"toque" poems
I thought I heard
Canadian slang
from the opposite bed-side
Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face.
Inner space bleeding outward,
deep red, a nosebleed,
angled points on white of The Maple Jack.
A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel.
Grab your runners and toque,
it's warm, but not forever
and these legs are sore. Polar bears
on the sweater you wore in the Fall--
Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws.
Awoke and wanted warmth lacking.
I thought I heard Canadian slang.
I thought I heard "it'll be okay"
from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling.
they whisper and screams sink deep behind
eyelids
closing.
A sentence unfinished,
sinking in flesh
in time
sinking
in snow and ice
sinking
in water in Summer
sinking
in memory.
I thought I heard
plans being made
and shy laughter.
I heard it 5 times. Didn't I?
Days fade, ears dull*
Walking on streets, in the cold
towards her home
I thought I heard laughter--
heard something
like laughter--
I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water.
I thought I heard laughter.
I thought I heard wax melt.
I thought I smelled fairness.
I thought you wanting more time
to bleed and blur tenses.
I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring
their battle cries--
--asserting their presence.
I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime
and late March walk along bridges.
I could swear I heard something
Like Canadian slang,
sweet
water
light
laughter.
Something.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí.
No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple deseo internacional ”.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
You hate my printed tees and high top shoes,
you disapprove that I still wear my toque in June.
Always saying that I ruin the plot too soon.
You don’t know your worth, you are my Earth
my sun and my moon.
It’s how you get my smile to touch my cheek,
and the way you get my knees feeling weak.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are outnumbered by the things you’re loving.
You hate my shark shorts even though they’re cozy,
you can look past it because you’re the only one who truly knows me.
I’m tripping on words, the ones you prefer
because you know I’m clumsy.
You say I’m too loud, or my head in a cloud,
but the way that I feel I’m always showing.
It’s the way that you look me right in my eyes,
and how you still manage to give me butterflies.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are outshined by the things you’re seeing.
You hate when my hair gets too long,
and when my cologne smells too strong.
You hate when I exaggerate during fights
and when I snore during late nights.
Just the way that our fingers interlace,
and how you get that look on your face.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are just quirks, you’re making it work,
as you still get to know me.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 3:29 PM UTC
To set a goal and be "class clown"
Is not something good, I'm stating
I was the one who wrote his words
I was the "class clown in waiting"
A yard stick and a winter toque
A voyaguer I now was
To inherit a new character
As I aged, became a loss
Was bullying the reason for
Hiding behind a mask
Or was it something deeper
That made me take this task
A true class clown has no regrets
Of what they say or do
Their only goal is laughter
And that they'll get from you
Attention seeking misfits
Not in my book, there was no way
You couldn't be a misfit
And say what they would say
A true "class clown"'s an artist
Knowing when to make a scene
Knowing when a situation
Needs a lift, or at least a lean
Voices with strange accents
Silly faces set the stage
You get the class all laughing
While the teacher fumes with rage
Move on from the "class clown" name
And pursue it with a crowd
Do you really crave attention?
Do you want the laughter loud?
Or were you starved for some attention
Something you never got at home
Were you troubled as a child
Did it cause your mind to roam?
Were you deficient in your memory?
Couldn't handle work at school?
Or did you really crave the laughter?
Because on stage you could be cool
I envy people who were clowns
There were many in my life
To just be free with who they were
To dance upon the knife
I never was the top banana
I was always second, on the side
I always worked well as the set-up
But I came along and rode the ride
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
Twas the last day of school
before a long winter break
Not a student was learning,
they were all munching on cake
The children had tidied,
supplies all snug in their places
With candy cane smiles
lighting up their sweet faces
The artwork was stowed
in their backpacks with care
In the hope that they'd bring
holiday cheer home to share
When outside the portable
there arose such a clatter
Ms. G sprang from the party
to see what was the matter
The class followed her out,
filling up the whole porch
And right out in front of them,
near as a bright as a torch
Rudolph, nose blazing red
through the dark Vancouver rain,
Behind him the reindeer
pulling Santa’s sleigh like a train
Santa jumped out spritely,
red hat bouncing with glee
He waved at the group and
boomed out, "Hello there Ms. G,"
“And Division 14,
all of you good girls and boys.
We’re rehearsing our run
to practice delivering toys”
The reindeer pranced all round,
putting on a fine show
Santa offered his hand and said,
“Come on Ms. G, let’s go,”
“We’ll drop you in Mexico
before we head back,”
Ms. G happily agreed, asking
“do you have time for a snack?”
The class joyfully welcomed
the jolly crew to the party
They delighted in the games
and the food, eating hearty
Too soon it was time
for the guests of honour to go
Santa sprang to his sleigh and
exclaimed, ** ** **
"Now, Rudoph and Dasher!
Dancer, Prancer and *****
Now, Comet! on, Cupid!
On, Donner on Blitzen!
“To the top of the portable
then over the school
To Mexico we go,
to Ms. G’s holiday by the pool.”
And off the sleigh flew
with Ms. G safely strapped in,
Her pink toque a-bobbing,
her face all a-grin
They heard him exclaim,
ere he drove out of sight—
"Happy Holidays to all,
and to all a good night!"
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
I do not know you, but I feel you are a very dear friend of mine...
I'm certain
In some time I have turned to address you.
Even shared my intimate thoughts...
But in this reality you are just a teenage girl wearing a black toque and a flowing coat
Stood silent and alone, waiting for the train.
Our worlds may never even intersect beyond this moment...
May never share any consequent interest past this single interaction
But I'd like to believe in the future if our paths were to cross again that you would see me...
And when you did, you would simply know that we were once friends
.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
Os Homens e a natureza!
Quando me levanto sem o toque do galo, com o despertador de forma assustadora. Vejo um novo dia de eterna graça e bênção para todos aqueles que por um motivo se entrelaçaram em minha vida. Os comboios, aviões, carros seus ruídos e rapidez nos fazem cavalgar por imensos lugares que outrora eram esquecidos no tempo.
A natureza diferente de nós homens acorda com sinfonias de pássaros, grilos e rãs!
A ganância consome corações rotineiros e injustiçados de homens sem valor que são falsos profetas de um tempo sem ser tempo, de um mundo maltratado por esses mesmos homens,
Que se vestem de fato e gravata e exploram seus semelhantes.
Enquanto o homem se esquecer de que todo o seu irmão nasce, vive e morre por uma vontade sublime da criação de um Deus infinito. Por de lado o amor pelo luxo, dinheiro, poder e plena satisfação pessoal.
A natureza sim é plena, gratuita, nobre, singela. A harmonia de vales e montes sonolentos motivos de meditação, sustento e um amor infindável com seu criador me bafeja hinos cantados com belas harpas do tempo de David.
Um mundo de homens que deixam de ser homens, que o tempo deixa de ser tempo e que a natureza é mal-amada geram uma desconfiança e um sofrimento em todos os seres humanos que labutam por dias melhores na rotina do nosso tempo.
Ensinamentos de cada pedra que se pisa, de cada ave livre que esvoaça no céu, dos golfinhos que comunicam sem o homem os entenderem…
Victor Marques
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
Love is all about the details,
I learned that from you.
The best example being the morning of the winter storm,
How when you were about to leave,
I was reminded that I always had a thing for a girl in uniform.
We hugged before you left, and I remembered that
My favourite part of being close to you,
Is the essence of lilac sewn into your sweater.
I adored the fact that your toque,
The one that never fit you quite right,
Carried the scent of your strawberry hair.
“Be safe” I said.
It was only a five minute drive,
But when I saw the smile in your eyes
I knew you understood what I really meant.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 3:24 AM UTC
Falo com Deus em Sentimento,
Rogo a Nossa Senhora do Rosário.
Perdeu-se o Sonho, meu lamento,
Tiveste teu calvário.
Douro e Tua sem altiva voz,
Descendente de meus avós.
Videiras sem uvas amadurecidas,
Paisagens queridas.
Sonolentos dias que amanhecem,
Flores que florescem.
Vida que sofre com quem tanto labutou,
Vinha que seu filho amou.
O sangue nas veias doridas,
Noites esquecidas.
O amor do Pai que nos assola,
Violaõ com toque de viola.
Cordiais Cumprimentos.
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
Hey, I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader there's only one pelt I'm interested in....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled Global warming has taken all the snow away....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, i do know Partel, Kareem, Xi Chein and Steve
and they're really really nice.
I have a Prime Minister who is ******** not a president.
I speak English and a little French, not American though we like to mock southern accents...
And I pronounce it 'aboot, not about...
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack along with with motorhead and misfits patches...
I believe in peace keeping, not policing unless you count the G20...
diversity, not assimilation, unless it's the borg...
and that the ****** is a truly proud and noble animal and a bald one is truely a wonder to behold...
A toque is a hat that douchbags wear all year round, a chesterfield is a couch that my dunken friends sleep on,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' unless its Zebra because Zedbra sounds stupid!!!
Canada is the second largest landmass that can be pilfered by multinational conglomerates!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America... except vegas!
My name is Josh!!
And I am Canadian!!!
EH?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Desde que nací, he mirado a miles de personas a los ojos,
miles de iris con diferentes matices, verdes, cafés y hasta azules.
Soy amante del café, aunque confieso no saber mucho, no sé qué grado de acidez exacto deba tener, como para que se considere un buen café, pero siempre me ha gustado simple; oscuro y sin azúcar.
Pero, cuando te conocí, me di cuenta que el café que siempre me ha gustado, ahora lo encontraba en tu mirada.
Si, así es. Tienes unos ojos del color café perfecto, del color de la tierra y de la arena, del color de aquellas tazas de café que me calentaban en las mañanas frías, del color que combina con tu piel morena. Ahora tu mirada era mi taza de café, mi nicotina, mi adicción, mi necesidad por calor y energía.
Pero no me acordaba que las cosas cambian, que la vida es fría, y que igual que con mis tazas de café, nuestras mirada se volvieron frías, aguadas y sin sabor
Ahora, me gusta el café un poco más oscuro y con un toque de azúcar para endulzar mi pobre alma, aquella que solo busca el desvelo de cada noche, una más fría que la otra….
Aug 31, 2022
Aug 31, 2022 at 1:08 AM UTC
el feroz coito interrumpido,
por esa mirada, de mujer gato,
de leona de fuego.
tu cuerpo gritaba por el
placer, escondido de tu propio
deseo.
clamas por un toque lascivo,
buscas que te azote
tenderly.
y luego te ame en silencio.
la feroz torsión de tu
cuerpo, rozando
el mio.
la mustia y quieta llama,
se volvió fogata, en tus entrañas,
de mujer felina.
ruges por mi mordida,
luego te dejas estar,
mirando silente.
que aquella bestia deseada,
te folle en la oscuridad,
como niña buena, que
desea peligro.
y el roce equinoccial se
vuelve placentero,
como si el dolor y la perdida,
fuernan la exquisita concecuencia,
de ser lo que eres, una leona,
una diosa que muerde el polvo,
entre la perdida y lo exquisito
en tu caída, y en tu
humanización
estando perdida hallaste el centro,
tu leona, rugiendo,
amada bestia.
perdida entre los estertores,
de tus entrañas, en fuego, y entre ese
fuego la hallaste
tu leona,tu leoparda
hermosa salvaje,
serena.
davide montesquieu
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
Os campos floridos
Campos esverdeados, giestas amareladas!
Cumes de montes perdidos, pedras maltratadas.
Árvores que exalam perfume,
Fogo que arde sem lume.
Campos que avisto solitário,
Searas de trigo ao toque do vento,
Paisagens celestes de momento,
Ervas deste santuário.
Um céu azul desolado,
Paisagens do passado,
Coisas sem sentido,
Um roxo comprometido
Campos que se vão embora,
Primavera os namora.
Verão quente, Outono doentio,
Inverno intolerante e frio.
Victor Marques
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
Smudges of dirt into the hair,
His eyes had black rings
under and around
as he sat on the ground
fully fury bearded face,
like a raccoon.
But he was a man.
The bandage adhesive surrounded
what was a mark in the center
of his forehead, a red welt that
had encountered a hard harsh
reality, a beating and a loss.
The hospital was just around the corner.
But he was homeless.
He had his second place prizes, empty
bottles of liquid to sanitize hands
lifted by his, tortured short
fingers, surprisingly agile,
laughing at his own guile.
The hospital is just around the corner.
And his two litre bottle stash,
under his coat,
behind his back, in the long grass.
He was crouched behind
the chain link fence, smiled
and laughed to himself as
the dog and I walked by,
what could I offer him that
he didn't already have,
he wore A coat,
he had A toque,
he had currency in
the form of half a gallon
of hand sanitizer,
he was happy,
I heard him laugh,
saw a broken tooth,
and cut lip,
his world and my world,
were not far apart even though,
we could only taste the other's
reality.
He is a homeless man and I don't
know his name.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
No rosto leproso da noite, ventos giram cartas como quem não quer nada/ Ou talvez vultos guardam melancolia no quarto branco/ Oh! tão bom beber hálito gelado da lua junto aos antepassados, lá se vão fugidios das estrelas; sete são. Os mais jovens, no rio, colhem cristais & dançam ( ritual veludo puro, sombra azul circula)/ Rápido, múltiplas festas ecoam do infinito, este cínico pastor poda asas feridas; mãos sagradas dos mortos & dos mitos/ Bebemos & cantamos, no colo floresta desnuda/ Neste banquete vermelho, virgens dão o toque úmido & todos os santos saboreiam o útero/ Sob o aconchego do delírio a loucura desfila, santa de todos os dias!
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
O universo que te aquece
A vida do sentimento te aquece,
O universo te rejuvenesce
O pelourinho inerte enlouquece,
O bom pensamento agradece…
Gargalhadas ao acaso embaladas,
Salgueiros que choram sem parar,
Caminhadas feitas ao luar,
Recordações guardadas.
O peito toca estranhas sensações,
Gotear pelas serenas ilusões.
Te amar ao toque do vento,
Penar com a pena do alento.
Victor Marques
,
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 10:46 PM UTC
Guitarra llama a cajón,
Cajón a la voz primera.
Escuchen con atención,
¡aquí está la Marinera...!
La Marinera de Lima
tiene influencia afro-hispana,
la "primera de jarana"
en copla o cuarteta rima.
Inicia el toque la prima
pero es más lindo un bordón.
Aún no entra la canción
porque, como requisito,
antes que el cantor dé un grito
guitarra llama a cajón.
Los que escuchan hacen palmas
y se cuadran las parejas,
por lo general son viejas
-mejor aún si son zambas-.
Tan sólo mueven las gamas
y un poquito la cadera.
Todo esto mientras se espera
pues nadie baila sin canto.
Sigue llamando entretanto
cajón a la voz primera.
El canto inicia el paseo
con un saludo en el cruce,
media vuelta los conduce
a otro cruce y al careo.
Tras lateral contoneo
vuelta y trocar posición...
Como dicha operación
se da al fin de cada estrofa,
en vez de bailar por mofa
escuchen con atención.
Como quien sudor enjuga
un momento se reposa,
prosigue la Resbalosa
y viene después la Fuga:
El bailarín se apechuga,
ella sube la pollera.
Como peruana bandera
blanco y rojo, dos pañuelos
dicen en airosos vuelos
¡aquí está la Marinera...!
1.5k
"Preciso de ti! Não partas e não deixe-me partir;
Me enterre aqui ao teu lado, senta comigo e vê as horas a passar;
O céu se encontra entre o azul e o mar, ambos claros, a fadar;
Preciso hoje mesmo a cor dos teus lábios encontrar, pois meus lábios incolores, precisam do toque dos seus para se pintar e num beijo cor de rosa arrepiarem-se.
Preciso hoje mesmo a luz dos teus olhos, pois meus olhos apagados e congelados precisam brilhar, e num só encontro de nossos olhos, num feixe enorme entrelaçarem-se.
Preciso hoje mesmo das tuas mãos para aconchegar-me, meu corpo, alma e coração sem vida precisar do seu calor para reanimarem-se, e num fogo a mil bons tons entregarem-se.
Ah amor, seu toque almejo e entre mil desejos só quero amar-te;
Nenhuma riqueza paga a felicidade do meu coração ao apaixonar-se.
Deus posso viver na pobreza, sem nenhuma grandeza se puder amar-te!
E a vida lentamente, ao seu lado ardente, irei trilhar-me.
Pois cada parte minha e cada parte sua, nunca estarão completas, se não juntarem-se."
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
From the top of the Terminal,
your size was splayed out,
a grey **** carpet for the Red River Valley.
And The Forks right beneath
our weary walkers' feet
was a thick drop setting up in the center
of your ash grey forehead.
Traced a thumb down Taché and St. Mary's
to the peak of your left cheek on Fermor.
Your traffic light glance blinked us
right to a stop
as blue bomb thoughts and temperatures dropped
at the base of our minds
and your wide, widow's peak sky
formed a cold iron bruise 40 minutes past 5.
I've held your muddy diamond eyes
in mine, how many times?
And you'd sigh, sometimes
from your North End scar,
but the Assiniboine bends around Wellington Crescent,
a stifled, spiced laugh from the failed rebellion
of your Province's youth.
And you know I'm no novice
to the uncouth barbs of the Winter,
'cuz you wrapped asphalt arms
nice and tight
'round our shoulders.
Osborne & Morley for an A-frame embrace.
The face of a city, its wrinkles a sketch
of laugh line drives for donuts and coffee.
Crows' feet stretched through The Exchange.
We followed your grin
from
corner to corner,
from Richardson Airport
to Transcona Yards; one earring a lifeline,
the other, steel bones.
From your St. Norbert chin,
to your twin St. Paul crown,
we would wander,
kiss your River East temple
then call it a night.
I have names for every smile you gave me:
Vi-Ann in the Village,
The Toad in the Hole,
St. Boniface Cathedral, that first time
in deep snow.
I want you to know,
you frozen Great City,
your terrible beauty is written on me.
Each side-slanted grin I shared with your sidewalks
encircles my history now,
even still.
Fill an eye with 5 years
of joyous, drunk laughter
which seeds your purple sand sky with fog ghosts.
Still-frame your patchwork, frostbitten face--
the Perimeter Highway's a jaunt-angled toque;
keeps you warm--
I still wear you
when late Autumn light takes me back.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Seus cabelos, ondas escuras na noite,
Seus olhos, um mistério que não posso desvendar,
Ela caminha entre os vivos e os mortos,
E eu a sigo, perdido em seu encanto sombrio.
Seu toque é o frio da meia-noite,
Sua presença, um tormento doce,
Cada passo que ela dá me arrasta,
Mais fundo em um labirinto de solidão.
Pois ela é a musa de meus pesadelos,
A personificação do desejo que me destrói,
E eu, um tolo, danço na borda do abismo,
Fascinado por sua escuridão eterna.
Aug 31, 2024
Aug 31, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC
Ya lo extrañaba; el rose de tus manos sobre mi piel, acariciando cada centímetro de mis brazos, mi cuello y mi cara. Extrañaba esa forma de mirar que solo tú y yo comprendemos que nos dice como nos sentimos entre nosotros. Extrañaba esa forma de seducción que aún sin nunca haber probado tus labios, sabía que era una de las cosas que más deseaba y necesitaba.
Aquí estamos de nuevo; la piel desnuda de tus manos contra la piel de mis brazos, pasando suavemente con caricias que mencionan un te quiero. Ahora es real, ahora estamos juntos y la distancia que nos había separado hizo crecer nuestras emociones.
Un día perfecto, una tarde de calor y finalmente el toque no accidental de nuestras bocas. Al final, mi risa junto con tu sonrisa se unen para festejar el sentimiento de nuestros labios juntos por primera vez.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
Às vezes me pergunto qual é o sabor do teu beijo.
Como é a sensação de colocar a mão sobre tua cabeça e sentir o deslizar dos teus cabelos entre meus dedos...
se tua língua é tão intensa quanto teu olhar,
se é tão habilidosa com ela quanto é com as palavras.
Como deve ser o toque dos teus braços ao cercar o meu corpo..
Imagino se o calor do teu hálito é capaz de acalentar uma alma que a saudade já congelou...
minha mente se perde em ilusões, sonhos, devaneios;
me pergunto se o que dizem sobre escorpião é verdade...
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
Like a viser I advise that you finally find your eyes
Peaked and bordered by a toque the sun cant stop to shine
Yet light obliviates eyeballs well adjusted to the rain
Can make the same eyeballs rise to re-perceive again
In this corporate quest investment is on par with love
Always carrying cash like a box of rubber gloves
Defend against the right to starve and strangle on the street
Gain the right to put a diamond right above my seat
Altercations alter authors read atop the altar
The Council of Nicaea building progress not to falter
Piling future thought like a towered Jenga game
Is funny *** it's true to say the atheists are the same.
Preachy ******** carrying Richard Dawkins in one hand
Sapping all that's holy from a gold block into sand
Crying because life is now a fight or flight response
A nihilist is just another ****** fanatic ****
A nihilist is the strangest
A suicide bomber using words
Making sure you understand it's worthless and it burns
Bombing every holy site stacked deep inside your brain
Proving that within this life you've got nothing to gain
He pretends you come from blank and end up there again
Forgetting that's impossible,
Hypothetically insane.
If we came from nothing, return to nothing
Where's all this from, then?
Nothing can't exist by implication, but we can?
When I say that everything is nothing
What I mean:
Is nothing is the everything that we all can clearly see.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Eras una con las flores que seguían a la luz
hasta que con ella se esposaban.
Y la luz de las flores una con tus manos.
Con las aguas corrompidas
que al toque de tus manos se hacían de cristal
Y calmaban mi sed.
Eras una con el agua de la vida.
Y cruzabas en tu andar
espacios sin futuro ni pasado
y se abrían a tu paso puertas y ventanas.
Enseñabas a los hombres la escalera
para que se vieran a sí mismos
abiertos a la luz.
Sabia amante y amiga y hermana
cómo fue que de pronto perdiste el sentido
del poniente del levante
del arriba y del abajo.
Cómo fue que tu vía se estrechó
Cómo fue que tu paso por el mundo
acabó en en el arrabal.
Y contigo terminaste de perderme
tú venida de lo alto.
Yo me puse en la hilera
a esperar lo inevitable.
Y llegaron los verdugos hasta ayer mis amigos.
Me enseñaron tus despojos
y me hicieron hincarme a sus pies.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 12:08 PM UTC
dedos de una costa bajo
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Warning
This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.
Esta noche estoy llorado para entrelazados
los extremidades y influenciadas en mina
el toque de dedos rugosas trazar las curvas plumas
el aguijón eléctrico de su carne de reunión y de partición
como las ondas de una costa bajo una luna creciente
deslumbrante y fresco como la brisa violenta.
© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC