12.7.15

Revenge


Used, amused, abused and finally refused
by the muse adored, he decided to strike back
using his power. Caught in flight
and accused of plagiarism, she was condemned
to live for ever in a jewel music box
where she had to dance for days on end,
until expiring, with all his demons.
Then, death impregnated,
he sang the saddest songs in mourning words,
and, in return, gods made him see
the ugly face that love concealed.





✍Quote of the day
"Inside us there is something that has no name. That something is what we are." 
(JosĂ© Saramago) 

4.7.15

What is this?

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✍Quote of the day
- "It is a damn poor mind that can think of only one way to spell a word.”
( Andrew Jackson)
- “thnkz 4 hlpng e wth e spllng d gwammer mestr josef”
(ward schiller)


2.7.15

Passion

Passion passes
--so does pleasure--
same as ashes
same as the hottest applause
same as the perfume of roses
same as seasons
same as the ripping of lashes
same as the glory of success
same as fame, prizes and flashes
same as volcano outburst
same as songs and pretty poses
same as the storms of decay
All things pass
but love rests as rosy nectar
--so does petal tenderness--
as pain traces, as tea leaves
as the sweetest memories
as wine lees, as rain freshness
as the perfume of first kiss


✍Quote of the day
"Passion is momentary; love is enduring".

(John Wooden)

1.7.15

Cartwheels

Vera, Vera,
best friend ever,
look at me
performing cartwheels,
see?, I wear no knickers
to inspire our Dylan,
more than those heavenly notes 
of your angelical dreams.
We,
the true Visigoths from Wales,
have destroyed your innocent soul,
my girl.

Drunk and naked
we share our passion
while you watch us
by the window
thinking of romantic love.
Learn what you'll never learn.
Sex and wine,
that's what he wants,
that's what we only desire.
Me so unruly, you so prudish.
my poor singing bird,
but
know that he loves you, his dove,
a dove whose flight is so high
he would never, never capture
in neither a single line.

Can't see your blue prince using
a heirloom as a urinal,
peeing in the fireplace?
He's rude like me.
Cruel, selfish, shameless,
I play my cards with no mercy.
Used and abused you were,
can't you see?,
why can't you see,
my very Vera?

The poet must die, he will die
between our two poles
the force of the nature,
the strength of first love.
Look inside my evil eyes,
that's what he likes,
that's what he likes the most.
Can't you see he's got no wings?
Anyway, I must confess,
he longs for your pure soul,
- so do I, so do I -
after the fight, under the moon,
when flames are gone,
when lying calm on our bed
the two of us thinking of you,
thinking of you with pretty desire... 

How we enjoy that petal face
through the embroidered light,
that purple whispered lace 
dawn drawn, shady crowned.
A monster, they say I am,
the dirty dancer, the rebel wife.
A genius, some say he is
and
who are we, the three of us,
resting in same dirty nest...?
Ah..., that prim tight behaviour
I always avoided and you envied.
Those twelve labourers
making me hottie in the back room.
The poet and me smoking guns.

We hurt you.
We hurt you so much.

And
Wales, Wales,
the pubs, the clubs,
the whaling away,
binging here, binging there,
the wild dancing waves,
the songs you both sang,
the Irish swearing, the filthy words,
and ... 
funny, graceful cartwheels, 
always cartwheels, fanning the grass,
cutting the air.


✍Quote of the day
“Inside, I'm doing graceful cartwheels in my head, knowing full well that's the only place I can do graceful cartwheels.”
(E.L. James, "Fifty Shades of Grey")

8.6.15

Pooetry (Anus Day)

Sat up comfortably straight
(for squatting is old fashion)
in his most romantic room
a pooet's trying to poo 
his infected inspiration
in a putrid low-cost loo.
Potty time, petty do.

The urge, get rid of himself
on his buttocks and eat later.
Pooems in pain from penis pen,
lousy lines on poor white paper,
deuce sheet used in toilet tales,
a muse mess thrown rightly down,
rubbish writing in private, alone,
putrid pooetry, insane verses
rotten written on own throne, 
a glorious mass worth a shit. 

Just relax and take a rest
or this laxative, the best,
two spoonfuls of virgin oil 
with some reading of McGonagall,
sure you'll vomit or BM
before you finish with them.

So sound sanitary sonnets, 
litter literature some may say,
solitary stools in crampy style,
swallowed and hardly digested
by a starving empty stomach,
constipated contemplation
waiting for some garbage dogma,
mostly air, scattered substance
fighting in endless aromas.

An act of farting - departing 
precious pieces of detritus,
don't push yourself, high emeritus,
to avoid such detriment
in your so long lyric lays.
Why being ashamed?
Know gods poo in gold latrines
and angels in chamber pots?

See...? A new case of phantosmia?
A waste of efforts and time,
odor sings from holy hole,
it does stink, doesn't it?
What a feverish activity!
Cleaning towels, rhyming vowels. 

Place this rose under your nose.
Flush and spray right away.
See you... well, more properly,
smell you, my poor puppy,
the later the better. Say. 
A productive Anus Day. 
Amen.

*******

What a relief! 
No more sorrow.
Already ready I am 
to produce more crap
tomorrow.

✍Quote of the day
“Life’s like brown sugar sprinkled on shit. Sure it tastes great, if you don’t mind the smell.” 
(Jarod Kintz,"99 Cents For Some Nonsense")