After ***
Abela
likes to lie

in the bed
listening
to duets

from that guy
Puccini
-I get us

some coffee
from the small
kitchenette-

isn't it so
romantic?
She asks me

from the bed
sure it is
but what are

they singing
about it's
foreign words

I reply
carrying mugs
to the bed

where she lies
**** naked
invitingly

words are words
it's the sounds
that move me

she tells me
I put mugs
on both sides

of the bed
on small side
cabinets

I climb back
into bed
Puccini's

getting her
in the mood
she eyes me

runs fingers
down my thigh
kisses me

on the lips
on the chin
on the cheek

my pecker
stirs himself
from slumber

not knowing
what hour
day or week.

Muse méduse, vierge et tremblante séductrice
Tu m'as demandé de te conter fleurette
Avec des mots fleuris
Avec des mots obscènes
Une fois qu'on serait intimes
Des mots cochons
Des mots sales, crus, cuits et recuits
Des mots tabous, interdits
Indécents et lubriques
Et je t'ai demandé de me fournir un échantillon
Et tu m'as dit que tu n'en possédais aucun.

J'ai cherché en vain un mot qui pourrait te plaire à entendre,
Ma chérie miel
Et aussi bien me plaire à te murmurer à l'oreille
En plein badinage et tripotage
Quelque chose qui véhicule l'idée de muse
Et dans allumeuse il y a muse
Mais allumeuse n 'est pas cochon
J 'ai pensé à fille de joie, fille de vie, traînée, souillon,
Ma cochonne, ma gueuse
Obscènes d'un tout autre âge
Et c'est alors que j'ai entrevu un instant
De te chuchoter catin à l'oreille.
Catin ça fait penser à câlin c'est un avantage
Mais ça fait aussi penser à salope et ça je n 'ai pas trouvé très élégant,
Même quitte à ajouter merveilleuse juste devant,
Ni putain ni **** d'ailleurs, même avec magnifique ou tendre,
Je suis donc revenu en catimini à catin.
Catin de katharina la parfaite, de katharos, pur en grec
Catin de Catherine le diminutif
Ma petite muse catin à moi, ma poupée dévote orthodoxe
Et perverse juste à point comme j'aime
Catin precieuse comme Manon Lescaut, soprano
Et j 'ai laissé le mot tabou macérer dans ma bouche vile quatre jours et quart.
Un jour peut-être j'aurai l 'envie et le courage de te le dire en plein déluge.
Peut-être dans une autre langue.
En anglais par exemple strumpet, trollop, bawd
En portugais meretriz
En roumain cocota
En allemand wanderhure
Tu m'appelleras alors fripon, chevalier des Grieux, ténor,
Tu me demanderas alors de te chanter des chansons cochonnes
Sur des airs de Massenet ou de Puccini
Des chansons à boire, polissonnes
Que je te chanterai à tue-tête pendant l'acte.
Tu voudras me cravacher avec une plume de paon
Pendant que tu me monteras
Ou joueras à l'infirmière
On fera l'amour sur les bancs publics
Discrètement et sûrement
Et tu ne porteras pas ta petite culotte bleue
Imprimée de rares papillons morpho
On échangera nos fantasmes
Comme quand petits on échangeait nos images ou nos billes
Tout ce que nous n'avons jamais fait
Tout ce que nous rêvons de faire ensemble
On parlera de se baîllonner, de s'entraver, de s'attacher
de se mettre un bandeau sur les yeux
On improvisera
Tu seras Poppy la cosmonaute
Et moi E.T. le martien.
Tu seras Apollo VIII
Et moi Cap Canaveral
Obscènes et heureux
Complices
Nus et sincères et amoureux
Dans un voyage intersidéral d'aller-retours
Entre la Terre et la Lune
Saturne et ses lunes
En apesanteur
Pour deux éternités.

~I remember...*

~For my two sisters

Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.

On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.

Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.

Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.

On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux

Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.

In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.

His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?

I don't think so.

It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.

Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.

Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.


Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull

...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover."  The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

I enjoy a good band with its
Drums and fine guitars,
A keyboard and a couple of singers
At concerts, clubs, and bars.
A mellow band with harmonizing
Voices is a treat—
Not a loud rambunctious one
That blasts me out of my seat.
An exciting band can really send me—
That I will concede.
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
Take me to a symphony;
That can be exciting.
Beethoven, Brahms, and Mozart
All can be inviting.
Chamber music with a string quartet
Can often do the trick;
A grand concerto that gives me goose bumps
Has a definite kick.
Big band, pop, or classical
Music are fine indeed;
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
Opera can be scintillating
If you like the score.
A giant chorus or a plaintive aria
Makes your spirits soar.
Mozart, Wagner, Puccini, Verdi
Massenet and the rest
Make me realize that I am
Listening to the best.
But as much as I like opera
When it's up to speed,
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
I like music from all around
The world as a rule.
Both modern and traditional
Sounds to me are cool.
German, Japanese, Norwegian,
Mexican, and Chinese
Music makes me feel good;
It puts my mind at ease.
But as much as I like all music,
One thing's guaranteed:
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
- by Bob B

Pulling long strands of your lemon grass hair from my clothes,
I consider, as I watch them fall to the ground one by one,
Should I let you go as easily?

Coffee stains, you see my Darling, are not so easy to remove.
And amber stones infect my heart with rapidity.

I stole an esoteric kiss from red, enraptured, trembling lips,
While eyes deep and wide enough to drown in shot me through the chest,
And fingertips
Traced my limbs
Through candle-lit smoke rings.

And achingly beautiful birthmarks, scars and loveable idiosyncrasies
Swirl around my mind, awash with whisky,
And Puccini,
And suicidal Butterflies.
A dangerous, heady, Olive-green elixir.
An ethereal melee perpetuating unrest,
And thoughts of when I'll be seeing you next...
And other nervous questions,
Like where can you get a good night sleep round here?

I though I knew Love.
The way one knows their oldest friend,
Far better than they know themselves.
Love, all roses and dramatic declarations.
Love the knight in shining armour,
The arouser of underlying strength.
Love the warmest embrace on the coldest day
When the bitter chill can't die down the flames,
Or cool the burning blush.

Love, walking barefoot across the city,
Carrying your heels,
To save your broken feet.
Love, flying thousands of miles
So that you don't have to face the tears without me.

Love, the sounds of Puccini
Filling the world with just one kiss.
Love, the small favours and the grand gestures.
Love.

I thought I knew Love.
As vital to me as the moon to the earth.
But yet here I stand, alone.
Injured, weak.
Love my Delilah,
I was your Samson,
Now I sit among the braids you cut from me,
Among the life you stole from me.
Love I never knew you at all.
For who could hope to understand,
The chaos of a woman's heart,
And the destruction of an ill chosen
Love

March 20th, it's been a year

I'm remembering things

that i hold dear



your thirst for knowledge

your passion for words

the melody in your heart

and the song unheard.



a story for every single day of the year

a quote for each moment

candid, yet genuine

and always sincere



there was strength in your presence

in every venture you'd seek

the will of an ox

as if silence could speak



And the music you loved

puccini...pavoratti

we watched them comfort your being

as the smile left your body



you were one of a kind

your own work of art

now your passion unfettered

lives forever in my heart.

Feast Of Summer Moons
A Poem by Eve aka Corset


Tonight and all over the earth,
there is merriment.
Cocky birds will dance
at  maske and vest.,
and many times at best
I have dreamt of this
in sadness
still to awake with laughter
within my breast.
and yet
beyond these lids
and lashes,
the world is
still our oyster,
whether it be hailed
by sighing violins
or paired by
charmed footsteps.

Madame Butterfly;
my cupid kills in arrows
and so grieves her;
her Puccini,
should love speak
beyond a reasonable
torment of expectation.

Let her feast then
beneath the moons
soft with light and
with souls as bright
as sunlight, brilliant
upon the water
bound not
by counterfeits of passion,
having railed
so long at love,
that it does seem to
have become a habit.

Whisper again
to a ****** night,
that dreams with
eyes wide open,
sailing to a song within.

Love is ancient and ageless and
hearts will remain young
forever,
for which men and women
will hunger,
because,
amour sweet amour
is a  feast
and fit
for summer moons.

In the heart of the Tuscany under Italy's sun
Lies the town of Lucca, which is known to some
As Giacomo Puccini's birthplace, and the truth to be told,
He's Italian composer, one of the best in the world.

In the times of Medieval - far back in the past
Thrived the banking in Lucca and the art of silk craft ...
....
The legend has that at those times and in this very city
Lucia Manco lived so gorgeous, vane and pretty.

Though cunning Satan made her splendid stunning beauty last
On the condition, that her lovers souls to Devil pass she must.
... For quite a while this deal worked really well
- Men souls were going from her bed straight to the Hell.

For quite long time she never fell in love, we trust
- Her drive was simply egotistic vanity and crave for lust.
But even magic comes to undeterred sudden end
- She met young man, to whom she loving heart of hers has lent.

She would not dare to corrupt his wholesome soul,
And lost her beauty just at once forever and for all.
He lost his love to her at instance when she lost her femine charms .
But to the worst, the Devil told him that he held his mother in his arms!

1

Mother in garden
hanging nappies for drying
child watches from pram

2

It's the Aussie sun
that turns all the fields to brown
this is Christmas time

3

Teacher to the kids
who was Puccini?
' kind of zucchini'

4 *

'Twas the school-concert
the head boy proudly announced
' John will pay Chop--pin'

5

The roses have thorns
I am ready with scissors
What 'Haiden-Roselein?' #

mistakes were made,
and things were said,
and none of us knew how to love life properly.

we used to say that we're unhappy
and that we tried and tried and tried
but lied.
that we did our best to change our state of misery,
to become better people for the people in our homes,
but we know now that wasn't true.

I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,
I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,
I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.
I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.
I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.

you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your life
you never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.
the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it after
both of us fed from it.
you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,
you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.
you never left,
you never came,
you were always in my heart.

we didn't make each other unhappier,
but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.

we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.
we were in this together. all in. all ice.
we are the ones that cannot be forgiven,
we are the east and the west,
the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,
together on our own Earth,
none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,

we were music.
beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own
but is awful if you play it all at once..
if you push through the speakers with Bach,
add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.

what happens to people like us?
the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.
in a room full of people, we become invisible
- like air.
the only thing that proves that we still exist
is all the dust
that travels through us.
we never liked them parties,
we never really wanted to be there,
yet we kept coming back, hoping
to get it right this time.
wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,
wearing our best clothes and
the lowest self-esteem.

we are just so ******* happy to be alive.
sorry. what I meant to say was
"we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"

things were made,
and mistakes were said,
and none of us knew how to live love properly.

When I walk alone in the street
People stop and stare at me
And everyone looks at my beauty,
Looks at me,
From head to foot...
And then I relish the sly yearning
which escapes from their eyes
and which is able to perceive
my most hidden beauties.
Thus the scent of desire is all around me,
and it makes me happy, makes me happy!

And you who know, who remember and yearn
you shrink from me?
I know it very well:
you do not want to express your anguish,
I know so well that you do not want to express it
but you feel as if you are dying!

(Composer Giacomo Puccini 1858 - 1924)

Robert Pinpick Theater 161,100 new themes: 610019912 today, Canada, Mexico, Apollo Technology "4" February 12 'Run' Chance north - April Spain Kikad (1), Switzerland, France, Italy, Japan, members of Kyrgyzstan believe in protection of the earth for Those who expand through Asia, Germany, Italy and what it is like, and know what hell is, they are creatures, scientists possessed by demons. (100) In the Swiss Paul 100K MT 12 4 (161) 4 and 3 Ahmed Izhik Rzivz International, South Africa, South Africa, South Africa, Italy, Germany, is the father of the West (161) in the history of the wise man Water, mixed with the air. Nirvana trains "Robert Denton, Robert Denton 161 sunlight" and fishing in the hot and cold areas of Canada, Mexico, 12100 Mexico 16100199) (12) Same day, Switzerland, France, Italy) cm (May 161) 3 April Burkina Faso Faso and Pulsin "Kentucky Spain". and, in fact, the health and women of women "my mother is my mother ..." 'Mares, and the rest to other countries in Europe, Europe, Germany, Italy, South Africa, Italy, ASL USA (Gloria) "I know why (complicated) and I hope that the United States of Germany, South Africa, Africa, East and West" - Italy, Germany, Italy, Japan, Kennedy Bridge and Hands Cork (161), Vladimir "bad father, except without the sun, known as "Dan M" by Juan and "Asia" by Roberto, "Asia, Italy, from 1,000 cm to 400" in South Africa "South Africa" ​​Nirviran "South Africa." 'ASL (Fang) It's not hot in the today's wars 'I do not know' 'great fight every day', as in Europe, especially in Germany and other European cities.The father is the most important city, but only in the ASL, the West (FSA) has died and is walking, except ... Story: Demons Demons Demons Demons Demons are a young man and "culinary clothes" in "Mash in the Gardens", "Nechirvan", "Frying Sewage" and Robert Demon in "Robert Demon". Dunney 161 days of cold and cold aquarium in Canada, Mexico, Mexico, 100 6100199 (12), 12 of South Korea, per day. Switzerland, France, Italy, 1000-200-4 cm (March 161), 3 Burkina Faso and 3 Puccini "Kentucky Spain". After all, the health of women and women is "my mother and my mother." From the lake, lakes and gates. In addition, Europe and other European countries, Germany, Italy, South Africa, Italy and the United States of America (ACI, Bang.) "I do not know the heat and the day of the fight" "We do not know what IAA John ACI is in South Africa and South Africa, especially in Germany, Germany. "West West" for your protection, with the exception of the custody of children and 1 child, "Mother and mother of my mother", the most important city in the world. , Germany, Italy, Japan, Spain, are said to have been named Kennedy in the 161-year-old government in Kirkuk (ACI, Bing, FSA), 161. My aunt got sick because of my parents, but we did not know ... our methods were there, but I did not know the way west.

