"timbres" poems
*Scordatura refers to the tuning of a stringed instrument in other than the usual way to facilitate the playing of certain compositions. A scordatura (literally Italian for "mistuning"), also called cross-tuning, is an alternative tuning used for the open strings of a string instrument.
Use of alternative tunings allows the playing of otherwise impossible note sequences or note combinations or can be used to create unusual timbres. The technique can be described as an extended technique.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scordatura*
~~~~~~~~~~~
no, non parlano italiano,
né ** conoscenza della musica!
no, I don't speak Italian,
nor do I have knowledge of music
but words, words I know how to love,
how to let them roll off my tongue,
onto yours, seducing you helpless...
Scordatura,
slow say,
you can't help it,
as you spoke it aloud
your hand opens,,
your mouth too,
irresistible, irrepressible.
wet finger petals of the flowering hand.
I want you.
I want you,
in my mouth.
I want our mouths
to make
Scordatura.
speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
but, as one instrument.
I want our
mistunings
to be the
tune of us.
Scordatura,
admit it, my seduction,
accomplished,
our tongues interwoven,
strings, X crossed,
and our tune,
extended.
I want our mouths to make
Scordatura,
speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
as one instrument,
tune combinato.
Scordatura!
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:
tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:
tú, sereno y profundo.
Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,
tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,
tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;
y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)
tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:
mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!
Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:
la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!
Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:
oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
1.6k
Perverts
Perverts
Every single one of them
Their bright, lustful eyes
That needy, clingy smile
Desire reeks from every part of their body
Without them I cannot work
Without them I cannot sing for my supper
And yet I want to punch them all in the face
I want to disown them
I can't describe that awful feeling
That they don't want you for your voice, your musicality
They want you for that unnamed act
And although they've never tried
You are deathly afraid of giving them the opportunity
The polite consent
I wish I had the work ethic, the talent
To leave and find great work
Beautiful timbres and songs
New music all the time
Competence and prestige
I must endure their constant attempts to get closer
Even if just by a few steps
It makes my blood boil
My heart pound with utter rage
It's more than I can stand
And they flatter and flatter
Until their throats go dry
Until they can no longer hold their giant grin
I wish something would physically stop them
They know my insecurity
And they manipulate it
They invest
And they play the cruel game of time
Wait for their golden opportunity
When the time has come
I flee like a gazelle on the savannah
I'm tired of running
I'm tired of holding back the scream of rage
The shriek of frustration
Someday they won't be able to push me around
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
When youth was moth, love flowed over us in prismatic waves—systems of romance.
Then came the phoenix of your heart, and everything was a ceiling. I moved clockwise past infinite shadow and onto your wall.
Sorry to wake you. [...] I forgot to tell you something. [...] I'm like the sun or perhaps the moon. And there are times when I know I'll make you sad.
Distant polyglot in its timbres, its psychological profile, and its pulse, it could not sound less like a soundtrack for a search. More like a Middle Eastern funeral.
Stemmed from a shared anxiety over self-definition in an indefinite world, and each of them has searched for answers in the amorphous space between where “you” end and “I” begin.
By turns, august and sweet—revealed a complex stillness, a set of detached passions attempting to rebuild themselves, a desensitized state searching for soul.
I have loved you into oblivion and now move into thin air. Please remember me as a time of day. As long as you can hold your breath, we'll always be together.
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 12:30 PM UTC
Otra canción
he de cantar,
ingenua.
Otra canción (desnuda de artificios
como mi pena:
que no llora, ni se crispa,
ni se queja).
Otra canción desnuda de artificios
como mi pena,
(como mi pena: muda,
así la relate mórbidamente; y quieta:
no importa que sea motor de mi cansancio,
hélice de mi pereza,
remo de mi estatismo,
ala de mi indiferencia;
como mi pena: -por más que avizore y otee
los horizontes- ciega).
Otra canción he de cantar
ingenua.
Otra canción, de un ritmo opacado, de brumas
y de leyenda,
de brumas
y de quimera:
sin timbres gárrulos de Oriente
-asordinada-; sin tamboriles gayos ni danzarinas bayaderas;
sin bélicos clarines y sin fanfarrias épicas.
Una canción hiperbórea,
gris: que la cantasen noruegos marinos
en sus barcazas pesqueras;
que la cantasen campesinos de Helsingor y aldeanas
de Abylund y de la Karelia.
Otra canción
he de cantar
ingenua.
Sin este sol vibrante ni los estridores
que me circundan:
como si no habitase las tropicales
beocias antitéticas
-burgos sordos,
cálidas selvas-:
como si no retumbase en mis oídos
la fragorosa cantinela
del río que rompe su fastidio
en las filudas peñas!
Canción que nada diga
y apenas sí sugiera.
Que nada diga
mas deje en los oídos
vaga impresión insegura de leyenda
y de quimera:
(el hondo rumor que de los caracoles
en la rósea espiral se aposenta).
Canción de gente tosca,
de ruda gente marinera,
canción que se cantase en la hora de los coloquios
-del norteño puerto nativo en el muelle
o en la taberna-.
Otra canción he de cantar, ingenua.
Desnuda de artificios
como mi pena,
Sobria de afeites frívolos,
burda como la lona de las velas
de los esquifes pescadores;
burda: ¡y encinta de odiseas,
de temporales y de naufragios
como las velas!
1.5k
Rhythm the knife
hacks eternity into Meter,
sharpens Itself into Phrase.
Our Song of the Severed Soul.
One wide-open
mouth sings the bewildering
majesty of Silence.
Signal drowning in the noise.
A ****** of Shrewd
crows peck out the eyes
of an out-of-tune reality.
This Geometry of eclipsed lines.
Free from the bonds
of Melody, liberated
from the Staff, awakened.
My Song the Quiet of Forests
Interstices where no discord
mars the naked Truth,
nor dulls the timbres of Self.
Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.
Where the ear of no listener
may its fairness tickle,
nor its Word turn astray.
*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.*
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
This is the first thing I've been proud of in days:
The imperfection of worship-
Cracking voices and out of tune guitars,
Heartbeats that overtake the
Tempo by a timid half-step
And that sole audience member
That is shameless in singing,
His arms outstretched and his feet,
Dancing for You
And the Whatever Remains of this broken church
Following suit,
Singing and singing and singing
With timbres soft, loud, high, low,
Shattering glass and
Letting go,
Still vastly outnumbered by
The skipped beats and fumbled notes
But ****** if they aren't gonna try to keep up!
God,
This is the first thing I've been proud of in days:
Brothers and sisters that do not yield
To the emptiness and the void
That comes with worshipping You!
You,
Who would too, alone sing for the return
Of your own children,
Who would close your eyes
And weep in silence with a resounding "Yes!"
At the sight of your sons returning,
Your daughters returning,
Your chosen ones responding,
"I'm coming home tonight!"
Weeping for joy with a resounding, "Yes!
"I'm finally coming Home."
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
Thèmes
Choix d'un thème pour un album ou une carte vous aidera à affiner votre choix de materials.Who est le public visé? Est la carte ou un album lié à une fête ou un événement important? S'il n'y a pas une personne en particulier ou un événement associé au projet, l'adoption d'une couleur ou un motif régime prévoit unité et balance.Examples de thèmes populaires incluent: vacances, bébé premier, anniversaires, obtention du diplôme, animaux, années scolaires, les anniversaires, les mariages, roman, prix, favoris (cadeaux, livres, films, émissions de télévision, des jouets ou des modes), le
jardinage, les vacances, les partis, les sports, souvenirs et mementos.After choisissant une conception unifiée, trouver des documents qui illustrent votre message. Matériaux
Les matériaux les plus indispensables sont cartonné, papier, colle, outils, stylos, et des embellissements de coupe ou photos.Cardstock robe soirè peuvent être achetés individuellement ou en packs de valeur; packs de valeur sont utiles si vous créez plusieurs albums et cards.Cardstock et du papier ordinaire est disponible dans des couleurs unies ou du papier patterns.Patterned peut être utilisé comme arrière-plans, des bordures, ou du papier de coupe embellishments.When, sauver les restes pour des projets ultérieurs, vous pouvez embellir d'autres projets ou utiliser de plus grandes chutes en photo mounts.For une aspect texturé, papier de déformation;. carton est plus facile de se froisser si vous appliquez quelques gouttes d'eau adhésif, des outils et des stylos coupe sont très variées. Les types de base comprennent liquide et le bâton de colle, du ruban, des ciseaux, tondeuses, des marqueurs et des albums de pens.For de pigments, toujours utiliser des matériaux sans acide qui ne traverse pas le pages.To créer bords bordée sur les pages de scrapbook ou des cartes, utiliser des ciseaux spéciaux, comme puncheurs. ondulées et de la vallée de pointe, ou en forme embellissements
améliorent le thème choisi albums et cards.Cutouts, des autocollants, des rubans, papyrus, vélin, les timbres et les citations sont des choix populaires, citations peuvent être employées par achetées quote-livres, manuscrites ou tenue mere de la mariee imprimées à partir d'un ordinateur Photos personnaliser n'importe quel projet de robe soirè métier;. ils peuvent être imprimés à la maison, ou développés par des boutiques et drugstores.Photos d'impression en ligne sont généralement organisés par ordre chronologique, en collages ou categorically.Categories incluent, mais ne sont pas limités à: des événements, des activités, des familles, des couleurs, des particuliers ou actions.Although ce sont des techniques de mise en forme les plus populaires, vous devriez Étalez vos photos seront cependant mieux s'adapter au thème de l'album ou carte.
http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-de-soir%C3%A9e-c-5
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
I ache
smiles glow like mobile little campfires
warming the room
comfy, cozy. home.
you are home in this place, because they're here.
arms wrap around shoulders and hug
them tight
comforting, together.
you belong here, because they're here.
eyes closed in laughter one minute
sparkling with care the next
depth, affection.
you are loved here more than anywhere, because they're here.
you breathe the air and taste the
sweetness of familiar voices,
snuggle into the cadences and timbres
instantly recognizable as
belonging.
this is a special place,
this place where you belong.
this place where you're together.
like an old favorite blanket
you have given the memory to me
of belonging with you
to wrap around my shoulders and
hug close when I am touched
by the chilling fingers
of sadness.
I ache
because I miss it, yes
but mainly because
it is such a beautiful thing
it hurts.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
La mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
nunca podrá ser fea
mansa suele subirle la belleza
por totillos pantorrillas y muslos
demorarse en el *****
que siempre ha estado más allá de todo canon
rodear el ombligo como a uno de esos timbres
que si se les presiona tocan para elisa
reivindicar los lúbricos pezones a la espera
entreabir los labios sin pronunciar saliva
y dejarse querer por los ojos espejo
la mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
sabe vagabundear por la tristeza.
1.2k
December morning mists,
Mirrors to life's mysteries
As gray as they are the tones
and timbres of this existence
December morning mists,
like veils upon the face
of truth
As cold and as distanced are they
As every friend I ever thought cared
Life is a perfect mystery,
everything is uncertain
especially my own
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?
Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?
I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!
And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!
I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.
Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.
Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.
Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--
We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.
And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.
Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.
And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY
So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
So I say again,
brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Can you tell me with no
hesitation in your voice
that my warped vision
of a romance is any more
or less than a thousand
stand ins for this
off the cuff production?
Or is it simply the
fear in your eyes that
speak in various
timbres of time lost
banking on a love that
was nothing more than
a third rate swindle;
Neither have a fraction
of the impact it takes
to win my obligations.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Lirismo de invierno, rumor de crespones,
cuando ya se acerca la pronta partida;
agoreras voces de tristes canciones
que en la tarde rezan una despedida.
Visión del entierro de mis ilusiones
en la propia tumba de mortal herida.
Caridad verónica de ignotas regiones,
donde a precio de éter se pierde la vida.
Cerca de la aurora partiré llorando;
y mientras mis años se vayan curvando,
curvará guadañas mi ruta veloz.
Y ante fríos óleos de luna muriente,
con timbres de aceros en tierra indolente,
cavarán los perros, aullando, un adiós!
863
Childish churning chickadees--
chastened
in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket.
Chatting urgently only in touch,
when their bodies grind together
where two or more gather--
like prayers, like lips do like hands do--
Uncomfortable shape-shifting;
feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess--
digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet
encroached within a werewolf's flesh--
Musically: creating new timbres accompanying
suddenly aggravated gaits--
Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching--
Fumbling in the darkness.
Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly,
as the forlorn children of burdensome currency.
Soon, their captors retire to worn couches
to engage in aggressive loafing--
growing sluggish and torpid,
legs slacken and jeans loosen--
their lips at the captor's hip bones
spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva--
and down, down the children go,
choking between the cracks of the worn cushions.
Bodies shift, aching for comfort,
the farther, farther down they go--
their cries drowned drowned
by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies.
Those that survive the dreadful encounter--
clinging to their prisons--
feel once again the stifling hands of death
reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence
to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers;
for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands
that toss them absentmindedly.
It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again.
(It would have been better,
to have sunk acquiescently,
down into the bulbous stifling purgatory
alongside their unlucky kin.)
There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons
are thrown--cage and all--
into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine,
who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously.
They amass at the bottom of its belly,
until intense gurgling acids arise,
reaching higher and higher til
all are submerged.
They are tossed in voracious waters,
twisting and churning and gasping and drowning--
holding onto each other like prayers;
feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum--
cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast--
lost, lost, lost,
in the cries of forever longing.
Goodbyes: *Goodbye,
dear friends.*
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
I remember when life was all about
soft edges and incandescence
( subtle timbres that echo )
( )
( )
until that stillness shattered with the
blunt force of
thirty thousand wandering souls
scurrying back to safety in their
respective books
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
There's no one who will hurt me in this parking lot
The world is a rushing vertigo of color and sound
I can't quite seem to grasp the anxiety that's so familiar to me
Or even stand up without the distinct feeling of falling down.
Music sends a vibrato tingle through the left hemisphere of my brain
Smells light up the right like a Las Vegas light show
Taste is unnoticed, I'm ravenous, the food is gone before I realize it
Behind my too-heavy eyes is an impossibly beautiful glow.
In this moment I know the world like I know my own mind
I feel my skull expanding, stretching out my consciousness
I can feel the rush of eternity caressing my skin lovingly
I feel my chest depressing, suffocating, and ushering me to death.
Someone is talking; I can't understand the words, can't remember
Nothing matters, right here, right now; everyone rushes too fast
The timbres shiver and crawl up my spine and the meaning is lost
Busybodies, busy lives, busy people, I can't keep track, too relaxed.
I am floating just above the horizon; lonely and satisfied
I am blood-warm and deathly cold, both immortal and finite
My tongue ties and twists itself before I can invite anyone to fly
And rests uselessly under my feet as I sink and soar into the sun's light.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
It felt like it needed to
but more powerful
All the movements were blurred
but more visible
like I knew them
like I watched them everyday
almost like second nature
but they were first
it was just a land of green & brown
everywhere I looked, everywhere I turned
I wanted to explore
I wanted to see it
from different angles and perspectives
UP CLOSE & far away
I wanted to hear it
it's different beats with frequencies
pitches, timbres, & depths
I wanted to smell it
the sweet, the spicy, even the undesirable
but mostly,
I wanted to feel it
not just physical, by the touch of my skin
or the grasp of my finger nails
but mentally
I needed to know it's thoughts
it's beliefs, it's ideals
it's idea of moral value & standard
but spiritually
it's feelings, emotions, and attitudes
it's ups & downs, highs & lows
but really
I noticed
I noticed something beautiful
That this exploration made me want to explore it's coexistence with me.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
I want you to stop
abasing my demons
which do nothing, but
wear a supercilious attire
to meet you at
Greenwich of dreams,
where lands produce timbres
and soul tries to linger!
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
Hexaedros de madera y de vidrio
apenas más grandes que una caja de zapatos.
En ellos caben la noche y sus lámparas.
Monumentos a cada momento
hechos con los desechos de cada momento:
jaulas de infinito.
Canicas, botones, dedales, dados,
alfileres, timbres, cuentas de vidrio:
cuentos del tiempo.
Memoria teje y destejo los ecos:
en las cuatro esquinas de la caja
juegan al aleleví damas sin sombra.
El fuego enterrado en el espejo,
el agua dormida en el ágata:
solos de Jenny Lind y Jenny Colon.
"Hay que hacer un cuadro", dijo Degas,
"como se comete un crimen". Pero tú construiste
cajas donde las cosas se aligeran de sus nombres.
Slot machine de visiones,
vaso de encuentro de las reminiscencias,
hotel de grillos y de constelaciones.
Fragmentos mínimos, incoherentes:
al revés de la Historia, creadora de ruinas,
tú hiciste con tus ruinas creaciones.
Teatro de los espíritus:
los objetos juegan al aro
con las leyes de la identidad.
Grand Hotel Couronne: en una redoma
el tres de tréboles y, toda ojos,
Almendrita en los jardines de un reflejo.
Un peine es un harpa
pulsada por la mirada de una niña
muda de nacimiento.
El reflector del ojo mental
disipa et espectáculo:
dios solitario sobre un mundo extinto.
Las apariciones son patentes.
Sus cuerpos pesan menos que la luz.
Duran lo que dura esta frase.
Joseph Cornell: en et interior de tus cajas
mis palabras se volvieron visibles un instante.
661
Dens, devils dark alleys
Apart from the quiet disco beats
The house-techno-electronics melodic
Or timbres of the naughty riddims rhythmic
And the dim coloured alternating disco-lights
Else, Dens are blurry dark
With all addicts-of *** narcos or gins
In there no one sees no one
Just the silent talks of sins around
The usual businesses brought them there
In the mixture of multicoloured lights
So no one will talk of anyone once lights returns
Yet they shared something in common
A gal maybe, a cocoa puff or a shisha vapour!
A cigar smoke or a ***** tot and danced it ***** to dawn
In there are naked nudes-
Dames as well as few muscled-dudes
Teasing silent seated decent dressed
Stripping, selling their worth or wealth
To these willingly seriously immerged
In the occults of the immoral ****
Some are seductively rolling with the podium poles
Their greased groins incised on it metallic luster
Grating-grinding-dancing dirtily down
Its silvery smoothness in timed tempting
Slow spicy synchronic, slutty slides
Watching the salivating seated
Erotically elated shift in their chairs
Some, skimpily skinned are snaking their boneless bodies up-down
In caressing zigzags of mastered dancers ***** arts
Immorally exposing their mostly expensive parts in bits
To tempt and trap these blind corrupted moths in their Lucifer’s lights
Forcing them to dig deeper their posh pockets to pay to be bemused
Business here is crooked, dark!
Like ***** and her Gomorrah
Or Tyre and her Sidon
It begins with the fall of the night:
The extinguishing of the day's light
And ends with moments to dawn’s bright
In there all night are all dealers of immoralities
Of dark arts, of *** or of drugs
Goons as well as criminals of government deals
And the corrupt business billionaires sandwiched
Richly enjoying the **** of the sinfulness-
Sharing, wasting, the rapacious richness
Of their easily gained supernormal profits
On these salacious naked nudes, free to feel
In there in the masquerade of these rainbow lights
No one sees no one, no one will say of anyone
Just cash exchanges hands
You got it, you get what you need
All the services you want-its all at your watch
With just a snap of the finger, all easily you acquire
You are the master, everyone else your servant slave-
At your disposal to your utmost attendance
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 5:05 AM UTC
You beat against the iron braced
The timbres shake but bolts withstand
As large this door is as it's thick
Your signal still encroaches clear
Sanctuary spouts its shrill
Like bells of rotting brass be tolled
I can tell you weaken more
By every second I lay claim
Some footfalls by the ****** in breath
And every ounce it takes
To think of whether side will draw
Conclusions I foresee
Hushed sobs on other side I hear
Not innocence at all
The tears are caked in ****** acts
As are the palms I fold
They round about and blaze their way
Their curses dark and vile
To wall or line of lancing spears
You are left in ramping free fall
You kick the wood with all your might
Desperation burning high
As I the listener await the fate
Of wolf pack on its hanging prey
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
She's living inside the dreary area
where she can't capable to visualize
those contrastive timbres of the rainbow
due of being concealed by the dusky clouds
with yelling thunderstorm that splash a words
that more barreled than the body of sword.
Shadows of people are not people anymore
but change into the shapes of cat and dog
murmuring when they see another creature
as they grinned their teeth with I'll nature
especially her that marked as a ghost
invisible when done something obedient
but mostly the essence of the bundled optics
whenever she's walking in the world street.
Considered as the ruler of torment
by being herself against the antique paper
Tongues are used to walk besides her—
saying religious words but in devilish way,
forming a cycle of a world's new theory—
the inequality with other personality.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC