing 'round like bees
The head and feet of some **** full bodied woman?
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
She lived beneath the spuming waves,
A crown of pearls atop her head,
And like a pearl her limpid face,
Her lips of fiery coral-red.
Her palace was a sunken cave,
With scalloped roof and amber walls,
While golden-paved and turquoise-domed
Were all the dark, rococo halls.
The candlesticks, the marble busts,
The amphorae and frozen clocks,
Were spoils from all those star-crossed ships,
That came to grief upon the rocks
And when the moon beamed through the waves,
She dreamt of life upon the land,
Of painted birds and pungent flowers,
Of honeyed fruits and sunbaked sand.
She pictured there a gorgeous prince,
His eyes like shards of peridot,
A youth with hyacinthine locks,
And raiments of forget-me-not.
But when she woke, she knew that she,
Would never tread upon the land,
Nor smell the flowers, nor taste the fruit,
Nor kiss her lover on the hand.
And as she held this solemn thought,
That they would always be apart,
She felt as if an icicle
Had struck her squarely in the heart.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 2:59 AM UTC
A new day
A new life
Parting with the old
But never parting
Holding on to golden moments
Like a bee sleeping
In the palm of your hand
Looking toward newly made memories
In a Tiffany setting
Made of silver and platinum
Crafted by the deft
Hand of fate
Intertwining two lives
Like Rococo filigree
And sent off
To find their destiny
Amid the chaos
Of emotions
That can only be resolved
As one
http://www.leaves-of-ink.com/2019/06/one.html
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 10:19 AM UTC