"spaniard" poems
With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?
I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou. I see them as a lover sees,
As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.
Who speaks? But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom
The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart. The peaches are large and round,
Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.
They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.
The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open. The sunlight fills
The curtains. Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me. I did not know
That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.
35.2k
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
me and scarlet came down the coast
she sat window seat
pressed to the glass watching the world flow
from rocket ships headed to the skies
and beach bunnies romping in sunshine
what a strange world this place is
filled with magics and mystic tides
a Spaniard stood here with his wooden ship
like he had just conquered a new world
but time left him just a set of footprints in the sand
and away to sea once more went he
falling off the edge of the world somewhere out there
scarlet and me stopped in small town
shared a plate and a cup
sitting at the feet of a stone saint
holding his own cup so we poured him some soda
and laughed as we ran in the rain
what a strangely wonderful place this florida
a moonlight dream paradise
the far shore we had always dreamed
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Torrent of light and river of the air,
Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen
Like gold and silver sands in some ravine
Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!
The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where
His patron saint descended in the sheen
Of his celestial armor, on serene
and quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair.
Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable
Of Phaeton’s wild course, that scorched the skies
Where’er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod;
But the white drift of worlds o’er chasms of sable,
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.
3k
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
who you been, if you ain't been high ?
my nickles, your dimes. our dub chunks chucklin' in the standard pharmacy,
your loops, open. my loops-deloop.
are you positive
your Spaniard's larceny
will trickle the odd prime.
your canvas ravenous
in the sublime.
with THC ?
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
" Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)
Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....
And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
The street named after the Spaniard who discovered the Pacific
The drive named after the Spaniard who conquered Mexico
The lane named after the Spaniard who blessed the Americas’ first Thanksgiving
Yielded enough rubber bands from newspapers
To twine a ball
Round enough
Bouncy enough
For a good game of stickball
Until the kid tasked
With finding rubber bands
From the circle named after the Spaniard who painted pictures
An oddball among all those adventurers
And a cluster of dwellings that didn’t subscribe
To rolls of paper
Hit it into the backyard with the dog on a chain
But fear kept us on a chain
As we stood over the rock wall
Looking for a manila spot
On unwatered St. Augustine
And spotting it
Disdaining it for
The angry barks
Bared teeth of the restrained beast
Letting it wait
For an archeologist centuries hence
(Maybe even a few decades from then)
To find it and marvel
“Even back then humans played games -- or so we assume --
With round objects.”
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
And Jesus said, "He who drinks from my mouth will become as I am and I shall be he"
Gnostic Gospel of Thomas vs. 108
*1
They sang and
they danced in
praise of the
Savior
And I left the church
I walked quickly
and I was at the
water's edge.
A man waist deep
offered to baptize
me in the name
of the Lord...
And I did not stop
Further on, a sorrowful
Mother asked if perhaps
I knew of her son
Jesus…
But I pretended not to hear.
In the forest
the twelve
approached me
with a message
of good news...
But I paid them no mind.
2
And when I came
to a clearing I met
a young man whom
I had always known.
His beard was unkempt
and blood was dripping
from wounds in his hands
and feet.
A crown of thorns sat
upon his head, and blood
trickled down his cheek.
'Do you know me?' he asked.
'Of course I know you!' I shouted.
'I left you behind at the church!
At the river, one of your followers
sought to baptize me and along the
road a Mother spoke your name.
In the forest, your apostles
confronted me with your
message.
Did I not take my leave
of them all?
I thought I was rid of you,
yet here you stand
Tell me! Why do you haunt me?
Why can I not leave you behind?'
3
He grabbed my shoulders
and I felt the pain in all
of my body and in all
of my being
and he asked me again:
'Do you know who I am?'
'You are the Christ!' I cried
'And I have heard your
story from every church and
holy man in the kingdom.
But I want nothing to do
with you!
I want only to leave you
behind and live my life
At this he looked into
my eyes and as his
penetrating stare drew
my senses to his being,
his face began to change.
He was one of the
singing parishioners at
the church.
Then another,
and another until the
likeness of each one
was in him.
Then he was the
man in the river
and the Mother,
and every one
of the twelve
and I stared
in disbelief
He began to take
on the appearance
of everyone I had
ever known and
even those I would
never meet.
His face was changing rapidly:
African, Asian, Spaniard, European,
From every race and every creed
he became everyone who ever was
and everyone who ever will be…
A few I recognized.
Mohamed, Caesar, the Buddha,
Pontius Pilate, Krishna, Herod,
Moses, Pharaoh.
Faster and faster he changed until
I was dizzy with incomprehension.
Then, as quickly as it had begun,
the celestial parade ceased.
He was Jesus again, standing before me.
His hands and feet caked in blood.
The crown of thorns still resting atop
his head.
4
'I do not understand,' I said.
And he smiled.
And again he looked into my eyes.
'You can never leave me behind.'
And as he spoke he began to change again,
And I found myself standing before another image.
One I surely knew well.
There…
In the clearing of a forest
that existed beyond the boundaries
of space and time,
I looked into my own eyes...
And understood.*
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 5:16 AM UTC
It was the running Roman Legionary,
Who hid from troops his own,
And spoke of evil men did do,
For it was why he ran alone.
It was the serf, an ex-soldier,
Who spoke against the sword;
Yet for these words which he did speak,
He earned the sword as his reward.
It was the humbled noble Lord,
Who wrote from tower's tall;
Against all endless border wars,
As it caused good men to fall.
It was the musketman in red,
Who stepped-on out of line;
Opting not to die so still,
As he said, "This life is mine."
It was the trenched machine-gunner,
Who chose his targets quick,
And wished for more than anything,
To cease this endless click.
It was the Spaniard,
Who fought Spain,
And knew the truth was dark;
Yet fought-back fists of fascist pride,
His mission now, to leave a mark.
It was the Frenchman,
Chased by fright,
Who scrambled for the shore;
Escaping from his bled homeland,
He died of bombs in Britain's war.
It was the prisoner of Korea's gore,
Who sat down with the Reds;
Speaking in appeasing awe,
He saved his severed head.
It was the man in Vietnam,
Who was forced the cross the sea;
To fight a war he wasn't for,
Against his will, he stood as free.
It was the Roman,
And the serf;
It was the noble Lord.
It was the musketman in red,
And the dead Spaniard,
Who fought for freedom,
Spoke for peace,
And dreamed to see with their own eyes,
The human mind, taught to be wise,
And cease these endless lies;
To end the "me's" and "mores" and "my's,"
And to remove mans dark disguise.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:43 PM UTC
He breathes deeply.
Chest rising to its fullest potential.
Pushing his heat onto my skin.
His sweat merges with mine, creating a barrier between us.
We are hungry to consume one another.
To be so full of each other that we split at the seams
And slip into the space between the mattress and the wall.
I want the smell of his neck to be carved into my memory.
That patch of flesh just below his right ear,
I can feel the veins pumping. Pumping.
He is a solid mass.
A mountain.
I want him to crush me till I am only air.
Till I can breathe again.
But I only want to breathe him in.
I want to eat him.
Wrap my teeth around his collar bones, ear lobes, pinky fingers.
When the sunlight crashes into the room, we call a truce.
His eyes close.
His breathing slows.
Preparing for the battle ahead.
Eventually, I close my eyes as well.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
I can never forget
Your silver
T
O
N
G
U
E... And your fast wit.
The way you casted
Spells on these
Spaniard hips.
I can never forget
Your wicked kiss.
Like eve drew in Adam
You cursed my
Hearts
G
R
I
P.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
Tramontane concoction
Alien's of different worlds
Consummate's of relations
A sinner boy and angel girl
First class textings
Between the two of them
Pastlife Amour's
Meeting again in love and best friends!!
Maximal feelings
She calleth a dangerous thing
Yet for eachother
Ourn hearts due flutter
Were two bees without the stings
Cryptic strings
Angelic harped
We seek the moon
And rest at parks
We are two
Yet one in spirit
Forgotten the world
Made poems our pearls
As her voice I draw to hear it!
Her *** appeal
So overriding all the rest
Yet the rest has none anyways
For its mine amare
Tis the best!!
She's not the rest
For that I know
I gaveth up the world
Gaveth her mine soul
For I hope she knows
How much for her I adore
She's that spice in ones head
When life's gone dead
She brings happiness to mine door!!!
Ive never felt this before!!!
And tis
I won't!!!
I shalt not leave her
Yes I do believe her
She's mine Spanish rose!
Mine Spanish queen
And Spaniard dream
Where ice creams stacked
And dripping cream
Sensuality means!!
She's high to me
A throne in glee
A song and tease
I seek her tree
To lie under it
To tasteth her spit
And **** her wine lips
To grasp her tones
To feel her hips
To pull her hair
One stroke at a time
To take a dive
Inside her mind
She maketh Me see
When I was blind
She turned back the clock
I forgot all time
For her I shine
For her I love
For her I'd die
Please
Dont cry
Mine amour
Of mine
Thou art so fine
In a life I never knew
Make me thine husband
Please break me through!!!
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
i
Animater I'm anhungered
Anigh to thy brunette canvas
Thou art a calliope to mine loin's
A second pulse of mine calotype Atlantis.
ii
In Corinth, wherein mine greecian ancestor's do cometh
A cambric carriage with thy grisette dress
Me to be the poetic ******
Thou to be mine Spaniard address.
iii
We'll gad like frat-house student's
Learning lessons, not by ruling stick's
Footing the hills, of forane real
We both shalt be an epilogue, romanticism's epilogist's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Elsa-angelica dedication
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
MI AMOUR'
Spaniard quest
MI AMOUR'
Of ancientness,
MI AMOUR'
Of eastern sea,
MI AMOUR'
Canst thou feel me breathe?
MI AMOUR'
Of coffee trend,
MI AMOUR'
Thy moons thy friend,
MI AMOUR'
Calleth me crazed!
MI AMOUR'
Poetry slave,
MI AMOUR'
Of unknown earth's,
MI AMOUR'
I know thy lonesome curse,
MI AMOUR'
Of Cinderella wants
MI AMOUR'
I'll bandage thy cuts,
MI AMOUR'
We've known eachother so long, yet thou doth not know???
MI AMOURI,
Of mine, in a past life its eachother we chose!!!!!!
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
makes me think of your lips
sweet like candy but
something hard behind it.
Watching the liquid pass my lips
make me think
of that morning
you kissed me good morning
and smiled.
The taste mulling in the back of my throat
is tangy like when you and I were at
Jack in the Box and
I knew I had to go home in an hour.
My buzz feels just like
your hands running up my body
and my lips on yours
and our bodies pressed together
as if we were one and your lips
is what kept me alive.
I'm on my third glass
and now it's like your lips
the first night.
Everything was new
and I was a Spaniard
and your body was a new continent.
As if making a map you were something I needed to explore
and I wouldn't stop till I did just that.
My buzz is stronger now
and I can't get comfortable
like the night after I came over at 10pm
and I couldn't sleep
you held me and kissed my head
you were the teddy bear that I
never had.
All I picture with my eyes closed
is your smile and those eyes
and your bone rattling laugh.
Half the bottle is gone
everything is a blur
like when you told me
"You're all I've ever wanted"
and I couldn't say it back.
Even when it was true.
I can't let go of your bracelet you gave me.
It makes me feel clingy
like you point out when I'm not so.
The wine is on my lips now
just like your taste
after you kiss me goodnight
and I spend ten minutes in a trance.
This wine is
candy and it's getting sour now
and it makes me wonder
if it was ever sweet at all.
My wine reminds me of you.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
Sweet oil heats, burns and spills over
skin sublime, so sensitive
who'd have thought a spaniard could fly off
a round of expletives on parents
Don't try to figger what ain't fit for fools
go fetch your yella bucket and (we told you so)
that box is waiting for you and (tap, tap)
sooner 'n you think, they need your hide again.
Being on the end of your spine, roll on over here
cartilage swings better than spume
that ugly red mother (don't be sore)
ssssettling sediment: the ocean beats slats, always cleans up
you never asked
zero, one, one, one, zero, one one
done!
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
For centuries I took on different monikers
Of what America has labelled me
If I was African in Europe or Spain
They won't say African-Spaniard or African-European they was just label me as a black person born in Spain or Europe
It would seem to fly in the face of this rhetorical statement that yet hasn't been evaluated
But only in America I have a certain label and class mostly because of a race
Check out the statistics
200 years ago I was called *****
50 years later I am called colored
50 years later I am called *****
25 years later I'm called black
25 years later I am called African American
This **** doesn't add up so I had
To re-add my history and subtract the ********
That's getting spit from.the pulpits
The pimps that is
They dipped there tongue in scorching sphere
Then say they are luminous in the atmosphere
A holy ghost more like a holy hoax
I been lied to about my history
The more I discover the more I recognized
That blacks the true lost Israelites
Have built American and formed pretty muxh every innovation you can think of
Not to mention the whites folks that only had the
Money and resources then take credit as there
Own plagiarism at its best
No offense to white folks
But truthful white folks know where I'm
Going with this
Racialist to divide races to keep one superior
And the other inferior
Strain sweat blood tears instill the deepest fears
For four hundred plus years
Can't even get an even score society to sore
When a black man rises he look upon as a terrorist
To the secret entities they lie within the government
Why did Hoover and his gang assasinated Malcolm X and Medgar Evers huh?? Where they that terrified
Of a rise of a Black.Nation??
So I'm.denouncing my citizen ship under the alias African American I'm a black Hebrew a stolen one at that lol
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Buenos días American virtuoso doyen's.
Buenos días English poet's between and around london.
Buenos días African designer's of the untamed poesía,
Buenos días Asian wordsmith's all over new and old Asia.
Buenos días Spaniard men and women of spicy descent
Buenos días to the rich, young, old, poor, to those who don't make rent.
Buenos días to the Arab's in dusty sand's, also those not Arab, just middle-easterners with a pen.
Buenos días to people's not discovered, lost-clans unknown to men, though with their pencil markings on walls- we will discover.
Buenos días to you who are in agony, may that agony leave.
Buenos días to those who smile, continue to be happy.
Buenos días to the hip hoppers and rappees. Freestyle for me.
Buenos días to the country music makers, play the acoustic please. Buenos días to the rock stars, drum a verse and sonnet,
Buenos días to the jazzy's play a saxophone so **** I can't forget.
Buenos días to the bluesies, drop a baseline of the fifties.
Buenos días to the poets in big, large, tall, small, or no cities.
Buenos días to those country, with that southern honey charm.
Buenos días to the east coast, York-jersey-maine-all around, where the city lights take away Your stars.
Buenos días to the Midwest, heart of the land-
Buenos días to the west coast, Washington, Oregon, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, all of you, especially the cali-forn-i-ams.
Buenos días to all of you, and a Buenos días for the next day.
Buenos días for the world of poetry as a whole.
Buenos días I'll say.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Pick a team from the local to the ten counties away
Inherited from your father or defiant like no other
Typical football fan that likes a bit of banter
No way I’ll be the same as my brother
Be it a County or a Town, there will always be days where you’ll have to frown
From striker to the keeper, mistakes are made where someone acted the clown
But when Saturday comes that will all be forgotten
Hat-trick from the Spaniard you’re once again smitten
The rivalries increase from City to United
Yours will always be the best team well that’s what your dad said
From the Celtic to the Rangers down to the Arsenals and the Hotspurs
Trouble has brewed for years without a kick-start or a stir
And then the billionaires stepped in and made it a business
Money to be made from the working class through to the Stubhub ticket
The tout on the street is an illegal source of income
Whack on a tax and the Governments blind eye is now looking handsome
So how far can this escalate with wages and ticket price entry
The first player worth a billion is only a few years away
Stadiums that hold a capacity where nobody can actually see
You think I’m making a joke, it’s all on the horizon believe me,
It’s a way of life,
Football
JJB
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
On the day
Mrs Modfig’s husband died
she was being rogered
by a Spaniard
she’d met
in Santa Fe
staring at
the off white ceiling
with a
I’m being
well taken care of
feeling
and didn’t give
her husband
a second thought
thinking him
back home
working hard
sipping the sherry
smoking the cigar
feet up
watching TV
maybe seeing
that **** from the store
as he had before
no she was content
having this Spaniard
giving her the works
making the night
feeling young again
hoping for more sunshine
far away
from the rain
and her husband
and his moans and groans
and his occasional
rogerings
in their safe
and boring bed
and later
at the funeral
in her black hat
and dress and coat
and matching gloves
she shed
the crocodile tears
remembering
other loves.
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
I, through a wasted experience swim in the stick figures of your genitals
and quite frankly, I don't know why I never ****** you
we stained the city shores and the art district
my footprints left behind a tar
I think of you now and miss you hauntingly
the way a soul misses the bed it died on
my eyes read , happy valentine
I don't know why you still contact me
I don't deserve it
days filled with adventure and feet that never stopped
tongues that never halted
hands that kept the beat going
and lips that ceased to be separated
off with his head
my mind cried loud in the nights
and the battle within me began
the tormented tug of mind and the thing that beat in chests
I cant remember the last time I felt guilt
for giving into my lonely ways
until for a minute I thought of you the other day
and the needles starting inflicting their stabs on my
wounds
I miss you.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Nostalgic butterfly's of confectionery Felicity
Whilst the draft sways to ourn archaic old style fenestella
Thou wilt be that Cinderella
As I mineself shalt be thy consort savior!!!!
Sentiments to hang as beads
Wherein ourn pictures wilt mark the streets
A Spaniard a Greek freak leaving puddles
Of ourn good tidings!!!!
Daisies shalt grow
Around ourn ancient abode
Yet even with none home
I already knoweth thou art mine roost!!!
I'll giveth thou confidence
If thyself shalt giveth me a boost
And telleth me
Thou loveth mine all
For
Tis I make mistakes
One day a beast
The next an angel
Yet canst thou forgiveth me?
For thou art mine flower bud rose
The comfort in mine toes
In between wherein the warmth never fades
Taketh me tomorrow amare
If thou dares
Do not leaveth
For we got now!
Today!!!!
For whilst I'm still a fool
At least I can say honesty
I'm a fool for thou!!!
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm a lover
Lost in the heat
Solitude
Of angels feet
I'm a creep
A beast of glow
Afterlife
Maketh me thy home
Fly high
Sentimental dove
Straight blast
Love drug
Queen of Spaniard
Queen of Spain
Douse me
Bounce me in the rain
Raindrops
Glee with thy head
Living art
Where the living is dead
Pry me
Tie me to the ground
Moaned screams
Two children so loud
Blood drips
Flips the mask
Gurus of spaceship
Flying craft
Free fall
Falling free
Shoppers of dusk
On unearthly need
Crust shakes
Belted the door
Rosie's tumble
Ourn legs mi amour
Grab tight
Shuttle ourn brains
Two souls
Lingering in grain
Don't let go
Its just begun
Chalice
Palace
The chosen ones
Maketh me
Thy only desire
Two flames
One burning fire
Swept feet
Crowing the mold
One casket
Two pieces of gold
Move the loot
Give thine self thy soul
Here were free
Here were home!!!
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC