"sistine" poems
Today I went kayaking
I glided across the cool waters
Brackish and so devoid of life
This time of year
As I drifted underneath the bridge
I imagined it painted like the Sistine chapel
A choir of angels hidden beneath the barnacle encrusted concrete
For only the fish to see
I had almost forgotten that the river existed
Five minutes away
And all I wanted to do was paddle
Out into the ocean
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
The Catholic church
endorsed the world today
for a dollar ninety nine.
-Announcement-
Every iPhone owner!
sinner, saint or stoner!
Come now have your sins forgiven!
forgiven if you spill your guts,
if you just confess,
then watch technology do the rest.
Absolution for you and me!
Send your sins across the sea!
your sins will fly up through the sky
encrypted on waves to reach the almighty,
the Vatican! the Pope!
A man of God appointed by the church
yet is he any different than you and me?
We know he sins the same as us,
the book of Romans says its so,*
and do you really think his tall hat
and flowing dress can make him
any more chosen than us?
Can he really hold back lust?
Will he not eventually turn to dust
Just like the rest of us?
is he really any different than us?
How ironic he receives a royalty from
a symbol of the fallen world,
The Apple
computer company,
payment for our absolution…
...So the world fell
by the fruit of a tree
and now expects to be
redeemed the same way.
The truth is not in a man.
the truth is not in the Apple.
The truth is not in the white smoke rising
from the stacks on Sistine Chapel.
The truth cannot be dried up.
The truth cannot be cured.
the truth is not the Pope's to smoke,
To believe it is absurd.
If you want to know the truth,
the truth is in the blood.
The blood covers everything.
Including what is written here.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
Shhh.
Silence.
The red robed supplicants
Are sequestered
Inside the Sistine.
They speak
In silent supplications
To the spirits
To pronounce a Pontiff.
The stewards are set
To send the smoke.
The smoke
That must be white.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
I don't write lyrics, but I do have flow
I don't write music, but I do have soul
I'm not an artist, but a picture I'll paint
Sistine Chapel leaves you thinking I'm a saint
I don't play sports, but I do play minds
I'm not a catcher, but I still show signs
I'm not a racer, but I still cross lines
I'm not a witch, but I'll still cast doom
Not the undertaker, but I'll set up your tomb
Not a fortune teller, but I can spell your demise
I'm not a magician, but I can see your surprise
I'm not a gardener, but I can plant you in the ground
I'm not a devil, but hellish is my sound
Demons in the room have come to stomp you down
I flow freely, 'cuz I'm a bad-ass poet
But I'm not all bad. Here, let me show it
I can make your heart beat to the sound of my melody
Make you love-sick; I'm sorry, there is no remedy
I'm like soldiers in the dirt, always brave
I'm strong, and I'm bold, and I'm a slight knave
Always protecting innocence with the tip of a glaive
* Now this time I must remember to hit save*
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup
Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair
Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds
I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history
Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David
I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.
Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress
Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart
When I describe you to a stranger,
I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
Hellenic
Flesh and marrow
Raphaelite form
painted into life.
Honey hair
slipping through the vees between my fingers like
sand
conch-white skin
You blind me
like the noonday sun.
Enveloping—
body wrapped in body—
ocean and sky
meet
at the horizon.
Peel my skin from me
like an orange.
Apple.
Heal me
with hands upon thighs
Stitch my ragdoll body together with the sutures of your kisses
Stuck
by the glue of lips
Raise me like Lazarus
from the valley of death
from the orchard in Eden and the shame of skin
Reupholster me
like a dinette chair.
Vivid as the Sistine Chapel
your hand
outs t r e t c h e d
toward God
I find you in
pumpkin seeds
scattered
like tears
on the floor of my car.
They were yours.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
I look at her and
I close my eyes,
And oh where my imagination,
Send my eager mind,
The wiles versus my wills,
oh those hills they bind,
Men like me, like demons versus the Lion,
Exorcized, exorcized,
Yeah, but I am Legion,
if they beat me one time,
Oh, next time, time,
They'll be mine.
And those mountains of lust,
That once seemed unclaimable,
Unclimbable like Everest before
Edmund Hillary, like the Sistine Chapel,
Before Michelangelo, oh I will persist,
I will pursue, with the littlest smile,
And the darkest hue,
Where after many days fight,
Suddenly. Then, in the night,
when alas my victory is won!
My prize I will take,
And her pleasure I will reign.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?
Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
we are angels
with cathedrals,
prophets, and poems
to prove it
other species
are not endowed
with such gifts:
the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel
the pyramids, loosing
the bounds of earth
to walk on a moon...
psychoanalysis
the atomic bomb
Anthrax, dioxin
and gunfire
gunfire
we are maggots
on rotting fruit, sated now
looking for a place to hop off,
to escape before the fruit falls fast
to the ground
before the oceans rise
and the skies fill with ash
surely we can fly away
but we are wingless
angels, killer angels
killer angels
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
How dare society make us women feel like
Our very own bodies is a prison,
To be locked up behind the metal bars of our *******
Tied up by the chains of our curvy figures
And the sentence lying between our thighs.
And the sentence is brutal.
Consent is no longer existent
When the *** is too tempting for a man to say no
And for you to say no.
Our butts slapped,
Chests groped,
Cheeks pinched,
Thighs squeezed,
In this prison we had the decency to call our own body
We are handcuffed to the degrading appetite of a man.
Women are not a display of things to touch
We are not a dessert menu for a man’s hunger
To be ordered by catcalling:
Want a taste of a woman’s behind?
**** that ***
A taste of ****
Oh, baby, put on a show for us!
Or just the full course meal-
Hey girl, ow ow owwww!
It is about time we strong women break free.
The jailor of men- I stole the key.
It is about time we change out of our prison uniforms of
Bikinis and mini skirts and stilettos
And break down the locks that confined us.
Our prison sentence is just about up,
And when we are let loose,
Us women will no longer stand for such debasing behaviors.
And when we’re free,
It’ll be time to teach the men a little lesson
This cage of our body does not define us, boys,
Maybe try finding the prisoner behind the bars-
Her personality,
Charming smile,
And brilliant intellect,
Instead of demeaning our existence,
Objectifying our importance-
We are not your tools, your toys.
We are humans, too, you know,
With- get this- feelings.
Try manners and kindness rather than
Feeling and groping your way to a woman’s heart.
We are not a play museum- we are the artifact,
The masterpiece- Mona Lisa, Starry Night, the Sistine Chapel-
You must stand behind the red velvet ropes and perform
What the English language calls respect,
With a thing also known as consent.
This- my body- is also known as my body,
It is not his, it is not hers, and most importantly,
It is not yours.
Please try to understand this- I know, it’s super complicated.
And if you gain anything from this, let it be this:
We are not here to satisfy you-
Women are not prisoners to a man’s every need.
We are not objects- no-
And we deserve to be heard.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
I repaint the Sistine Chapel with only my tongue
just to see your face again.
Oh, your holy chocolate covered soul,
holy bird bone finger tips.
How you snap like a star and then burn again.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
This was once all that we knew.
A world in parts before we knew
it
as such subdivisions as this, that and
more beneath that still: there was
once good and evil, god and them,
the rest of us, and
Jesus, simply looking upwards after
he flung himself forth from the dust
to the sky and the light was bleached
off and the colours leaked from our
eyes to our canvases. What more
can I say before we take more
of ourselves away from each other? What more
before you implant me into some other's
body, and the prayer completed,
and I am finally a computer? In
the meanwhile my eyes will look and
my neck will strain as the sun sets and
so does my little life: how long have I
wanted to see you again, o lord, since
my first scream of myself all so long
ago when I left my mother's salt
and was flashed into the flood of your
world?
How long, o lord, will you have me here
to see your work through these ceiling
songs, such sonorous ringings, fleshy
twists and turns of paint as muscle
and what's that behind the cloud?
Your finger
appareled in such golden rays?
Endless. When your ships brought such
dark skin as mine across these
times and spaces, what?, where you
surprised of my dreams to see it,
this,
all engulfed in flames? And
yet here you are and here I am and
here is the quiet my birth your
glory your joy the brushstrokes
the colours and the full fleshy taste
of my non-belief, leaking into my fingers,
sticky, frisk, and always.
When I leave these, they will fall
and crumble. It will all go. In the hallways,
as I walk away: several big windows:
Rome, sunset.
When I leave these, they will go
and disappear. Into salt. Those large windows:
blue-shadowed branches begin some small slow dance.
When I leave these temples they will dust
and return to dust the soil of our hands.
And the trees remain beautiful.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
“the unbound unbinding: an admixture of words and swords…
that will cut a newborn cord of reciprocity of thee and me,
miracle!
thereby, an unbound binding that ties and frees us from
and connects us nonetheless by our shared senses…”
<!>
these words, recalled well,
for they but a newborn issue of a few days, and the notion of binding that
frees us into reciprocity yet buzz~hums
in my brain
the contradictory nature of a cutting
which ties us together,
that an unbinding binds us even more tightly,
I struggle, to better understand the nature how an unraveling
of our connection somehow ties us closer
but re-envisioning
Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel in my mind’s eye,
that sparking space tween God’s finger outstretched
to bring the enlivening of his spirit to His first enervate, Adam,
the original of we humans,
somehow sates my confusion
***to touch each other
at the most primitive basis,
we require a space
between us, in order to fulfill,
a contract contact
of completion and binding***
and this bestills and bestirs
my puzzlement,
a space electric necessary
to permit us to
close the human circuitry
!***and I am contented,
the contradiction
no more, I sense the
need to close gaps
tween us certify our human resources
for it is the permanent invisible grasping
of our loving minds that transcends
overpowers gaps,
bringing tears of joy to my eyelids,
even as I write these words,
and greet this morning
with
optimism
that every space
brings a richer
closure!***!
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 7:36 AM UTC
*on the crowded quai of inception
gilded minutes ornately revolve
time is measured in tranches of soul
transporting moments of his essence
never versed in the outside world
an innocent daughter of imagination
boarding a train of transfixed reverie
her departure held fast in sistine release
such a private exhibition on public display
their affection left open to interpretation
a tearfully expressive and inspired farewell
within a shrine devoted to the art of the muse*
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
1.7k
Where the sun sets
just for you
Where even the tiniest apartment
can compare to the Sistine
Where you can't say it's picturesque
for you are in it
Beauty not found in reality
yet a reflection of it
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
among the lean and
narrow hours
when the brutal minutes
aggrieve
like the protruding ribs
of an emaciated animal
abandoned things shuffle
into dark unkempt little rooms
littered
with the manifested debris
of a life
unspoken thoughts
in rusted cans
stacked heedlessly
on overused shelving
bowing perilously under the weight
mangled hopes
kicked into the corners
stuck to the floor
foul and fetid
vitiated with wasted time
black mold
leaking from dilapidated hearts
creating pointillism art
across the sagging plaster
overhead
consuming an ersatz
Sistine Chapel ceiling
saints and angels
prophets and devils
sepia toned
in their water stain media
disappearing
into corruptions artistic virtuosity
only God remains visible
reaching out
to give life
if any are left
to receive it
Nov 28, 2023
Nov 28, 2023 at 10:23 PM UTC
GO ! BELOVED MAN ~ go c r e a t e
YOU are the CENTRE OF CREATION
see these children in my embracing protection
I will send them when you are ready
we all float flying together confidently
but now you must L E A V E, descend
our forefingers are disengaging, a pattern paternal, forever humanity will remember
this gesture, TWO IN ONE, a HOLDING
and LETTING go, sign of
GRACEFUL DIVINE INSTRUCTION
I birth your progeny, birthing ALL WORLDS
this teen your son says : “BE not afraid”
he becomes angry
as you lounge hesitant, question or plead
he is impatient to elevate what you will manifest
but wait he must ~ ONLY I control TIME
I s t r e t c h Y O U, SON
I O P E N S K Y in the eternal Now
immersing myself in my creations
then letting them GO
this is NO FALL call it ART ~ MY COMMAND FOR YOU IS RISE then F ~ L~ Y
You are my CHOSEN
EYES to eyes
THE TIME IS NOW
recline no more in cloud beauty
endurance is your hallmark
ferocity tangos with LOVE
I will not forsake you
you will soar on my winds
they will carry your shapely limbs
ready groin will create at my bidding
your elegant strong fingers will caress
Question not MY IMAGE
man of man, woman of woman
curved ears hear, wide nostrils breathe life
Heart pumping into infinity
food will flow from hair to toe tip
ACT and RELAX, written into ****** constitution
Forever MICHELANGELO, Sculptor
humble Genius I saLute you, My own Creation
Son of Marbled Art
Yours sincerely, GOD
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:42 AM UTC
I can't help but wonder
Why
Owning
The civilized lifestyle
Is so unbearably difficult for me
I'll co-work with my adrenaline
And take flight in experience
I'll take on the occupation
Of people watching,
Backpacking country to country
Indulging in culture
Surely I would be promoted,
"Employee of the year"
I could do that forty hours a week,
Even sixty
My whole life
Now that is a career.
I could marry Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel
And hold hands with the Louvre
And make love to a portrait created at Montmarte
Now that is a vow I could make.
I could hold music in my womb
Lyrical flesh and formation
I would allow notes and rhythmic sensation to feed off of my nutrients
Pushing my body into stretch mark melody.
I could birth an entire album
Now that is motherhood.
But alas,
I do not live in the city that resides in my mind.
I am told to marry a man,
Birth a baby,
Own an occupation,
And dismiss
The yearnings of my heart,
Cursing civilization as I go.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
looked at you for too long
and then i realized
you are human, too
fallible
uncertain
flawed
piously pined for
palatial splendor i
placed in my dreams of you,
imperfect you
and it's no ones fault
a figure headed facade
fabricated by figments
of my frivolous imagination
put you on a pedestal
made you divine
made you holy
you, the ceiling
high above my head
and i, looking up
in the sistine chapel
untouchable
untarnished
couldn't see the cracks
beneath the varnish
then, close enough to study
a faint fresco with critical eyes
fantasy faded in the fault lines
of your frowning face
looked for too long
until i realized
you were just as broken as me
a collection of shattered pieces
shrouded and shy
once a shrine
now a shriek
wide eyes on you
a sinner, still
i called you sacred
ignoring the nature of
the irreverent, the profane
liked the luster
of longing lingering
on my lips
when i breathed your name
the veil torn
the truth beheld
and you are not god
gambling grief and
gleaming gloom
thought i could be
the sun to your moon
majesty to malignancy
momentarily merciful
moreover cruel
monstrous mr monsoon
after all, human, too
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 8:43 PM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
He. Opinion is not worth a rush;
In this altar-piece the knight,
Who grips his long spear so to push
That dragon through the fading light,
Loved the lady; and it's plain
The half-dead dragon was her thought,
That every morning rose again
And dug its claws and shrieked and fought.
Could the impossible come to pass
She would have time to turn her eyes,
Her lover thought, upon the glass
And on the instant would grow wise.
She. You mean they argued.
He. Put it so;
But bear in mind your lover's wage
Is what your looking-glass can show,
And that he will turn green with rage
At all that is not pictured there.
She. May I not put myself to college?
He. Go pluck Athene by the hair;
For what mere book can grant a knowledge
With an impassioned gravity
Appropriate to that beating breast,
That vigorous thigh, that dreaming eye?
And may the Devil take the rest.
She. And must no beautiful woman be
Learned like a man?
He. Paul Veronese
And all his sacred company
Imagined bodies all their days
By the lagoon you love so much,
For proud, soft, ceremonious proof
That all must come to sight and touch;
While Michael Angelo's Sistine roof,
His "Morning' and his "Night' disclose
How sinew that has been pulled tight,
Or it may be loosened in repose,
Can rule by supernatural right
Yet be but sinew.
She. I have heard said
There is great danger in the body.
He. Did God in portioning wine and bread
Give man His thought or His mere body?
She. My wretched dragon is perplexed.
Hec. I have principles to prove me right.
It follows from this Latin text
That blest souls are not composite,
And that all beautiful women may
Live in uncomposite blessedness,
And lead us to the like--if they
Will banish every thought, unless
The lineaments that please their view
When the long looking-glass is full,
Even from the foot-sole think it too.
She. They say such different things at school.
1.4k
You can’t paint the Sistine Chapel with a roller
You can’t carve The Thinker with a jack hammer
You can’t write a symphony on a Kazoo
And you can’t dance Swan Lake on a trampoline
You can’t bake a cake if you have no oven
You can’t sew a gown with a knitting needle
You can’t build a house out of Lego Bricks
And you can’t win at Lotto without buying a ticket
Why do my eyes not notice the humming bird
Only that the nectar tube needs refilling
Why do I not glory in a field of orange poppies
Only struggle to walk without stepping on one
Why do I pass up small kudus when offered
So I can wallow some more in rejection
Why do I long so for the glow of acceptance
When I have no use for the face in the mirror
We all have to work with the gifts we are given
Talent is not something you can go out and buy
You can’t sigh your way into winning the race
And you can’t coerce people into your fan club
You have to dig deep if you want to find oil
You have to cast bait if you want the big fish
You have to believe that the war can be won
To put down your pen and strap on your sword
ljm
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
**** me in the sistine chapel
with your lips against my neck
and your breath still hot and lingering
"at least she died happy," they'll say
"or least, 'happy' for being...her"
when i take my last breath,
it is't michelangelo's masterpieces
on the ceiling i'll be focused on
it's you i want to see before i go
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
we could have the summers in italy
the peaches in paradise
the dawns and the dusks and our toes in the sand
but we're doing the vtc and ecstasy
listening to scratched disks and taking shots of drain water
dreamers only think in French you tell me
so i chant the words
je veux tout in my head
i want the nutmeg stuck on the walls in my nose
and your moans in my ear till 4 after midnight
i want the silk sheets wrapped around my neck
the tongues in my mouth
i want to get familiarized with the richness
when a balenciaga shoe hits me and the euros are in my bloodstream
i want to be used to it
the velvet carpets and red lingerie
the colosseum and vatican city
busboys with scruffy berets
expensive wine in busted hotels
chocolate fondue and burnt pasta at the cartels
michelangelo's david and authentic fur coats
tramps and 2 dollar bills down your throat
throwing ash trays at the sistine chapel
gifts of china tea cups and diamond rings to forget the scandals
fat cigars and the bonnie and clyde lifestyle
i want it all in italy baby
je veux tout
je veux tout
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC