"toilette" poems
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I watched the Moon around the House
Until upon a Pane—
She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest—
And there upon
I gazed—as at a stranger—
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass—upon—
But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand—
Nor Formula—had she—
But like a Head—a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away—
Did independent, Amber—
Sustain her in the sky—
Or like a Stemless Flower—
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations—
Than bind Philosopher—
No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn—
Her Toilette—to suffice—
Nor Avocation—nor Concern
For little Mysteries
As harass us—like Life—and Death—
And Afterwards—or Nay—
But seemed engrossed to Absolute—
With shining—and the Sky—
The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise—
She vaulted out of Gaze—
And next—I met her on a Cloud—
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road—
Or its advantage—Blue—
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Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright—
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose:
Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They’re quiet enough in the morning hours,
They’re quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
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After a lot to negotiate
toing and froing
you exchanged your teeny heart
for my bag of 18-something stones
I carried it home in a hurry
much lighter than I expected
for what looked like a big cherry
it was shaking when I checked it
I worried at its odd little quivering
a bit timid and nervy
like a leaf blown from its tree
but happy to have a new owner in me
I nestled it carefully
in my mother's best white sheets
but was scared to see
it start to bleed quite a bit
not that it might die
but about what my mother would say
about the red in the laundry
and what she might tell her mother
if she got it back needing a doctor
I decided to pat it
with a towel to keep it dry
no even better
shower it each day
keep it a bit moist
sprinkle it with Eau de Toilette
every morning blow it a kiss
like having a sweet pet
to greet after I shave
I wanted to rub my hands with glee
but it needed treating with kid gloves
and exercised in carefree handling
but first I had to squeeze it
not hard in case it burst
just in the middle bit
around its plumped up waist
it felt soft and squidgy
and beat quite quickly
not like my stones
I wrapped it up in a cooler
using styrofoam
aluminium foil
and a brown paper bag...
Styrofoam is a good insulator
and will keep the love from oozing out
the aluminium foil is a heat reflector
and the paper bag I am not sure about
but grocery stores offer them
to put your ice cream in
so it doesn't melt as fast
I had a meal of cheese on toast
then returned to check my box
your heart was not there to be seen
isolated in polystyrene
O dear I wished I'd cut a window
giving it room to see it grow
but then I spied you in the garden
painting stones to a wondrous glow
so lovely I traded back my carton
and your heart lit up inside for me
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
There was a Young Person of Crete,
Whose toilette was far from complete;
She dressed in a sack,
Spickle-speckled with black,
That ombliferous person of Crete.
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If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
On a night like any other
What a sham it was to think,
As if my belly had changed address
That I’d settle for just one drink.
The bottle’s neck was all I did need
But my neck I did not heed.
Before the taste had left my lip
The bottle it did tip, surely just one more sip.
Since that very first compromise
A fog has thickened in my eyes.
I’m now mad at the wall and ready to brawl
With any fella I so choose to despise.
I’m a rooster tonight, with every cause to fight,
And every last hen in town is a ten.
So I’ll swoon every one, won’t stop till I’m done
Wake up drunk enough to do it again
But first, a trip to the loo
Hell bound for the toilette
So, on the no-one-near I don’t spew
Clearing this foul gullet.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
You asked to watch but you didn't pay me
We sleep together but you treat me like a stranger,
Think about it though, eight months together,
What came together in a year, flew away like wind under a feather,
we didn't even treasure the pleasure,
of our favorite ecstasy completely,
on the real sweety-
this flower really needed to spread its seeds
out of me, but we stopped not on dime but in line,
"exit please."
Like out of the CDC, like I was some god awful disease, dope please? No thinks so me I don't think so sweety.
2 rounds of purple morphine for the drug fiend in me, or make it vicoden and bar a xanax,
just to **** this diarrhea and this panic.
Now isn't that romantic- on the realz?
"{Sitting on the toilette popping ************* pills!}"
**** way up here I can smell my own ***
It's prolly since I see the shower but I pass it.
In truth you're not man, if you haven't
bent over at the waist, and wafted the air right in your face!
That dumb **** true don't you know it, we're through don't you know it, other girls start to know that I'm free, but I'm not Mr. Cleeeeeaan ***
BUT,
i.don't.give.a.fuck.
Mating is really just dancing, or prostitution,
Producing the penalties of humanity, the principles of masculinity is virility, and clearly I couldn't afford it, but the truth is that I abhor it, like showering? No. But I guy can dream. In the end we'll stay friends, a begin with no guarantee. So sweety,
Dear Princess:
It was a pleasure to date with a focus on mating, mutual ************ Being fastened with love, the harrowing, and heroing, not ****** but I have been skipping heart beats freely. I weaved we poorly. But it had nothing to do with me or you for the matter.
I'm not mad or displeased. We're just seeing at different degrees of relationship, now I'm having conversations with Mrs. No Guarantee, it's not flattering, but it's much worse to burn our bridges, burn your britches under my pillow.
"Shh..." - don't talk about those, she told me.
Just hold your nose to these *******
Fold your clothes and you can see,
that you used to be inside me.... ***
The Pleasure.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
(I came into a Stagg Street bathroom.)
There're only two-- the shared one in the hall and in a master bedroom.
Our shared lid was down, and spotted with a yellow accident realized.
(I sopped up the mess, and dropped spilled Toilette Paper into flushing water.)
Why is there a Vietnamese renter sitting in the bathtub?
Was he trying to crap in the tub?
We talked and he said the toilet was stuffed, but it wasn't.
Ta Ree's bathroom looks out onto the pool.
(I shut the bathroom door and locked it with that weird turning lock, and looked at the pool, another inside room.)
(I see a slender hand.)
We adjusted our dreaming angle, and it turned into a young Ta Ree.
She had on a remote face, already detached from us.
Under slumber's possible tendrils, a small smile appeared on her face, connecting my Inside with our outside.
(I laughed; She was still with us.)
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 11:55 AM UTC
Memories dissolved
Into this liquid.
I inhale
Your pretty face,
Smiles flashed,
Laughs.
I exhale.
I miss you already,
Your face,
Tonight.
I inhale
Your kind voice,
Lovely words
Spoken.
I exhale.
Your voice resonates,
Calling me,
Tonight.
I inhale
The last molecule.
Stop for a sec.
Then,
I exhale,
Alone.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux,
Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,
Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,
S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes.
Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon,
Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon.
Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade
Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade ;
Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau,
Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau,
Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette
Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette.
Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu
De son être extirper l'élément corrompu,
Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,
Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,
Il n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété
Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé.
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485
To make One’s Toilette—after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still—
That’s easier—than Braid the Hair—
And make the Bodice gay—
When eyes that fondled it are wrenched
By Decalogues—away—
978
Zut alors, si le soleil quitte ces bords !
Fuis, clair déluge ! Voici l'ombre des routes.
Dans les saules, dans la vieille cour d'honneur,
L'orage d'abord jette ses larges gouttes.
Ô cent agneaux, de l'idylle soldats blonds,
Des aqueducs, des bruyères amaigries,
Fuyez ! plaine, déserts, prairie, horizons
Sont à la toilette rouge de l'orage !
Chien noir, brun pasteur dont le manteau s'engouffre,
Fuyez l'heure des éclairs supérieurs ;
Blond troupeau, quand voici nager ombre et soufre,
Tâchez de descendre à des retraits meilleurs.
Mais moi, Seigneur ! voici que mon esprit vole,
Après les cieux glacés de rouge, sous les
Nuages célestes qui courent et volent
Sur cent Solognes longues comme un railway.
Voilà mille loups, mille graines sauvages
Qu'emporte, non sans aimer les liserons,
Cette religieuse après-midi d'orage
Sur l'Europe ancienne où cent hordes iront !
Après, le clair de lune ! partout la lande,
Rougis et leurs fronts aux cieux noirs, les guerriers
Chevauchent lentement leurs pâles coursiers !
Les cailloux sonnent sous cette fière bande !
- Et verrai-je le bois jaune et le val clair,
L'Epouse aux yeux bleus, l'homme au front rouge, ô Gaule,
Et le blanc Agneau Pascal, à leurs pieds chers,
- Michel et Christine, - et Christ ! - fin de l'Idylle.
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You see videos mean jack ****
Videos don’t play the atmosphere in the air
tinged gently with **** from the nearby toilette
videos don’t play how it started.
They don’t hear the pounding of the dragon flies wings in the air
and the Walt Whitman you read before you arrived or
the amazing or ****** day the camera man had.
The tension of the air between two warriors as they fought
in good fun or for good riddance.
Videos do just as great a job as the person who watches
a minute of a debate and confidentially declares the winner.
Granted there is no such thing as what actually happened
everything I write beyond this is opinion declared to be fact.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
One day you'd meet love;
And you'd know not you've met her-
You'd remember the day you felt secure upon her bosoms;
The peaceful sound of her breathing heart;
You'd remember-
The delicate redolence of her favourite eau de toilette;
When words brought you confidence-
"... You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link;
This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link."
For these and many more you'd remember when love finally leaves.
© Valerie-Pearl Oyo.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
as her ladies paint
her blue blood on her lips
Cleopatra speaks:
“queens die like this:
with the theatrics
of the crowning ceremony
and the proud negligence
of the morning toilette:
the gods-awful magnificence
of a wrist-flick:
draw me my milk bath,
bring me my venom pills.”
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
Ce spectre singulier n'a pour toute toilette,
Grotesquement campé sur son front de squelette,
Qu'un diadème affreux sentant le carnaval.
Sans éperons, sans fouet, il essouffle un cheval,
Fantôme comme lui, rosse apocalyptique
Qui bave des naseaux comme un épileptique.
Au travers de l'espace ils s'enfoncent tous deux,
Et foulent l'infini d'un sabot hasardeux.
Le cavalier promène un sabre qui flamboie
Sur les foules sans nom que sa monture broie,
Et parcourt, comme un prince inspectant sa maison,
Le cimetière immense et froid, sans horizon,
Où gisent, aux lueurs d'un soleil blanc et terne,
Les peuples de l'histoire ancienne et moderne.
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Je ne t'aime pas en toilette
Et je déteste la voilette
Qui t'obscurcit tes yeux, mes cieux,
Et j'abomine la « tournure »
Parodie et caricature,
De tels tiens appas somptueux.
Je suis hostile à toute robe
Qui plus ou moins cache et dérobe
Ces charmes, au fond les meilleurs :
Ta gorge, mon plus cher délice,
Tes épaules et la malice
De tes mollets ensorceleurs.
Fi d'une femme trop bien mise !
Je te veux, ma belle, en chemise,
- Voile aimable, obstacle badin,
Nappe d'autel pour l'alme messe.
Drapeau mignard vaincu sans cesse
Matin et soir, soir et matin.
671
I peeked down the corridor
and there within I saw
Nothing. Utter dark and null
devoid of bright or dull.
Recoil'd not I from the drear'
in holding back childish fear.
Of the Dark
My ear it crept closer still
towards the sound of zilch and nil,
nothing. Vacuous silence,
drumming steady absence.
Tempted by the resting rhythm -
absent metre and system.
.
Deepest cold pierces the nose
out of shadow its scent arose,
Nothing. Faint eau de toilette,
an odourless silhouette.
Made curious to explore
beyond what was heard or saw.
Impatience tipped my tongue
caution begging to be flung,
No More - ravenous nether
thirsting night tide aether.
Mouth salivates and perspires,
drowning in the lightless mire.
--
At last - I am one and none,
for I the darkness has come,
Senses suspended: sound, sight,
scent, taste, now touch the night.
No I nor we - no more ...
Solemn stately corridor,
Of the dark.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Bajo el encanto sombrío
De la tarde de tormenta
Hay trazos de luz violenta
En la amatista del río.
Y siento la tentación
De hundir mi cuerpo en la oscura
Agua quieta que fulgura
Bajo el cielo de crespón.
Intensa coquetería
Del contraste con la onda
Que hará mi carne más blonda
Entre su gasa sombría.
Rara y divina toalé
Que en la penumbra amatista
Dará una gracia imprevista
A mi cuerpo rosa-té.
Ninguna tela más bella
En su pliegue ha de envolverme.
¡Nunca tornarás a verme
Con tal blancura de estrella!
Jamás caprichoso azar
Ha dado, a ninguna amante,
Un lecho más fulgurante
Bajo el amado mirar.
Deja que el río me vista
Con sus largos pliegues lilas,
Y guarda en tus dos pupilas,
Junto al fondo de amatista,
La visión loca y suprema
De mi cuerpo embellecido
Por el oscuro vestido
Y la sombría diadema.
616
*No bras this Friday, just scent,
Reviviscent, the eau de toilette,
Her ******* her dress, the pouring rain.
My hands are...
...cupped.
No sunny day.
No fire better.
My touch, too, was a changing weather.
So this is how I warm
Her heart.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.
Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the ***** which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.
I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.
Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?
Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?
Do I want it?
After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;
I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.
Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 5:39 PM UTC
Joseph Bazalgette knew
about things people did,
like pooh
and to that very end
he built the great sewer
which apart from moving the pooh also
alleviated London from the stink
of the rich as well as the poor.
On the engineers seat
in the House on Greek street
he drew up his plans to
do away with bed pans as he
laboured alone in the night.
Thomas Crapper came to fame and
hardly because of his laughable name,
but his name became his fortune
and in the music halls of London town
people were soon to put a penny down
to spend a penny in the lavvy,
a savvy lad was Tom.
And they made old Joe a knight
for
funneling waste out of Londoner's sight,
they even had street lights that ran on
the gas
that floated down tunnels through
which the
waste had to pass
on its way to the sea.
It was a jolly good show
and a spiffing great plan
carried out quite imaginatively,
I can imagine the man
and his men way back then were
flushed to be
a part of
London's
lavatory
story.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:06 AM UTC
À sept heures, Karim prépare son sac.
Karim parle de sa routine du lundi.
Explique å quelle heure il fait des choses illustrées.
Imagine that you write an advice column for the school newspaper.
This week you're responding to a letter from a student whose daily routine is so boring that it is affecting the student's work and overall mood.
Write the sthdent a letter in which you recommend several creative and unusual ways to spice up his or her daily routine.
Je fais ma toilette.
Je me couche.
Au revoir.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
Chloé, jeune, jolie, et surtout fort coquette,
Tous les matins, en se levant,
Se mettait au travail, j'entends à sa toilette ;
Et là, souriant, minaudant,
Elle disait à son cher confident
Les peines, les plaisirs, les projets de son âme.
Une abeille étourdie arrive en bourdonnant.
Au secours ! Au secours ! Crie aussitôt la dame :
Venez, Lise, Marton, accourez promptement ;
Chassez ce monstre ailé. Le monstre insolemment
Aux lèvres de Chloé se pose.
Chloé s'évanouit, et Marton en fureur
Saisit l'abeille et se dispose
A l'écraser. Hélas ! Lui dit avec douceur
L'insecte malheureux, pardonnez mon erreur ;
La bouche de Chloé me semblait une rose,
Et j'ai cru... ce seul mot à Chloé rend ses sens.
Faisons grâce, dit-elle, à son aveu sincère :
D'ailleurs sa piqûre est légère ;
Depuis qu'elle te parle, à peine je la sens.
Que ne fait-on passer avec un peu d'encens !
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