"romanesque" poems
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)
spend
75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.
(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
Gears keep churning.
Midnight oil is burning.
For months on end,
My mind keeps wondering.
How I want to fend away thoughts of when,
You came around.
A switch inside of me turned.
Behold! A soul was found.
My feet hovered above the Earth,
The searchlight you shone illuminated my heart.
Like a plant drawn to sunrays, I unfolded before you.
I waited. But my lifesaver never came.
A Romanesque silhouette can be seen now because of you.
I falter.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
I, a hyphenated Italian,
will claim Shakespeare
descended the long
Romanesque
staircase, to write
our empiric wrongs.
It's all there in the plays,
if you've a keen enough eye
to catch these things,
and his name has cachet,
while mine needs
a laureled bling.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 8:36 PM UTC
here and again, where ruins used to be
and you'd step with abandon in your white dress in front of me
only a mad hatter and an alcoholic fool for you, my Alice romanesque
with wonderland on every inch of you
apocalypse acropolis and columns lit from behind but you
lightfooted, Alice, were always so much prettier than tourist traps
and the drinks were stronger across the pond
so here and again, two years dry and two years older
(both of us but mostly you)
and the sand in your hair, long and light and gravity wet and romanesque
like you (and only you)
alice, they call this an impasse.
but you've been drinking too, tonight
and (finally) the stars are blurry for us both
and your mouth is so red
and romanesque
and so close
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
It begs.
Calling out,
A dusty tome
Sits on his desk
Begging his mind
To let go and roam
Those thrilling lands
Explore the ocean deep
Discover memories past
Fight and win battles it lost
To restore those relationships
And right those thousand wrongs
And forgive what debts weren’t paid
And create that not created or made
Calling, sing all the unsung songs
Once more kiss his wife’s lips
To cure bitterness of frost
Answer what was asked
Try unexplored paths
Warm frozen hands
Befriend a gnome
Get more sleep
Escape the bands
See the ocean foam
Release those confined
Write stories Romanesque
Return to his mother at home
Become a young, little boy scout
It begs.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Lights lie flashing their sirens with the opening of the dawn;
In the sun streaked streets the artists mix their
Painted faces with oiled pigments;
The dusts of the streets, the dust of the leaves that burn with
The cold and rust with the heat disperse with
The knotted storms that rope the
Blazing frosted earth that lies there forever escaping into air.
Luminous yellow and flamed coloured red are streaming like
The moon and sun reversing and crossing each
Other in a street of luminous people
Where the warmth of great passion hangs in perfumed bottles,
Where people are beautiful in their young
Youth, people arranged like flowers
Burning with ripened love, soft and delicate in innocence.
The Eiffel Tower, the pinpoint of our dreams lies open as a free
Flamed metallic torch that ferments with its iron
Emotions; an almost Romanesque
Renaissance coloured with the Millennium stars that rocket into
The sky then stay for a while turning into dust
And becoming our ashes as we
Summon on again to the fires of our morning lovers we had left.
©Jack Aylward
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
twilight dances on my desk
sun rays doing pirouettes
urging me to get up
to do something
anything that’s no less
than an achievement
in and of itself
and yet I ignore
their plea and despite
the proximity
between me and
the inevitable arrival
of Cronus himself
I continue to sit
not mindlessly but
rather aimlessly
watching the sun rays
turn into romanesque
shapes and figures
at the touch of my fingers
and I wonder
about what will happen
if my actions won’t come
with a beaming certificate
for me to put up proudly
on my old and dusty
desk to proclaim
that I, myself,
have meaning
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Aaaaah!
Understand that every thought you had
about adults knowing what they’re doing
rapidly disappears when you become one
So even the plush ******
sat at the Romanesque desk
preaching complex reasons and threats
…because?
is hideously full of ****
When the best toy is being threatened
in kindergarten, the fattest egos flex
and either with aggression
or diseased crocodile tears
will appeal or impel.
Well. Here we are.
Men get old, even me.
But unlike cheese or wine,
it is not fine, virile,
or true.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 8:23 AM UTC
the ******* city is lit up
like the headlights
of a single vehicle
transitioning into yellow
illuminated mist
in the dim shadows
of the parking lot
a concrete
interconnecting
web of cracks
and
cigarette butts.
my eyes droop pink
into a breath of suffocation
pillow over mouth
face a mask of
idolistic worship
religions tied up tight
passed to holy hands waiting for an offering
that stings and burns the skin
i looked through my eyelashes
wishing to taste
your sin
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
Objectified manifest's invertible investiture to metaphysical mystique astral projection's mystic symbiotic. Yes I like to think I resemble God!!! Perhaps everything that has ever existed will survive forever. Retrospectively retroactive's omniscient ubiquity. It makes sense considering that infinite possibility is the nature of omnipresence's ubiquity. Infinitely expansive vastness had an exogamy with the inky blackness. Spatiotemporal telemetry's virility made fecundity of spacetime continuum's fertility.
I submit:
Is this a microcosmic phenomenon or more dependent on the depths of pervasion of its macrocosmic relativities. Perhaps there is a unifying field theory we are not yet aware of which explains how it paradoxically is a little bit of both.
and:
With the advent of biological organisms the diversity of physical existence has apparently exceeded its physical complexity. Understanding has evolved. Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms.
Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion, hectic duty deontological probity. "The angel was a visage of resplendent beauty as it hovered in midair above the knoll." Impeccable trollwood harlotry, "Strait up forever ontology on high." I like to think we embody on the emote to exude aimed imbue. Rosicrucian romanesque rotunda rouge. Platypus plausible plinth. Plum line backhoe special, anchor pin tachometer, plowshare track-ness!!! Futurity fatidic's noumenal sentience's semantic regalia. Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's indefatigably indomitable irrefragable incarnate. What's to tell you, I'm an optimist on the identity crisis to do an enigma entity. Imagination's immaturities incorporeity ideologies, clairaudience clairvoyance astral projection's categorical imperative. Extraversion embezzlements euthanasia extortions, embark embargo's extradition. Then again are we really responsible for the innate nature of our intrinsic incessant. I like to think we could get away with it and still be good for I like to think our disembodied godlike spirits will not loose their proclivity for corporeally preternatural being.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 6:39 PM UTC
you should know better than sacking hopeless places,
it is no glorious feat:
white hands,
erecting flags in the wounds of a pagan soil;
i wish i could've returned to dust right then.
white hands,
caressing softly the marks left by your whip
on my skin — now, a blank sheet,
wide open for your kisses;
but by now, your tongue should've known that
papercuts wound all the same.
my chest had been a burial place
for the nights i couldn't name;
and tonight,
my heart wants to leave behind
the very tomb —
the very body you seized for yourself —
the very host to your planted flags
and romanesque cathedrals
and brothels,
and tonight will be the crusades
for all these captured, lovely ashes
and all these captured, lovely bones.
and into the wind i'll be scattered.
and into the wind i'll go.
and honey, you may think you have won the war
but this is the song waiting in the taverns
that women will sing for you back home.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 6:49 AM UTC
in september
the shadow of the arcades
is almost too cool
on the plaza
before the Romanesque church
children play soccer
their shouts
pierce
the quietness
that radiates from the castle
to the church
and into the old town
envelops the few
customers of the osteria
makes me want to write
about us
and the love in your eyes
over red wine & ham
& white bread
under vaulting walls
* * *
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
in september
the shadow of the arcades
is almost too cool
on the plaza
before the Romanesque church
children play soccer
their shouts
pierce
the quietness
that radiates from the castle
to the church
and into the old town
envelops the few
customers of the osteria
makes me want to write
about us
and the love in your eyes
over wine & ham
& white bread
under vaulting walls
* * *
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
When I see him appear abruptly
I am brimming with love
I imagine what his lips taste like
How his wondrous wooly beard smells like
How it would feel to place
My hands on his cheeks
I never have faced a delish man
Like him before, so romanesque
And picturesque, marvelously created
Manly features of treasures, spotless smoothness
Luminous brightness and desirous wonders
How his vibe fills me with stillness
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
The sea was black
What do you get when you mix:
Red
Blue
Yellow?
Primeval opaque primordial mash; marinating the multitude of lifes mass
Energy polarized and divided
Each gaseous faction lurching dredging dense cumulonimbus depths
Exhausting volume's finite designation
Convergent catalyst; cataclysm creation
Brightness bursting blacks truest shade
Ludicrous lashes cascade, unfurling hysterically from crystal prisim shrapnel; struck and shattered
Focused lazer pushing downward; lunging upwards
Coarsing carbons culmination
Ancient artistry; amino acids
Brilliantly binding
Briskly building Romanesque colonades
Lintels streched over arches spiraling into domes; Civilization's ornate chromosomal architecture
Rendering relic reference point by which all will be considered
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC