"velour" poems
suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.
young death sits in a café
smiling,a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger
(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters,life has a beard” i
say to you who are silent.—”Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep,on his head
flowers,always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
yes,
will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
,pas chères”)
and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else
there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death,is slender;
likes flowers.
84.3k
Det var et paradigmeskift dengang,
den tirsdag
for så længe siden, at kun jeg selv husker det alt for godt.
Jeg ved nu, at livet ville have været rosenlet uden dig - uden mig.
Det ville være lettere, hvis ikke mine øjne var så blå og mine følelser så punkterede af verdens forventninger.
Jeg ville dog stadig ønske, at jeg ikke kunne finde min krop
forvildet i et virvar af liv, jeg ikke er en del af.
Ville ønske at kunne skære stykke for stykke af min krop
sammen med byrde for byrde, til der ikke var mere tilbage end
ben, lukkede døre og sterile lejer, hvor biedermeier kulturen ville herske uden at ærgre mig,
at du ikke ville stå ved siden af og flå mig indefra, presse mig:
For jeg kan jo ikke - vi kan jo ikke, du og jeg.
Der blev stille, for du sagde ikke noget.
Alligevel er fristelsen for stor, og du trykkede ekstra hårdt på venerne, der svulmede op og lyste, som var der netop gennemskuet inkurabel cancer.
Hvis bare jeg kunne pakkes ind i velour
og glemme dagene
og græde lidt mere
og binde sløjfer langs min rygsøjle med mine blå vinternegle i maj.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Out of concern I write.
Don't judge if am wrong or right.
Fundamentally, it is my right,
To address an I'll that is becoming a rite.
Many swell like foam,
Being pumped to boom
By needle or rather *****
But in reality that are just but fume.
Peer pressure is powerful witch.
But can only enchant you if you wish.
We are empowered to be the wizards of our life,
To make freewill choices devoid of strife.
Aunty, getting slim tea is now slim.
Brother, guys are sleeping in the gym.
Boss, your colleagues are booking for liposuction.
I still wonder why you guys are rushing liposyn injection.
Ladies with Bees made of silicon
Counting themselves among the slaying lexicon,
In negligence of the pains to reckon,
They do whatever it takes to be a beauty icon.
Smokers are liable to die young.
You ignores it as if it's written in ching-chong
Liposyn users are liable to kidney failure,
You ignore to prove your velour.
You are made from the best kit.
Don't risk it all for a ****
Stop thinking anticlockwise.
A word is enough for the wise.
Blessedinkz
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 12:44 AM UTC
i, night, hung about thy cheeks more splendored
beams crisper and wholly brisk with wind
than even winter could. i stroked about the
penultimate hour of your face the little and
stranger carelessly perfect lips of my face
and drinking so stilly the sky is abrupt
with normally clothed stars; **** and playfully
abundant. i lay my heart with thee and i am
increased. i lay hands with thee and i am
between the velour of your not-covered thighs
making, with you, an errant child like Demeter
and Poseidon (who hangs his restless skin upon
the nape of the coiled neon streets. hinted
at his edges just; the circlet of the bay, i wander
in thee night.)
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
you were
uoy
erew f
i
r
s
tl
y an unbroken softness. of tight soil. and was i was
a seed first pushing into the smart crevice of your light
by which guided the water of my soul
and nurtured the second flower of my heat. burning in the
snarling rapture of your trembling thighs
between they
spouting a tyrant of imperfect friction
and i laid in the velour of your heaving
breaths
and tickled
the slight arch of your spine
with errant lashings of my foolish mortal hand
passive and boiling
under the searing fire
of the delicious sensual crumbs
of your
ey e , s
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
Heavens Dressed In Cobalt Velour,
Snow Draped Upon A Forest's Floor.
Night Yielding Adorning Decor;
Starlight Swirling Beneath Time's Oar.
Tides Of Wonder Slosh Against Shore,
Smooth Silence Drawing An Encore.
Transparent Sun Seeps From A Spore,
Vacant Words Cease Forevermore
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Watching his velour for he was to be my knight,
Dismounting he spoke in clever clichés and poetic chime,
Swooned & enchanted my silk craft flutter upon the ground
Dreaming I of fevered kiss at night chambers,
Unforgettable the offense my skirts held high,
Would he carry the fortune of a king and wisdom of a sage?
Pray tell my good knight of roses across the moon
Merlin be twining the silk thread,
Mine fingers restless in watch over the mazes,
His crafting potions and poisons be pale,
All through bora blue skies trembling flesh am I
One hand to the sky, another to earth below,
Doth love speak there at centre of thy chest?
Admist silent alchemy foretold,
Methought Magick be alone sorrows gold
Smoothing long silks, lily pond sings,
Mine tortured concupiscence
Reflection light is seeping,
Spectral are illusions spawn immortal gold,
Star lights ignite mine love sweet knight
Why so far?
© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet 2013
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
They drove off in the car
and you gave me a smile
and a wink. I had free reign
over the sweetie drawer.
We were infinitely happy
eating Werther’s Originals
and watching Countdown
on your pink velour sofa.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
I toss and turn,
I sleep no more.
Yawns widened,
my eyes drip
the tired cries.
Wrists crack,
body exhausted from
staying still for so long.
All the sheep inside my head,
could never amount to all of
those bottles on the wall.
There were days that I learned
how to sit still.
These days moved fast,
yet slow.
Time told me to be on
his side, so counted
all the steps it took
me to get into this bed.
Death metal blasted
from passer-bys
on slick roads.
Sign reads,
"Drive Slow."
Shocked to see a shadow,
too soon sunken in velour.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Like an old cushion
Whose stuffing you removed
Excepts its me
Just a few ***** of fluff
Clinging to the inside corners
Comprising my soul
Forced up against the stitching
Very Old Stitching
Ready to break and cast
The remainder of me out
But for the moment
For a long moment
The half empty pillow of me
Still offers a cozy worn velour exterior
To those who like that sort of thing.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Petrified for the last time,
I cut my brittle heart out
with a pair of nail scissors,
clipping through the keratin
down to the quick —
the sharp, thick, constant sting
of raw flesh, ribs spread
to see the moist, shady maw,
the red, white, and blue
empty ring box of my lungs,
a “yes”
like soft velour, all
tumescent and convex, pressed
out with the fragments
of vitreous gifts
you poured down my windpipe
(unintentionally vitriolic),
gem shards, cold and hard,
and I am scarified inside out.
My heart, airlifted
from its zone of alienation,
wails and trails lank Titian locks,
a red forest, scorched and floored.
Still, the dead marble lump glows red
and ***** like blood under nails.
You are subdermal —
eternally, infernally so.
Put apples in my cheeks, speak
but do not
listen, I glisten —
first with sweat, then tears,
then soap suds. I shed
my skin, touch fresh markings,
milk patterns. Half blossomed
rose bud,
dismantled, curling
up on myself,
you’re out of the woods.
I pull up my hood, drag my feet
out of the mud, bind
my open chest with the rest
of my ruddy cloak and,
sanguine, let drop my spleen
into the puddle I leave
behind, all dark
with blood and bark. Your bite
is not so bad
but, oh darling,
what big teeth you have.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
I need to want you
Less;
Take away
All the pain
Stress,
Love want not vise,
No gain
My mind
Otherwise
None the wiser,
Heart blind
Deaf
Dumb,
For you of sweetness miser
My thoughts high
Clef
Numb,
This blood
Almost dry
In my veins
Runs
Slow like mud
In your colour,
This pulse
Is in your
Rhythm,
Cocked guns
The reins
And I can't
Rid them;
Like thick velour
A sandy beach
With dots
Of seagulls
Yet I am
Devoid of
As if bleach
You,
But not these
Thoughts,
Fill me
Please...
© okpoet
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
The soft velour
Of a Grand Detour
Please don’t notice
My lingering gaze
It’s probably
Just a pubescent phase
But for a little money
You could help and
Join me
In hard candy
Warm tea
and
Raking Beulah’s leaves
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 2:52 AM UTC
Just big enough for Sundays was Cyril
In his grey shirt and v neck sweater
Following his wife up the road, closely,
He helped carry the shopping from the red bus
The few minutes walk home;
Then as it was Sunday, chicken roast
Then meringue, fruit and cream.
The sitting room was comfy
With two brown velour chairs
Cyril and Joyce sat together
One in each chair to watch the box.
Love Mary ***
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
Jeg lukker mine øjne og læner mig op ad væggen, der føles som skind mod velour. Jeg kender ingen af dem, og ingen af dem kender mig.
Ømme hæle, slidt hjerne, stort hjerte og ødelagt milt.
Hvorfor er jeg her igen?
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
If we can find the proper restraints,
i give the sign:
hold me down and crack my ribs,
tear out the disease in me,
use a microscope (telescope ?) to find my heart,
insert conscience 'A' into slot 'B'.
Peel back my skin and cover
what's left in stained velour,
complete what i have become,
scarred, barren, torn asunder.
i tore the flesh from my bones
for me, nothing more, trying to
destroy eternity, separating
molecules, better living through chemistry
(FOCUS)
There is a seed inside us all.
What will it become, what will it consume?
(FOCUSFOCUSFOCUS)
i feel the disconnect and cry
stretching wounded arms across
a chasm of my own design.
i would tear myself apart for you,
but not for me.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
glødende med mod
som en lysende aura
como las estrellas y la luna
tvivlen lægger sig over huden som en omvandrende spændetrøje
tú eres siempre infinitamente dudoso
nattens glorie af drømme
mørkeblåt velour lægger sig over kroppen
landskabets svajende profil
i mørket siger du
el momento perfecto es inaccesible
pero tú eres accesible
y ese es suficiente
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Sleep falls over me like a shade coming down a window, falling delicately, the presence of light no more than a mere disillusionment of sore eyes, with the validity of reality losing importance my thoughts travel in the direction of the unknown; however, what is the unknown but what has yet to be created, sculpted, conditioned into a mad, mindless fiend? or perhaps a warm, enveloping pair of arms ready to engulf me into a hug? I am falling, rising, ascending, drifting, all at once yet I am ever present between my sheets that are smoother than velour. There is no finish and there is no beginning. My days are drawn out dreams, and exhausted at the end of them I relax in order to embark on adventures I remain incapable of, rendered motionless, I enter my true reality.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
Those frolics the highest
Grandeur "Gin and Tonics"
Mr. and Mrs tropic tongues
Like soft velour don't disturb the door
Bermuda triangle marriage in general
to be in sound mind
Be the human kind
Tropic lips treasure rare find
The grandeur topics
Mr. and Mrs. climb Ice Queen
Meeting the King mountain
Goggle if the crown fits
Drinks flow in form with hearts
beat in uniform
* * * *
"Malibu Me and You" sounds cascade
Godly gesture inside and out he reads
Bali water the tropic pours the topics
Single glass marriage "VIP Pass"
love comes with variety of colors
The blue ***** whale
Holiday sale Gold- Rush
Pours and sounds warm lips hush
Stars of atoms instagram post
Love and marriage toast
the whole entire sum it's love
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC
Let's go, indigo... This is your slip up.
Hacksaw twin. Lumber jack. I resort
to name calling when I am overworked.
*So what? You compare me to the
gun you left in a public restroom
and I part the curtains
enough for you to see the ritual.
Ya know, the one with the crawfish
and blood root - the one where I have
a young Elvis Presley and
a middle aged John Wayne
and I touch them both obsessively
and I burn the flesh of a cactus
and I am dressed in plum colored
velour tighter than skin.*
Look, kid.
*These things are real.
The white noise, the favorite peacock,
the heavy ashtray,
the sepulcher holding my child -
the crucifix thrown, the plastic
soldiers under my toes, the belt
that thickened my eyelids Shut - crybaby
memory, but this is it. Ritualistic, & a
guy wants to drown himself between
the river banks of razor burn?
Lord, help me.*
If you talk through the end
of another movie
you aren't getting laid.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
TN 2008
There is a girl in my cabin.
She sits on my 70s brown, velour
porno-couch with her long legs
tucked beneath her
like folded promises.
She wears nothing but a pair
of wool socks and an old, flannel
shirt of mine. The wood fire blazes.
Her honest blond hair
cascades to the small of her lovely back.
Her skin is the flawless pink
of an unexpected spring sunrise.
Her eyes are emeralds that blaze
like novas when we make love.
Botticelli might have painted her.
I am reading Harrison to her aloud.
She imbibes his words like a toddler
learning language for the first time.
I light her cigarette and she laughs,
radiating the shameless pleasure
only the very young experience.
She expects nothing of me,
but this one evening,
and that is all she will get.
She tells me her name;
she is all of twenty-one.
Perhaps I am a ***** old man;
perhaps I am incorrigible;
perhaps I will burn in Hell;
perhaps I am a casualty of Eros;
or, perhaps, I am simply
still alive.
- mce
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Du flyttede ind i mit tomrum for et par år siden. Udfyldte det fint med badekar, vindeltrapper, Helle Helle noveller og små kys morgen middag og aften. Talte om alle de steder vi skulle hen. Sammen.
Så tog du en dag afsted uden mig, og jeg sad tilbage med et tomrum. Igen.
Du strippede det, så man kunne se de ridsede linoleumsgulve og nøgne vægge.
Nu er det jo ryddet igen, og det gør mig hul og mit blik tomt; de er jo vinduer indtil rummet, hvor du plejede at læse Hemingway højt for mig mens du lå omvendt i den grønne velour sofa.
Vil du please komme tilbage med dine papkasser og løgnhistorier
så du kan fylde mit tomrum ud igen ?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC