"segue" poems
Fat people have no heads.
They end at the shoulders,
they are clipped off at the neck.
Never talk to fat people.
You may talk to an expert,
to a dietitian or a doctor
but never to a real live fat person
because fat people have no heads.
Use the word Epidemic
at least once, especially
if children are involved.
Children are always involved,
so use the word Epidemic
at least once. Fat children
still have heads, usually;
only fat adults must be
d e c a p i t a t e d.
Because he still has his head
you may talk to a fat child,
especially if you offer him
a box of chicken nuggets.
Entice him to say Alarming Things
with a box of chicken nuggets.
After the word Epidemic
segue from concerned anchorwoman
to stock footage of fat headless girl
browsing the racks at J.C. Penny’s.
Segue to fat headless mom
walking with her fat headless son
on a sidewalk populated by
fat headless pedestrians.
Voice-over Alarming Things
about fat headless people
not getting enough exercise
and segue to fat headless man
stuffing his fingers into a box
of McDonald’s french fries.
Fat people eat only McDonald’s
french fries and we will be right
back with more on this story
after a word from our sponsors.
Cue McDonald’s theme song.
Pretty people Golden Arches
laughing with their heads
as they eat McDonald’s french fries
with their heads
and never gain a pound.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
i was a hermit,
and you dragged me into
the never-ending metropolis
of your lives.
i was content in isolation,
and you introduced me
to birds of prey and
astronauts.
i was an entertaining centerpiece
for a day.
i was an entertaining delay.
i was the perfect way to segue
him back to his place.
i was a hermit,
and you bled me
to see how much
was left of me.
i was glad to see,
you were dissatisfied
with the amount.
i was a writer, a liar,
i was a dreamer, a denier,
i was a scapegoat, and the angry judge at your throat.
i am a hermit
with no place or person
to go.
i am a hermit
with no individual
soul.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
(not much of a poem)
Thrice awake, asleep, again awake
Something always wakes me up
The phone sounded, nobody answered
Procession and vigil ended
Late fireworks echoed through this Black Saturday night..
I'm deciding: to cease, or not to cease
I can't find my desired peace
To find lost journals, or just burn what's left, old and new
To start or not to start, a life anew
To rise, or just lie through this hot evening
My late mother said then: Black Saturdays are days...rarely ending
Black Saturdays are for resurrecting...celebrating...
This late night, it is segue-ing, to an Easter morning
While dogs are barking, while gecko is calling
Cats are quiet, where are they stashed? where could they be hiding?
Here...now... I am a car, my motor is hushed...but i am still running...
Sally
Copyright April 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state
I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::
eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**)
Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::
There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, **myopic curse
(nocturnal)**:::
the nightmare of not having you near
Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats
(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)
cdh
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
Put on the old LPs tonight, Alex,
from a time long before you were born.
Top of the queue was Petula Clark
belting out Don't Give Up,
defiant as an alley cat in a street fight.
Remembered how in her heyday,
she'd been forced to conceal
the fact that she was married ---
all performers being mysteriously
virginal in those days.
Thoughts segue several years
to my time in the service and
a female lieutenant who was my OIC.
Served a 20 year career,
but never knew a finer officer.
She realized leadership was saying
the things that made you want to follow.
Just after making captain,
due to pregnancy, she was forced
to terminate her service career.
Today, women routinely travel in space,
perform extreme surgeries,
design skyscrappers;
one just might become president.
And somewhere in the tenements of NYC
a young poet spins metaphor
straight from the streets and the cosmos,
constructing a world in lines
we'd all wish to enter.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
slope of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Silent and the silence...
Screams at four in the morning...many times it's at three in the morning...
They got punked for their crack, coke, ****** maybe it was pills...
They fight the good fight over there...soldiers in deserts of war...
Yet here in my community I see the dealers and the ******
I am sorry for that word, excuse me...I never made it up...
In Swansea City they fill the needles with puddle water...
I have heard they do that here...
She never planned on being a *****
Turned to the dope...thought it would heal the sore...
My friend went to get himself put on the liquid handcuffs...
That's what the junkies call methadone...
I sat in the waiting room and watched them enter...
Some brought their children
One chap was with his dad...
They are looked the same
Trying to relieve themselves of sadness and pain
Have hope, sweet child...mommy is here
Have hope, dear reader...because not all will succumb to their fears
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC
every night,
you walk me back across campus.
and every night,
we sit in the back corner of the lobby,
by the laundry room,
where the vending machine sits,
and talk for at least an hour.
and we talk about
everything.
the big things,
the little things,
the easy things,
the stressful things.
and we both listen and talk.
hearing one another,
loving one another,
simply being there for one another.
the minutes and hours slip by,
and suddenly it’s 2am-
reminiscent of the first night
that we actually hung out,
i sat next to you talking until 7am,
fully knowing i was to work
an 8 hour shift that day.
and ever since that moment,
i have fallen even deeper
in love with you,
every single moment
of every single day.
i am finally comfortable enough
with myself
and
in my own skin,
that i, for the first time,
love sharing my life with someone.
we can talk about the serious things,
and 20 minutes later, segue into
being very goofy together. and
it feels so natural
and normal
and right.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 2:25 AM UTC
It has been many moons since these translucent eyes set forth the bellowing cries of a whispered hymn. The cries of those long since forgotten, briefly heard, myopic, blind to the background sound of our nestled unruly world. The white noise that paints the landscape continually resetting itself in a desperate attempt to regain its foothold in our lives. It is this fight for free reign that forever brings me here. Brings me to each infinitesimal moment in life where we as the white noise fight for dominance over our subconscious realm.
Leery of what we experience with our senses and what we experience with the extensions of. Touching everything with our nothing making sure that the existence that we live is not just a state of mind but an actuality. We are self-altruistic, in this i am sure, for we care about the well being of ourselves. No state of mind left behind this is our status quo. Let it be that no mirror binds you to your own failures nor to those that look onto from a distance. Let you be your own shadow let your own shadow not be a former representation of what is but what's to come. Let your shadow be effectively that of which you strive. Let the shovels of ill will be fated to bury themselves hand in hand with those that foster it. Stand firm in your position overcome only by the mountains of your own design.
These peaks scream out echoes of your hate and shame not for you, nay. Not for I, nay. but for those that challenge what you stand for because the earth beneath our feet stands for everyone. stands stained with bloodied tears that rained down from our glorified manufactured heaven. This epoch marks the second coming of our custom, individualized, patent-pending, rights reserved, copyrighted Christ; our self-proclaimed god. self-proclaimed because we are the gods we seek, we ignore, and we pray for. the effervescent pool of life reads no running so we segue our way on this Segway to take advantage of the loopholes we ourselves placed as if only to cheat our fabricated reality because rebellion is refreshing and different but only when no one else is looking.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
I'd rather cuddle than go to the park
Said my friend
I'd rather cuddle then go to the park
Said I
What a difference one little letter makes
Funny that both 'a' and 'e' are the most used
Out of all the 26 children, these are the most abused
(Sorry that was dark, I had to write it though
I've got a new contract giving me a quota
And setting a minimum of X poems a day
With L number of lines with Q words per line
And purple plus candy canes equals love.
Another provision in my contract is that I must write
Anything and everything and whatever comes to mind)
So I'm thinking of all these letters and thinking
Why these? Why 26? Why have 'c' if 's' and 'k' can do its job?
And why do people have favorites?
Which makes my mind segue into this thought:
Why have favorites at all? Everything will be a favorite
Something to someone, right?
And what does it benefit us to love a letter or symbol such as <3
Or maybe :)
Is it because our mind sees patterns and so instead of seeing
The mathematically incorrect 'less than three' we see a heart
And instead of 'colon parentheses' (correct in no context but the internet) we see a smile
And in all honesty, we must admit, <3 and :) are not biologically
Or physiologically accurate
So how did we come up with the super-simplified emoticon?
And who came up with a word like emoticon anyway??
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 7:14 AM UTC
Superseded my conditions with something simple, a vision for the mind to segue into:
An expedition to the stars, a journey towards difficulty fortified my convictions.
Experienced fourth dimensions, I have stepped into the infinite.
And none is perfect, I am aware of my impulses.
With a heart full of verses, I set the stage to play a role. This is all with a purpose.
I have indulged; I am at fault. There's so much to interpret.
Turbulence settled.
I learned to get leveled with vendettas developed since I was a kid, man.
Learned not to meddle; instructions were heaven-sent.
To go where few bodies had been, I had to find hobbies that aligned with the angels so that I could find the angle
to finally handle everything that I've been through.
A prevailing discomfort encompassed; imagine the troubles.
I rolled with the punches, and I came out triumphant.
From starving to marveling at the cosmic alignments and frequently fighting with God to having so many run-ins.
It's hard to keep a facade when destiny's tugging.
At war with myself, but the timing is perfect.
It has to be worth it; the truth has emerged.
Ever since I sunk into the depths where I dwelled and found my way to the surface.
Apr 13, 2024
Apr 13, 2024 at 11:05 AM UTC
You find comfort in the arms
of women who do not hesitate
to **** their own children;
your children
just like flushing a **** down a toilet.
Because its poetic? Or tragic? Or just f-ing sad?
Or because in their company you become the effortless hero,
replacing stale smoke for oxygen
and trying to die?
If life were a sinking ship, you'd be the first rat a running-
so the women and children had better move fast.
There is just no room in your one man life boat.
Why with your ego,
and your lonliness,
and that grudgeyou're holding
against God.
Fumaça por oxigênio
Tu encontra conforto nos braços
de mulheres que não hesitam
em matar suas próprias crianças;
tuas crianças
como se estivessem despejando merda descarga adentro.
Porque é poético? Ou trágico? Ou apenas triste pra caralho?
Ou porque com elas tu te transforma num herói sem esforço,
substituindo fumaça mofada por oxigênio
e tentando a morte?
Se a vida fosse um navio afundando, tu seria o primeiro rato a fugir
é melhor que mulheres e crianças se apressem, portanto.
Simplesmente não há vaga em teu barco de um homem só.
Com teu ego, e tua solidão, e esse rancor
tu segue desafiando Deus.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 12:31 AM UTC
Mil-réis entre réis pagos pelo algodão e pelo o material sinteticamente enfadonho – ambos traçados na sala abafada em que, agora, a escuridão de frequência vibrante busca-me, parado, observando o sangue que segue, que traça, desenha os seus próprios afluentes em uma elaborada figura de empalhamento. Tropeço por entre galhos, perco um ou outro membro e abro os olhos. Agora, veja! Eles estão lá! Meus membros estão lá! Mas atente-se! Aquele, meio torto, veja-o com perfeição.
Digo, eram meus. Sim, pois agora a este outro pertence. Está lá, na poça de meu sangue, com a minha própria estrutura, o que parece ter sido um simpático palhaço. Confirmo aquela minha primeira impressão: empalhado palhaço. Agora há algo dentro daqueles membros. Definitivamente há! Até vejo alguma perenidade por entre as articulações, à mostra - resultado de um trabalho mal feito pelo meu próprio líquido vermelho intenso.
Depois de muito apreciar minhas partes nunca tão bem aproveitadas, vejo algo mais além - vejo asas! Inicialmente, um âmago bastante ridículo e tedioso - mas observando mais atentamente, percebo profundamente que aquela minha obra orgânica possui, como verdadeira essência, o plano mais ao fundo, que não só se colocava de forma discreta, como aspirava se esconder do foco do olhar, retirando nitidez que a ele é supostamente é inerte. Percebi a explicação para minha atrapalhada e inconsciente criação. Humano algum será capaz de apreciá-la como eu aprecio. Amo-a agora como amo a morte! E morta está minha obra, afastada para sempre de mim. Assim como os meus olhos e libido.
É um sangue amaldiçoado aquele que escorrera de mim, seria está a plausível explicação? Sequer traçara ele uma imagem de uma mecânica funcional.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
A symphony
of harmonious flighted creatures
that sing
at the rising of the sun.
Ever changing
are the finite spirit forms,
gracefully gliding
through the sky and beyond.
In start
of every new beginning.
Clouded hues
segue into one another
as dawn
approaches the morning sky.
Eyes peer
through half opened lids
waking slowly
with the powerful stretch of
rejuvenated muscles
to honor the presence of another day.
Flighted creatures
make home in the tall
green bushes.
Together they greet the rising world.
Waving branches
bid 'good morning' to the passerby's,
in hope
that the earthlings below
take notice
of their majestic beauty.
Green hairs
blanket the moist earth
and intermingle
with fallen teardrops from nearby
tall bushes.
Forms without spirit dissolve into
chocolate sand,
that is food for the non-traveling
ground dwellers,
so the bushes may shade, house, and feed.
Deep breaths
are heard as the atmosphere exhales
fresh air
into the lungs of all nearby earthlings.
Tiny monsters
make home in the green covered
chocolate sand.
They crawl with many feet
through jungle
that is, to us, sprouting green hair.
Sky dwellers
have many feet, and many wings.
No feathers,
but tiny, contorted, aerodynamic bodies.
Wind gliding,
to travel far across the land
fulfilling destinies.
Sky dwellers
are food for the flighted creatures.
A cycle;
a synergistic food chain for all life.
Blissful beauty
in its absolute finest.
Formless spirits
serve as infinite energy for the finite
earthly masterpiece.
A world of divine forms,
living harmoniously
under the glee of the rising sun.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
I need you to roll me a cigarette,
little girl. Give a twirl.
Flick the Bic and spindle your hair.
Will-O-Wisp in every curl.
Princely visions laced within your
every exhale - sparkle fog. Alive,
thoughts so eager to dive and weave something vivacious
Memory’s mantra, colony hive.
-
We were born in a bog, favors never come easy.
Just stepping stones and play things
for the spoiled, the renegades, and identity seekers.
Impressed not by treks of rat kings.
Perhaps a crag will open up with a yawn
and swallow down towers of sheep-men.
Digesting their white picket vaults in the core.
Maybe I’ll get some sleep then.
-
Void Water throne room;
on golden stools they sit.
Not shiny chairs to squat on,
but the stool they crave to ****
We lay in watch - cackling, amused -
As the chamber corrupts its own brood.
Together, we cast jubilant tones.
Beggar’s sphere language renewed.
-
Beneath the crooked branches of the walnut tree -
all bards fell silent. She riddles: “In which key?”.
The answer was the sound of ten-thousand vibrating wings.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Usurpation of a universe unwound,
see our past, see now a passion,
see those seasons
in reverse,
pause now at our first gilded glance,
see the story told by slow motion segue the silent gaze of sacred smiles
forward now
for pillow bites and midnight
saliva, arched back muffled *******
don't let your man hear that
sound:::
every day we would crucify “the self” on a carnal cross of
butterfly stomachs
and magic morning messages
now we long for a time
of
steamed windows, pressed handprints, prologued by the type of arcane lust confessionals that saturate the seams of ******* till the cotton thread
sees through
she still had nervous eyes when her finger tips said
"again"
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 11:17 PM UTC
a
hi
and
hello
are nice
words to
begin a chat
but sometimes
I can become a little
over-wordy preparing the
segue, pronounced Segway, aptly
named for the two wheeled transporter
in which a single person gets around like on
a dolly in the standing up position, but while all of
this clarification is going on here, I will suddenly have an
itch and scratch my nose and then I may sneeze and
forget what it was I had wanted to say in the first
place and well, I simply just have to say some
little thing and forgive me for saying so,
and not for nothing but something
strange happened recently that
caused me to think a new
thought and the thing
that occurred to me
is that while the
poem is for
everyone,
that it's
really
for
me
and I
am not
saying that
it could not be
for anyone else and
in fact you can have at it
but the fact remains that it
was something that sprung up
out of a certain nervousness and fatigue
it continues to almost write it-
self into something of a silly
waffling exercise of sort
which, in truth means
nada,nothing, zero,
zilch and nuttin'
however, were
it to bring a
smile or
frown
It is
ok
you
see, I
like to
think it as
part of my
creative bent
to find a pattern
and I understand
that most people may
avoid this kind of irritation
and if that is the case, please feel free
to stop right here> right here or
allow me to bring this last
thought to a proper
closing and that
it will take the
last words
to make
it look
right
for
U.
Bye!
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
O desenho inscrito sobe a forma de sinais,
Que percorrem o mapa secreto desse corpo,
Onde no olhar se vêm certezas divinais,
Mais secreto é saber que alimentas o meu horto!
O dilema repleto de infindáveis caminhos,
Onde a escuridão que existira se esfumou,
Nossos dizeres tornam-se atos e miminhos,
Essas dúvidas são claras e o tempo levou!
Como tu eu sinto que o melhor é mesmo acreditar,
Soltar-me no vento e explorar o sentimento quente,
Que chegou recheado de sonhos e contornos de cativar,
É porém o desenho do teu rosto que guardo tão presente!
Presente tão bom, presente que Deus me enviou no caminho,
Posso mesmo confiar que tenho vontade de ir pela avenida,
Nem tão pouco, nem tão perto a luz do fundo eu imagino,
Mas o alimento que trouxeste e que a ti vai deixando com vida!
Segue nas minhas veias na esperança de te poder hoje e sempre olhar,
Apertar-te nos braços e encontrar o meu, em tempos já distante Norte,
E hoje aperto em minha mão a bússola que me trouxeste em passaporte,
Para o vão da felicidade, de que hoje quero acreditar, e comigo, a ti levar!
Autor: António Benigno
Para ti Lili…
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
I want to know your mother's maiden name and
The feel of my palms on your skin
And the taste of you
And know what your breaths against the back of my neck are.
I want your hand in my hand and to know the length that you prefer your fingernails at
I want
I want
I want.
I want to know what your eyelids feel like against your eyeballs and
How the blood in your heart works, feel it through your skin
I want to know every person you have ever touched
And their faces,
And the way your skin feels on their skin,
That friend of a friend that you shook hands with ten years ago in a Tuesday morning in September an it was cold out, so you were wearing fingerless gloves, and they'd forgotten their gloves on a bus three days ago and so their hands were bare and your fingertips just brushed their wrist -
I want that.
I want you in the morning, at the kitchen table, sleep-missed an bleary-eyed
And I want to know what you eat for breakfast and if you love bacon
Or if you're not that bothered
And I want to know
Who you were with last New Years
And the New Years before that
And every present you've ever received for Christmas
And every person you've kissed.
I want you to know my thoughts
And I want to know yours
And I want you.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
O olhar mais sóbrio, sobre este quotidiano,
Revela uma série de desvios, incontroláveis,
Ter responsabilidades é hábito mediano,
Centram-se nas necessidades, emergíeis!
Mostra-se o leme, entregue nas mãos sujas,
Se entendes o que digo, talvez até tu fujas,
Ouve-se as mais diversas, doentias, calamidades,
Entregues todos, ao antro, de irresponsabilidades!
Entremos no mundo diferente, sem valores,
Máquinas, controlam actividade dos motores,
Máquinas de desavinho, nas vidas dos condutores,
A central que comanda, é jogo só de bastidores!
Desgovernado povo, sem sítio para suas míticas cores,
Muda-se o tom de gentes, sem quaisquer pudores,
Escolheres lugares, ou gentes, iguais aos modeladores,
Em tempo professores de culto, hoje sem valores!
Senhor prior, que nos ensina vivacidade e alerta,
Que nos prece segue, não é exemplo de galhardia,
É sim antro de filosofia e a porta não é mais aberta,
É convite de solidão, de gente sem luz do seu dia!
Completamente desorientadas e inapropriadas,
São hoje lei de exaustão, prisão e escuridão,
Esforços desajustados para fugas de milhão,
Povo sem tostão e governam maravilhados!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.08.01.02.13
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
1
You will avoid overcomplimenting. Stick to phrases
eeked of desire—smart blouse, handsome family.
You will find a chair. Tilt your head until you've
found the ceiling. Let discomfort loom. Let her speak.
Don't respond right away. Make her second guess her words.
Let her try to ramble out of it on a macro level. Let her dwell
on the micro miscalculations in silence.
Give it some time. Respond.
But calibrate. Be indirect, detached. "I'm here, aren't I?"
2
Don't encourage sentimentality or nostalgia.
When she brings up the early days—and she'll bring up the early days—remind her of your many failures in kindness.
The time she called from the psych ward and you told her you were busy should work. Or when you made her walk home after
the big fight. Or when you introduced her as a friend.
3
Here, she'll take your hand and guide it along her soft features.
Oblige.
Focus on the way you take her in. Give her a jagged gaze.
Don't relent.
Undress yourself. Do this without intro or segue or ceremony.
Comment on her alkaline and citrus taste. Drift five feet above yourself and watch it happen.
4
Laying tangled in the aftermath of blankets and sheets, ask her
about her husband.
Ask her about her drinking.
Ask her about her son's new school.
Ask her about her prescriptions, the side effects.
5
Take the long way home. Grab the brown belt to go with the brown shoes. Drink water. Lots of water. Eggs, not cereal.
Show up early to work. Appear eager and sincere in your every
task.
Blend.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
um encantador de mentira/Im lovely lie
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Sou um encantador de mentira
De mente fecunda e alma tristonha
Aquele que diante da flor suspira
E por um grande amor sonha.
O que a morte, enquanto delira,
Busca sem medo ou vergonha,
Mas por mais que a ela prefira
Tu insistes em dar-me vida enfadonha.
Meu caderno de pueris rimas está cheio
Talvez seja hora de puxar o freio,
Pois solidão atada a mim segue.
Oh! Senhor tire do peito o medo
De um fim agora a este enredo
Por favor, a morte não mais me negue.
http://www.poetafernandes.com.br/search/label/poesias
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Smell of you on my lips
taste of you on my fingers
gaze of you on my skin
warmth as you envelope me
shuddering of skin
shedding of sin
We consummate in a shared womb of ink
above and below cotton blows like springtime,
a perfect non-sequitur segue where
flowers of aloe bloom
swollen pods that explode
spraying pollen everywhere.
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC