A Nymph's Lip & A Bastard's Lust

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short collection of poems describing the dark side of an infatuation.

Submitted: February 04, 2017

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Submitted: February 04, 2017




?Your chortle haunting the mist of my mind,

?My hand remembering the feel of warmth from your palm

?The pain you left that, with my sorrow, was mine to bind,

As your shadow left my gaze with no balm.


?Your lips a burden upon my resolve,

?Your heartbeat which vibrates through every bone of mine,

?Your scent which frolics around my conscience like a predatory vine,

?Your nature the antithesis to my own,


As I lay my head against the bosom of my heart's solitude,

?I yearn for your slender figure above mine, which pales in comparison.

The mentality which has gripped men in a multitude,

?Demands that I only envision you as a nymph in the dream that is wanton.



?The ground is muddy, the clouds grey,

?The blood dismays, but the soldiers do not sway,

?As I my rifle, I grab and the bullet, I catch,

?I cannot help, but notice, on a sleeve coating a severed arm, a little red patch.


?This little red patch, born of revolution and born of death,

?Knows no innocence, knows no neutrality, but above all, of sadism, it knows no dearth.

?I spring from the mud which seeks to entrap me, like it has my comrade,

?But I fight, for I despair, like all else, the sacrifice which men of words have bade.


?They sit in their chairs, they stand on their buildings,

?They call to the people, they moan with the whores,

?They swear us promises, they give us pittances,

?They cannot, even with their God as witness, make good on their fucking vows.


?And so, for this little red patch, I fight,

?Be it war, be it rebellion, be it the politician's blight,

?Not for my country, not for my women, not for my brothers, but for my cigarette's match,

?Which I hope will claim my life, before does this little red patch.


LOST IN PURGATORY aka Primary School

?Purgatory, a place of sinners seeking redemption,

?Or a prison, for those on either the side of hypocrisy, or seclusion,

?For it is indeed a tedious tirade against tyranny,

?The impotent teachers, scribbling with the chalk, which fails to be absorbed by the minds of many,


?The playground, considered to be the true trek to Paradise in the form of a mountain,

?Witnesses much disgrace and much discouraging, as the weak, their respect, they cannot sustain,

?They demand the skin colour be of theirs, or the soil's irradiant brown, it does become,

?As it is no longer the hapless intellect they seek to exploit, but the lack of a strong core to which you soon succumb.



?Drivers fuming, girls giggling, boys fighting and in the little tabagie?, snacks frying,

?Because the mount to Paradise ends, be it with the teacher's bellows or the janitor's cusses,

?The little neophytes in kindergarten are heard, as the classes empty, but still, as their toys are snatched away, they continue yelping.




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