Beauty affords no comfort
When you lie miles
Away from the nearest castello,
Where the owner serves
50-course dinners
For 50 euros apiece.
He hums Puccini
As he dishes the ravioli,
Recommends strong red wine
From an earthy clay pitcher.
The white tablecloth drapes
My lap. I dare not stain it.
He is missing a button,
Hits a high note, leaves
And returns.
Filled to unconsciousness,
We down the fiery limoncello.
Good for the digestion.
Good for scouring the esophagus.
Beside us a former
Olympic swimmer stabs
Her potatoes.
Her children stare down
With distorted faces, inured
To the feast,
Imagining a beast
To torment.
Their potatoes grow cold.
A Puccini aria plays in my head.
Lucca, his hometown, looms
On the star-spewed horizon.
Even beauty is no match
For la dolce vita.

Beauty affords no comfort
when you lie miles
away from the nearest castello,
where the owner serves
50-course dinners
for 50 euros apiece.
He hums Puccini
as he dishes the ravioli,
recommends strong red wine
from an earthy clay pitcher.

The white tablecloth drapes
my lap. I dare not stain it.
He is missing a button,
hits a high note, leaves
and returns.

Filled to unconsciousness,
we down the fiery limoncello.
Good for the digestion.
Good for scouring the esophagus.
Beside us a former
Olympic swimmer stabs
her potatoes.
Her children stare down
with distorted faces, inured
to the feast,
imagining a beast
to torment.
Their potatoes grow cold.

A Puccini aria plays in my head.
Lucca, his hometown, looms
on the star-spewed horizon.
Even beauty is no match
for la dolce vita.

Lying down
at the day’s intermission,
I listen to Puccini arias,
and am transported to Lucca,
his walled hometown,
with its *****-white streets,
its darkened straits,
its massive cathedral under
eternal construction.

Life limps along in
effervescent flux here,
beauty kept dormant,
or sprouting like a tree
from the Torre Guinigi’s
grassy roof.

A one-time amphitheater
sports cloned tourist shops.
Only one
sells Puccini souvenirs.
La Boheme survives
on note cards and
lop-sided bookmarks.

The composer’s legacy turned
into trinkets made in China.
A vast, discounted reserve
of memory, kitsch and fame.
Still, they provide me
a precarious solace.

Music without words
charts my tourist mood
of endless angst.
Opera is the grandest art,
some critics claim.
The human condition rendered
thick in symbol and sound.

Happily, I carry
the philosopher’s stone
to decipher the soaring
scores.
They say, passion, foreboding,
no regrets. A fluttering
high C stirs the airwaves.

Ululating sopranos,
searing tenors sigh
heavenward.
The last act over,
the curtain rises on
the dull, restless, repetitive
routines of everyday life.

In the background,
echoes of Tosca, currents
of ruin and rust.
We must embrace our destiny
even on the off-notes.
Opera’s solo signal:
Amor Fati.

Lying down
at the day’s intermission,
I listen to Puccini arias,
and am transported to Lucca,
his walled hometown,
with its *****-white streets,
its darkened straits,
its massive cathedral under
eternal construction.

Life limps along in
effervescent flux here,
beauty kept dormant,
or sprouting like a tree
from the Torre Guinigi’s
grassy roof.

A one-time amphitheater
sports cloned tourist shops.
Only one
sells Puccini souvenirs.
La Boheme survives
on note cards and
lop-sided bookmarks.

The composer’s legacy turned
into trinkets made in China.
A vast, discounted reserve
of memory, kitsch and fame.
Still, they provide me
a precarious solace.

Music without words
charts my tourist mood
of endless angst.
Opera is the grandest art,
some critics claim.
The human condition rendered
thick in symbol and sound.

Happily, I carry
the philosopher’s stone
to decipher the soaring
scores.
They say, passion, foreboding,
no regrets. A fluttering
high C stirs the airwaves.

Ululating sopranos,
searing tenors sigh
heavenward.
The last act over,
the curtain rises on
the dull, restless, repetitive
routines of everyday life.

In the background,
echoes of Tosca, currents
of ruin and rust.
We must embrace our destiny
even on the off-notes.
Opera’s solo signal:
Amor Fati.