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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
Good on You (a love poem),
this one, is, good, on you.  

phrase uttered, measured, apace,
each comma,
a paused breath of:

admiration, enveloped by
a secret pleasure coating,
saucier prepared,
the base, the pleasured secret in this
mans minds eye unseen.

each comma,
precisely the carbon copy of the
comma curve of dark hair that
falls from a forehead down to the chin,
in a museum quality photograph,
as if it was intended to hold, contain,
your sly blunt moody,
and full plated whimsy,
when that half-smile poesy is in place.

good on you,
slow please,
not
goodonyou.

did you think, I did not have, a special bottle,
a Grand Cru,
a pinot noir, in the reserve,
inside the locked cellar of me,
to be used to anoint mine own
English Duchess of Burgundy?

well and proper aged,
but unlabelled,
till you provided
the appelation, the domaine,
good, on, you.  

the bottle dusty, the feelings, not.
if we never meet, matters not,
the gentility, tous les bons mots,
good in you,
hid in in all of the
astounding incredible poems
I well-addicted need,
those archeological mounds of a life,
I excavate and well heed,
going from one to the next,
me, the bumbling bee,
pollenating, following the path of the
watermarked tracks of
the King's Cross,
alas, they do not offer a couchette,
from Terminal 4 to London Bridge

unlike a teenager
happy to confess,
I am even younger,
an old fool, a geezer,
in love with a museum quality smile,
as he totters down to the Tottenham Hale station,
to catch the blue colored line, to the station after Vauxhall)
(oh dear, what's it called again?)
walking 10 to 2, saying ta to all
who assist his
two hands on an old man's bent feet,
steering the wheelhouse heart through its tubes

this is an undedicated poem,
retuned and returned,
addressee unknown, yet I know
by the greening dew droplets decorating faces,
that come so easy,
not a one wrung out,
you know
the who's of the true ownership,
the clarification,
in the bread crumbs,
fully disclosed,
left by me,
but for me,
in order to retrace my steps,
to find the railing,
when the steady on need arises

some Tuesday next,
will disembark from a riverboat,
at the old Tate,
spending my afternoon,
staring at an imaginary museum quality photograph,
till the guard surly reminds the pesky Yank,
its past closing time,
the man who will not be moved,
for already he, past overcome,
so why be thinking on why leaving,
for he will only be back again tomorrow.

so different.

mine, simple declarative sentences,
typically matter of fact,
so **** presumptuous,
those ill mannered,
know it all Ameddicans.

yours, lace doilles,
in a pub, with Hilda and Bill,
drinking pale ale,
from a porcelain cup,
and I am laughing,
Why?

It is all,
Good on Us,
a, love, poem,
indeed,
no kidding kid.
the object of my affection shall remain anonymous, in proper British poetic fashion
Liam Apr 2014
they say a watched *** never boils
but my mind certainly does
and i watch it all the time
it's never out of my sight
yet it's constantly spilling its contents
in a roiled turmoil
all over my consciousness

the result is a reduction
of my state of mind
of my perspective
either a concentrated awareness
or a flavorless sludge of grey matter
it all depends on the heat applied
it all depends on evaporation

a proper chef would be attentive
a saucier of good stock
choosing quality ingredients
maintaining a simmer
avoiding a seethe
controlling condensation
distilling even pabulum to perfection
ChrisL Mar 2019
Our relationship, deeper than any pizza base.
Our love, saucier than the finest italian passata.
Our feelings stronger than the maturest of fine cheeses.
Our willingness to please the other stretches such as the most glorious of mozzarella.

To what do we base our feelings upon,
Be it the interchangable toppings or the structural integrity of the strongest crust.

Akin to snowflakes no two pizzas are ever alike. Each one differing to the last, be it the char marks on it's peak or the flame kissed bottom.

Our choice in toppings may differ so vastly, you with your ghastly pineapple and myself with my overly rich and greasy bbq meatfeast.
Alas does this mean anything at all? Nothing but a matter of opinion, toppings change to peoples liking, but our bases remain the same our sauce the binding glue to hold it all together.
I wouldn’t dare call this romance
That word has no use here
What we have is saucier than France
But not filled with as many tears

The term I want to use now
Only has meaning from your lips
Not from comparing it to cows
To storms or even to long road trips

Nothing can compare to our love, babe
I apologize for doing so for so long
If poetry is all about comparisons, I’ll change
I’ll re-write those stupid wrongs
KorbydAngyle Aug 2020
It's mnemonic aspectant ibex dander  
on the summers eve looking in at loyal burse factions
Processions begin yet Osiris is surveyor saucier and candor
Raging fool zincous celestian
Let's not retain the momentum
These words your best I don't know you're saying you've been sent?
Revel in the spice however good the singing interlude for the perfect
accompaniment to inertia of the ditty that offers you as food
Implications compuctional wolves of deeper assonance than assume
assertive amnesty abeyance azalea in full bloom
Dancing fool cenobite weapon
Let us not pick it up from where this did begin
Fall and roll without every word radiating succinct functioning devour
Raff merchant of veritas thoughts elimination vary on the absurd
and less than irate on the hour
This you've been writing and maybe didactic armour though not of the trochaic pentameter
Earless spools of threatening human remains scavenged by servers and wires
Simpleton fool wisecracking presbyter
Do not as you know you should'nt I defer
As the bodies appel epiphanal life derives and acquires that dottle of omnibus foolery
Begin again virtue of versatility you've waddled through the chicanery
For soon this fool's comic rapture shall be the stain of your treacherous
Raging fool zincous celestian
Lets maybe retain the momentum
write on babe what little good it does you can thank
at least virtue for being there
mounted twin donkeys for the ride into the canyon. It was a
grand canyon: deeper than a mother's breast implants and
saucier than 4 Mexicans bathing in the Panama Canal
3 weeks before Christmas or Arbor Day.

— The End —