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Grey Sep 2015
You said that you didn't believe in anything,
but that you believed in me.
In truth, I believe in you more than I say.
I see more in you than I say.
When you fight me, fight so hard against hope, I see you.
I do not know what you have been through.
I do not know what has been done to you.
I do not know how to tell you
that your belief in me
means more than
the fire on your tongue,
or the laughter in your eyes,
or the darkness that you draw from me.
Though you do not apologize with words
you do
with softness in your eyes,
and the brush of rough fingers against my arm in passing,
the curve of my neck lovingly sketched with graphite,
You say that you would die for me,
but I do not want you to.
I would have you live,
vibrant and happy,
the bottle lying forgotten in a corner,
your hand in mine,
breathing in the scent of turpentine;
because I would like to believe in us.
Susanna Jun 2018
I am a rouge planet.
Without a sun around which to orbit.
To give me warmth and life.
Small and insignificant.
All alone in the empty sterility of space.
apparently someone posted this on tumblr without crediting me, but it made me happy to see that my words meant something to someone
CK Baker Jan 2017
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chip wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on the iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped on gully goat
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Zeeb Jul 2018
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall,  Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell

I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within

She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention

The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong

When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow

Let's set now a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***

Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for  ice-cream"
Anna Blake Oct 2017
i left your wine glass
on my bedside table

for seven days
it settled in the very place
that your hands had aimlessly

staining a ring around a mostly empty bodice.

mostly empty?
barely full?

you see, for me,
the wine glass was
my way of having you
stay as long as I wanted.

I saw your delicate
fingerprints stamped upon
the stem and body

just as they were on mine, under a tin roof
amidst a blanket of summer rain.


i washed the glass tonight

as you boarded the plane to the rest of your life.

i wonder if you'll think of me as you sip on your complimentary glass.

rouge ou blanc, mon amour?
rouge comme mon amour?
ou blanc comme mon remise?

-Anna Blake
saige Aug 2019
Sure, I put the rouge in your eyes
And that apple in your throat
But relax, little boy
This is not a backstabbing
I am simply returning
Your godforsaken rib
i can rise without it
ryn Dec 2014
My last few hours,
In the land of a week's refuge.
Bade goodbye to water towers,
Away with sunsets made of rouge.

Ready to fulfil a previous standing pact
To a life I left and put on hold.
I'll leave you in memories of retrospect.
An experience worth weight in gold.

As always I find myself in the driveway .
Standing all alone, in the dark.
Looking up at what does lay.
Spellbound as usual as the distant dogs bark.

I'm sending wishes into space,
Kisses to the dots in the sky.
Going to miss this place...
As the coming year would go by.

I'd long for you,
My twinkling lovelies in my nights.
Following hours would be through
You'd be replaced by city lights.

For now allow me to drink you to a stupor.
A feast I can't get enough of.
Let these minutes extend into forever...
Goodbye Darwin stars, you have all my love.
Time to go home.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
[Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle]

Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Ill:
We languish here in deep red hell—
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.

Replied Lil’ Kim: The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs…

Kim chee does stink, but tastes so good
Do have some more, oh comrade Mao.
Fermented cabbage goes so well
With Hennessey and blondes (in hell)
Juche’s in da hood!

The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing ‘The East is Red’
Our party’s got it made.

Ill Kim displayed a wicked grin:
Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck
I think we still could win…

The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
in communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
Replied to Ill: This place we’ll fill
with dead reactionaries still—
fifth columns to inspire.

Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend.
Remember **? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam—
He’s limping toward his doom.

A wizened ghost now drifted in
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle ** Chi Minh !

** **—old friend! Draw near! Draw near,
Spoke Mao: In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.

Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
conspiring ******* their cow
and smoke their duck and drain their sow
while they are buying bling.

** Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.

Old uncle **, the sage revered,
did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp
It slithers like a jungle asp…
** paused and stroked his beard:

You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol ***
How best to steer this fight.

Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
of Kapital. His fame was huge
for plundering their treasure.

True, he had to purge his nation
such is revolution, gents…
The traitor classes see the masses,
through reactionary  glasses.
Death or re-education!

We ought to sow his rural seed
for pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
to fertilize the harvest plot—
the people’s mouths to feed.

When Pol *** heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber:
Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well and I will teach ya!

Kim and Mao applauded.

City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave – and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
Until they love their leaders.

From the barrel power grows—
(I don’t mean kim chee barrel, boys).
Now learn my way.We’ll have our say
Their weakened states will wither away.

The Red dictator rose.

Prepared to ramble on for hours
(the way Fidel so loves to do)
Pol ***’s harangue now fired the gang
like rockets falling on Da Nang
emitting sparks in showers.

Hell is known for lack of stasis—
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
and constant similar affairs
the population faces…

Thus Saint Pol ***, still naming names
along with Mao and Kim-Jong Il
while ** Chi screamed, and then blasphemed
were swept en masse, and unredeemed
into the surging flames.

Yet still they plotted in the blaze
with dialectic deviousness.
Philosophizing, strategizing
stinking sulphur brimstone rising;
ghosts in the yellow haze . . .

        ☭ END ☭

patty m May 2014
I remembered it well

the rich mix of smoke, perfume, and garlic

one could almost taste the absinthe in the air.

Toulouse-Lautrec, was deemed acceptable

as we embraced his artistic vision

singing our Chason Realiste songs;

we are the people, the poor gaudy freaks
traipsing about with drink in hand
sliding stockings down
from thighs, spreading
our provocative
dreams while delving headlong into
decadence and garish night life,
trying to escape banality .

Ah Henri, the prostitutes, and there
were many, Marie Charlet
your first. Even with your genetics
and anguished tirades burgeoning,
she loved you well.

Tremblement de terre, your creation

we too contrive when mocked

to become carefree and

obsessively delusional.

Thin brushstrokes
touched dispassionately
and yet there is sympathy suffused,
a continuum of unarticulated
and variegated respite;
the allure of mouth watering treats
and trollops that take the woe-begotten
to stellar heights.

While we the hangers-on
raise glasses in salute
tonguing the inner sanctum of the Moulin Rouge
our astute imaginings savored while
craving even more of those
***** nights with ******* and bodies
exposed, ******* whetted blown upon.

Then too, our burrowed deep sensations might grind
out torch songs, even as the flames leap higher
to singe us all, we laugh and cry.

Curled flame we toast the unexplainable
creating an **** of molten light,
bodiesof heat brighter than stars.  

Thus we become the false dawn,

stripping darkness from the midnight sky,

an explosion of all we are and have to give

in our life long pursuit of Celebration.
lX0st Jul 2018
He saves all the grape jolly ranchers for me
He hates everything grape
But he’d swear he loves me
Until he’s purple in the face
And even on my worst days
When my skin is flushed
Rouge with rage
He reminds me that the color of love
Is always present on my tongue
And can be any shade
Chasing a statue, and it's getting away.

Waiting for the sun in some desert lands
as the weightless yacht sails through the sands.

My mind has gone rouge
and it's taken me hostage.

Wave to the slaves,
You've nothing better to do.
Give me your mouth,
I've something to show you:

Strobing images flow
to form a sea of subtly,
veracious emotion;
The black and white chequered tile floor,
In a baby's pupil, iris and more.

We are the greatest threats
to the fabric of society:
Terrorists, drug dealers, hackers and poets.
The drones of humanity tremble at the mention of our true profession.
Are they alive
or merely undead?
The difference struggles to comprehend.

Paper bullets fly through the air like locusts
as a torrent of words enfolds upon us.
"Did you think to **** me?
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to ****.
There is only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof."
Love the feeling as it falls apart;
When the chaos breaks into a line and gives birth to art.
-Line Twenty Four, Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six from V For Vendetta by Alan Moore.
Skaidrum Jun 2016
Spare me, if you would

It's a foreign land but a familiar street,
red broken teeth and alabaster snow;
I remember it fondly.

Sober winter and blue cloth;
I still see us there.
I'm almost certain, that
St. Petersburg questioned our youth.
just a little closer
"Dance with me, Kirusha?"

All those years ago,
and we still drink up this disease.
The sour love of iron and wine
with shots of homesickness.
Russian rouge
American Dream
"Why did you have to leave?"

I ache to recall it,
because those gates still leak with cold.
This value withers in the white noise;
"Don't you ******* dare say that his death was just an experiment."
'You failure'

I sought it,
the ribbons of old confidence
while the stars looked on from their chairs.
I never found what I was looking for.

Go ahead and criticize;
the way we baptized my betrayal.
Knot up all the love you wasted
and send it overseas.

All that matters to me, Romichka
is that Death paid no mind to you.

Ruby apples at my doorstep
flowers that need blood instead of water.
A sense of hunger in this forsaken city
does not comfort me.

I just suppose
I've been thinkin' too much
And the bitterness let itself in again.

So when you find the time,
Write whatever's left of me in the fire;
along with all the other things.

I want to see you again
© Copywrite Skaidrum
KiraLili Sep 2016
Wooden heeled cowboy boots echo off cobbled streets
Chocolatiers begin closing shop
The stones and asphalt still throw off heat this July night
It's Paris and the traffic never stops
Even as I roll in after midnight
The sounds of the Metro still in my ears
At a long dark wood bar I mix Marlborough and Beaugalais
This is a long way from a mountain farm
In awful French I order another wine
This bar is an institution the tender tells me
19th Century decor exudes luxury and masculinity
You could picture high coloured Napoleans and thier spurned lovers from the Rouge
The worn tiles would have glistened then
Seeing all the sites in one day my minds eye slowly as the drooping legs of my wine take it all in
I'm older now and as crumpled as my guide book was that night
But any time I sip Beaugalais or smell American smoke and French chocolate
I'm taken back to a French hotel bar
Paris early 90s
Yue Wang Yidhna Jun 2019
Jacques de Rouge

The wandering pilgrim

Of poetic seekings

Drifted away once again

Oppose the Homeland Paris

And into the Heart of Italy

Known for many feats


One was in particular


It is the City of Dante

Firenze, in a frenzy

Have manifested itself

In the Golden Light

Of heavenly stars to be

Alive with all characters

Past and passed.

Opening wide behind

Lorenzo Ghiberti’s

The Gates of Paradise

Dante himself emerged

From the centre

Of the Florence Baptistery

And ascended toward the light

The opening of Hope and Stars

Among the rings of Heaven

Jacques de Rouge followed,

In pursuit.

And kneeled before him,

As Dante stopped and stood

With the Eagle!

In Piazza di Santa Croce.

When Jacques de Rouge stood

In a shadow at Palazzo Vecchio

The shadow revolved like

Da Vinci’s Helicopter

With what seemed like

A bulging knot at the end.

Barely missed his head

Jacques de Rouge

Realized the swings

Were from the slingshot

Of none other than

That of the one masculinity

Of all masculinity

Michelangelo's David.

His marble complexion transformed

Almost ever so light and faintly

Into a smooth and pale flesh.

Jacques cast his eyes down

In an unavoidable instinct of shame.

When he looked up, the flesh

Is now a single dangling foot

Seconds from stepping into

The Niche of Orsanmichele

And approaching his beloved Christ.

Amen, and he proceeded.

Discreetly into the Secrets of Sandro Botticelli,

That which is secured marvelously

As the Standing Monument of

Giotto’s Bell Tower


Brunelleschi's Dome.

The Three Graces danced

The Venus stood in the classical position.

And one woman looked wearily at Jacques

Staring into his eyes.

And yes, Heaven it was.

As Jacques stood in the illusion of the weightless contrapposto.
Repost of an older poem:
The City of Dante

Wednesday, May 22, 2013


Yue Yidhna Xing ****
A Sad Alex Aug 2018
No poison as venomous
Nor insidious a rouge
No piercing an arrow
Can compare to love

A disease like no other
Like no virus or spore
It rides the breezes of Autumn
With the leaves as they fall

In the laughter of lovers
As they gaze into their eyes
Their company they cherish
As the world, it turns blank

Such subterfuge is legend
As warning you it does not
And in chains of steel unbreaking
Your heart will be wrought

Your walls will crumble
Your discipline, for naught
You crave their happiness
And then you are lost...
as it tears you asunder
and rips you apart from within

Oh, such a malady has no cure!
You can only give in...

When will you arrive my love?
Please, come to me
Cool this fever of passion
This fire that rages within
Swiftly my darling!
Life from my fingers it slips
I can´t bear to see them smiling...
In sadness I wallow in...
yet, maybe this is what I deserve
For turning my back on my heart
The pain, the agony, it feels...
like the cut of a thousand knives...
DivineDao Mar 2016
I'm caressing your face. Slowly you get in nearness and completely lovable scent of the thick night starts to linger around and affect us. You make a startling desire~move with your right thumb, imprinting your vital essence drifting across my lower pulsating lip. I turn to you...more! My summer massaged karitee cocoa fingers are playing with your energized hair, as it were a ripe field of gold. And suddenly, for the next moment, we know what is inevitable. You wrap me firmly within your arms, your palms travelling lustily over my back. I bent my spine as a wild cat yoga would. Enjoying, you press me hastily against your fine striped cotton shirt. The tempo of my kisses is getting faster and your cheeks dye in rouge, like a delicious wine which we've consumed from the bright chalices, celebrating our appointement with white sparkling smiles over chin~chins.
          Such a sweet, ambrosial astringent you are...mmm...mature man! Madly in love. I drink in your love, when you start to undo the higher buttons on the vintage ornamented ribbon, barely covering aliveness of my two blossoms. Touching my medias, still slightly hidden from your all pervading passion, my ***** alternates betwixt between you taking my breath away with each kiss, building deep into the taseteful tension of our culminating breaths. You slip and touch under the lacy edge of the nightlit gossamer, the love song is playing for us, and the effulgent panorama of stars and galaxies love clusters seem to simultaneousely arouse and merge our bodies in sync. 
        At last, our desires have collided us together! Like arid soils long await on the warm summertime heavy showering rains, my skin painfully anticipates trickles and tumultuous tendernesses from your loving touches... Integrated, we slowly grow into our love story. To argently affirm this mad inevitability, tearing us no more apart, we pay to the waiter, stand up and chase our cravings, hand in hand, to crash us forth into the love of this night, embraced long after the midnight hour time melts the world into timelesness.
        Entwined by most urgent needs. Real. Soft. Serious. Loving. Approaching as a big, happy tide would swallow dry sands beautifully. You've planted an intimate rhythm within my being. Beating before, in the middle and after the withdrawal of coincidental glimpses of the temporal visitors back at the romantic old restaurant. Such a sweet, astringent and mature place. It echoes within our minds as the charming image of the inner secret garden, open to heavenly harmonies, street musician songs and cicadas' effervescent musical magic. Now gently lulling the old city into a blissful sleep. And us, rustling among satin sheets. Revealing all of our flaming realms. Reeling our deepest dreams.
Loving you is inevitable.
India Jul 2019
O how the Rose wilts as blood seeps from sly lips
And rouge petals turn crimson.
A fresh stain on old domain -
Surprise! They’ll never change.
Roses grow best in horse ****.
French rose Jan 2019
Crimson red
Golden hues
Roses cry violet rouge
Scattered feelings
Secrets of the fallen mind
Crystallize into the heart
Diamond tears disguised
Midnight muse layed underneath the twilight moon
Marla Sep 2019
"M" is for "Merde!" and "V' is for "le beau vin rouge qui calme mon âme- mon dieu, donne moi plus s'il vous plait... j'ai beaucoup soif mais pas des boissons pour ma petit coeur."
he sang
th world thought that
but he pained

he danced
the world loved that
but danced from evert

his blood covered his
they thought that he put a rouge
he was like a bird

singing from pain
singing from evert

save the rest
or the world may be ******
the justice needs to make the same look
Rose  in dust
a rose is nice
Petals are healthy
red dark arch
sun shines hot
Leaves seem (up)right
gazing the height
green emerald
From land to ace
Ace of the sky march.
Rose is nice
Roots in dust
Feature is rouge
Of the shame love trust
Blossoms of the yard.
Yard is land
Land is grand
vast soil of the hand
light crimson band
Wind blows harsh
Fences move hard
Trees far behind
Shake each side
Men come down
The first one talk
The last one mock
Both of whom walk
Touch the soft land
Soil is empty
Land full of soil
Soil full of worm
Worm is sick
Nasty nabid pick
Become lot... lot ...lot
Every day and night
Wind blows harsh
Spring moves fast.
Man is running
Worm is cunning
man in hurry
rose is worry.
worm moves straight
man runs far
seeking new boudoir.
rose is alone
poisonous thing around
soil is shaking
grand land kicking
man sing a song
man, wine, wrong
happy, happy long
wind blows harsh
autumn seize the yard.
rose is sick
petal withered down
no leaves green
gazing to the sun
rose is nice
rose is kind
death moves around
happy stands behind.
Under the inspiration of "The Sick Rose" by William Blake.
JustJune Jul 2018
Rouge petals and dancing light
Aromas of the deep and caresses of feathers

Penetrating endearing gazes
Iron words and glass scripture

In quick gusts, I’m caught up
Breathlessly engulfed, all suddenly

It’s gospel

Mumbles of truth from higher dimensions
Real breakthrough in the deepest of places

The wind is gone
There is peace

There is healing here

Rest in my discovery
Comfort in my wake

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