/poetry thread/ - dont gamble the rimbaud edition

just imagine his boipucci

>>8607214
his french boipucci

>it's an OP makes a poetry thread without any poems to post episode
did i fuck up again?

>>8607212
>What I would give to ravage
>with a power and desire that I can't even begin to know
>his delicious thighs like a savage
>it's not gay if you picture him as Leonardo DiCaprio
how did I do?

I remember falling in love with Rimbaud because he was so damn cute. it was his uncompromising beauty and his génie

>>8608208
*and his french boipucci.
FTFY

Doses are red
Violets are blue
I can ought poo
You doo doo
Shoe
Smoke soft water
Penis touched by the doctor
How bout you, poon
Suck my dick you dyke
Fuk my bitch on gona leaver
Fitty shots to yo head no tequila
Got errthang you want call me The Dealer
You know I'm the affoltern murderer
Catfish is what I eat
A man named Rick Owens is my jeans
Cup filled with soda pop
I'm gonna pop pop pop till you drop drop drop
Nigger please
Went to the docta
Got my balls touched
The end

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of welfare

god he's so dreamy and I'm not even gay

Heatwave of thought: the shattering shriek of Galapagos birds explode as stars in the radiating sun, casting luminary shadows that dance and flicker through valleys and valleys of concrete-meets-farmland paradise. Weeded are the bayous that extend their hands high into swaying heaven across humid winds that crash and descend into metal earth and the company she keeps. Tongues around the avenue lisping in rhythmic attitudes describing the faint thoughts that weave in and out of – Am I awake? Something glides past, a shattered broken chord that falls down like quick hot lightning leaving you with reverberations of its after image, burning itself in the endless haze. Painful. The ritualistic burning as the ash and blackened coffee beans whose smoke rises into your soul and penetrates every atom in your body before making a quick getaway, proves effective. Moments become The Moment, and the constant flurry of everything sits still. Is it softly raining? Droplets of silk on cashmere smother any trailing energies from the last time it happened. Rapturous and distant, the sounds begin

El partir del alma al sueño frío
Empieza por el sentir de tu ausencia
El cantar que el ávido vacío silencia
Las aguas que se secan en el río
Sumergirme en éstas, mágicas en tu rostro
Lo guardo, un deseo de polvo
Se extingue entre mis manos
Ya no existe más que en la palabra que ahogo
Surgen y mueren, tristes campos llanos
Y en éstos la melodía del antaño desafinada es
Al envolverme de su imagen y
Despertar de mis pies y seguirte
Buscar el sendero que atrae tu voz
Ser ajeno a éste libro atroz
Cual páginas buscan decirme
Vete
Quema nuestras manos que danzaron en lasos
Ser nada tuyo lo que encierran mis brazos
Y ciega mis ojos de no ver tu pasión
Queda solo ser ignorante a la distancia
Y en mis pasos que se acercan ti la nostalgia partirá desangrada
Celebraré el instante que nos coincide en la instancia
Transparente descubriré éste en cada ocasión
Siempre, tus labios saludarán mi llegada

>>8608621
Bellamente escrito, anon, seriamente

solo un problema.

>cual paginas

debe ser "cuyas"
aparte de ese error que suspendio levemente el trance que me hizo el poema, no veo nada fuera de lo ordinario u otra cosa asi

The blue of ice,
The kind formed in the heart of winter,
When the lake has frozen and begun to splinter,
And a hundred mists and snows have condensed
Pale blue ice with a glow only sensed.
Ice that pierces, crawl through the veins
The blue of the inertial reversal of rains.
A reflection of the white, empty, still sky
All around, soft, eternal, a breath of sigh,
Beneath, waiting, below a grove of trees
With their copper red, deadened leaves
The last to change, a remembered prayer,
That will weave and flit among motionless air,
A burning, frozen red.

Not again, please, not again,
Let me not have eyes to see
Or mind to freeze
The blue of ice
Or the red of leaves.

we travel by machine
we chat by machine
and then
into the hug box

how much time we spend in there
how much time we can bear
the squeeze
ten minutes a day

or so government doctors say

Now we’ve arrived to a time for indecisions
Standing on the blue cusp of solitude or company
Should I see the navy man or drink myself to sleep
On some other bar now that I’ve worn out my welcome
(Like I always do)? Or should I walk the busy streets
Of the city, out the alley, and meet that forbidden race:
People! I think I’ll just see what’s going on

Such beauty! The twinkling of the stars can’t compare
To the rays of the street lights bouncing here and there
On the billboards, on the car hoods, on the pearls on that lady,
On piss puddles, on store fronts, on the eyes of that baby
As he twirls his toys in fervor of an almost sweet sort
Till machine voices distract him and his mother mere moments from
Almost being hit by a truck that cannot stop
What must he be thinking? The driver driving on
To his destination, presupposing he’s thinking anything at all
Of any value or substance, any vague, grand thought
It’s all hazy. I’ll stop.

>>8608290
>For the caged bird sings of welfare

kek

I have a collection of almost a hundred connected poems. Is it possible/where to publish?

>>8607212
is it true that rimbaud was raped by some soldiers?