Une cape, une fraise en dentelle

Pâle comme l'aurore, rosée de grâce

Une robe blanche et un regard de glace

Et sur son coeur, un paisible gel.


Un diadème de sang, des yeux de brume

Des cheveux d'Albatre, un joyau au nombril

Vos mots meurent le long de ces cils

Surplombant ses paupières comme de fragiles plumes.


Elle observe, calme et sereine

Surplombant les colonnes comme une reine,

Une nymphe rose pâle du mausolée


Scellée, à l'apogée de la beauté

Dans un grand lit, sarcophage de verre

Ou repose en paix la reine polaire.

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Une jeune tête brune, rêveuse

Monte son regard tendre vers les cieux

Elle observe la lune gibbeuse 

Et des étoiles briller le feu 


Il apperçoit au loin Neptune 

Paleur bleutée au milieu des diamants

Bijoux vacillants de leur mère la lune 

Eclairant faiblement les fossés et les champs


Ou repose le roi de la nuit 

D'où dorénavent il ne saurait descendre 

Balayées par le vent s'en vont ses cendres.

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La pierrette

Le jour on la trouve drôle, adroite

La nuit elle frotte ses pieds blessés de ses mains moites.

Le jour on l'entend chanter, on danse

La nuit vers la lune elle pleure en silence.


Un masque noir, un chapeau bizzarre

Au cirque on la voit jongler les soirs

Sur la scène en équilibre sur un ballon

Dans la vie chancelante sous le baton.


Elle a des ballerines à carreaux, des collants bleus

Dans ses rêves une robe, une couronne

Et des jolis souliers mousseux

Dans ses rêves c'est à elle qu'on donne.


Non celle à qui l'on prend tout

Celle qui craint l'effrayant loup

Qui brandit le baton, donne les coups

Brise la jeunesse pour trois sous


Du rose sur les paupières, des ailes dans la tête

Elle est acrobate et magicienne

Elle est belle, adroite, experte

Mais rêve parfois d'un pull en laine


On l'appelle "idiote" la journée dans l'arène

Mais la nuit dans ses rêves on l'appelle ma reine

De jour dans l'estrade on la trouve grandiose

La nuit dans ses rêves poussent les roses


Un masque noir, des souliers bizzarres

Des bijoux en or, un diadème d'ivoir

Des coups, juste un peu d'affection


On retrouva un soir de pleine lune

Dans une ruelle une paire de collants

Et sur les chemins des forêts, en écoutant, 


On put entendre un chant.

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Il naquit un beau soir de novembre

Et l'on cru voir le rejeton de lucifer

Il n'eut dans sa vie de sa mère

Qu'un petitarbre taillé dans la cendre.


On lui interdit l'accès à l'église.

Au marché, on hurlait:"file, sale bête !"

Au cirque, on hurlait: "quelle tête !"

Il n'avait de plaisir que de sentir la brise


Il fascinait les biches prudentes

Charmait les papillons craintifs

Et cueuillait parfois les fleurs des ifs

On lui arrachait avant qu'il ne les sente.


La nuit il comptait les étoiles

Le jour fuyait la foule comme la gale


Un matin on retrouva dans une ruelle

Une petite silhouette toute frêle


En silence, recroquevillée dans le noir

Comme il fut abandonné un beau soir.

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—'Tis More Fun Using








—'Tis More Fun Using



'Tis more fun using

—money in my pocket, but

I know where it's from...

From other people's pockets

I'm now on top of the world








Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 12.04.2019 (some sentence/paragraph emendations which included misspelling corrections & misidentified/misused words); 11.23.2019 (I have supplanted the previous commentary emendation); 09.04.2019:


that spur, was seemingly a corresponding familiar song (i.e., either something out of a Carpenter's song or its title), I simply then came to the conclusion that it was indeed an American/English idiomatic expression that relates to its real connotation (the expression, versus the Carpenter song title—contrastingly—where it was actually derived from, & whose real lexical meaning was what I also have meant to relay).  But not to outright convey the distinctively intended (versus an oblique intention) meaning.  Thank you for reading on.



Untitled #1

Leather back tome, edition unknown,

borne to the air by the snap of an elbow.

Rhetoric's bones, taken and thrown;

ordinance cast like a plague on the townsfolk.

Sage pages turn, phrases flayed by wind,

trajectory foretold by the Truth therein –

ejected like corpses infectious with sin,

falling to crater in cacophonous din.

These walls you have pontificated,

containment made for the liberated mind,

will yield to our elevated kind

as we ascend on the breath of your decline.

We invoke the goddess, Gravity

but offer no tribute to her majesty.

Her tenacity betrays her thirst –


our lessons, like libations made in reverse.

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Lackadaisical Mite

The lout and the louse, they cause me to pout,

ruining tapestries here and throughout.

To one’s reliance I’m hereby devout,

if just to divert its needle-like snout.

To the other I sneer, with or without

reason, malice, or a spiritual gout.

HIS fair comeuppance will be brought about

when mercury rains from gutters and spouts;

when alchemists deign to squat down and shout

‘For studious needs, bring bone from your lout!

- Tungsten Damsel, from her collection “The Steel Domestic”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was, in fact, written by me (but as an excerpt from a poetry collection in a short story that I am currently writing. META AS SHIT).

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Too Bad

I speak my mind.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I bear you my soul.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I believe that all beings and 

life forms are all the same, 

and different, 

at the same time, 

and that we are slowly losing 

our connection to this concept 

as a species, and it is destroying us.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


I believe there is a sanctity 

that lies within each individual,

every animal,

every life form.

Don't like it?


Too bad.


Don't like my

style of self-expression?

My authenticity?

My 'attitude'?

My disgust with closed-minded people?

My honesty?

My truth?


It's just plain too bad.

I love yours, and I hope 

one day we can meet halfway.



4:20 PM 6/28/2013







Author's Notes/Comments: 

"too bad"

Traveling Levesque & the Compulsion

A phantom will bores into
the Vulmandr - spread thin and broad -
and speaks with a swollen tongue.
Words, so barely discernible,
withhold assault and comfort
with pristine images of home.

Fed by desertion - made cruel;
the Scar reeks of fierce Compulsion.

Over weary legs and feet,
under placid-yet-shifting sky;
Levesque continues seeking.
Whilst his brothers in warfare wage
in turbulent, scuttled droves,
he attunes himself in tandem
with this livid pulse and swell
that demands his full attention.
Implicit in him, dormant:
a small gateway through which a claw,
malformed and bent at the wrist,
gestures at his second vision.
He then wonders to himself:
What of my brothers and sisters?
Do they not feel their depths plunged
by this agent of turmoil?

Unbeknownst to young Levesque,
many Vulmandr had fled.

Absent in times of great need,
some remain and delight in their
fierce, yet trite retribution.
Others, engulfed by blind panic,
tore the very Earth to shreds
in their frenzy for an escape.
Rogue and rampant, yet so lost;
the Vulmandr were like fire;
constantly hungry and scared -
consuming in a pitch to live.
In their zigzagging pattern
of burnt, desiccated terrain,
they had spelled out some strange word
in some scribe none had claimed to know.

This great mark shone like a light
on an already-darkened land.
None too great a distance off,
Levesque, alarmed, would find new zeal.

There was yet time to rally.

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