Melt into me
Give in and give up
Let your skin drape over my shoulders
Shed the light on your insides
feel deeper
Hear farther
Black hair growing
Get out of your head
A baby-faced killer
Sold his kidneys for bread
Hunger is a loud beast
Unforgiving and sweet
Rest your heart on my chest
Accepting is death
You are no longer a shadow
You are arriving
Goodbye is illogical
Leave them wondering
Misunderstood even in dreams
You’ve arrived
Categories:
baby faced, absence, art, break up,
Form: Free verse
Standing on my head
looking up at the trees
and the sparkling sky
When it’s dark I don’t see
the ship float by nor
the tsunami sea
Upside-down women
on either side
of cotton candy eventide
When the light’s bright
palms and ferns come to life
tickling my soles
and I am able
to rearrange the houseplants
with my toes
How much harder it is
to apprehend the tossed high heels
and the mute parrot
high and higher
almost in flight
but I catch them
as I carry on
with lethargic lids
that never seam
The minute I close them
my baby-faced muse
pries them open
with a seam ripper
and I flick the light back on
and then to annoy her
I hit the switch
so I can view the “Fanch”
in the Hitchcock hour
Truly, I am reclining
and in turn propelling
out of my chair
It’s been a long day
I won’t bore you with its tales
I’ll just point you to
the simple fact
that artwork looks different
hanging
upside-down
or inside-out
or Cubist
Categories:
baby faced, art, imagery,
Form: Ekphrasis
I was first picked up
In a cast-off shop in Liverpool;
Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts
Bearing names of old soldiers.
“Draper” draped on an immature frame
In a collage of brown and green,
Overlapping and enveloping
Any semblance of a past self.
Baby-faced and militant,
The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone.
Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder
In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint.
The smell is burned to memory,
Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour,
Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints,
A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke.
Washed once, maybe twice,
But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle,
Fearing specks of dislodged paint
Covering my muddy canvas.
Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame,
The only scent that lingers is
The petrichor of Northern summer
Tie-dyed deep into my fibres.
I bare a name that isn’t mine,
Memories of a life I did not live,
Scars from battles I never saw,
And honours that aren’t mine to claim.
Categories:
baby faced, allegory, fashion, identity, life,
Form: Free verse
She was the baby-faced doll of the thirties for sure.
Her long eyelashes and adorable legs, not incredibly pure.
Max and Grim, her illustrators had the true scoop
On their lovely creation, Miss Betty Boop!
Her button nose wiggled, and she jiggled with happy
She danced around on the screen, making us sappy
We thought she was perfect, she was a living doll.
I think everyone loved her, but maybe me most of all.
I am a cartoonist, and most of my cartoons are like her.
They are Rubenesque like women who look totally impure.
I have not drawn one to perfection, but I keep trying every day.
Betty Boop still makes me happy, wanting to dance and to play!
Categories:
baby faced, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme
Limericks crochetés : All the trappings of the rough-neck cult
All the trappings of the rough-neck cult
Baby-faced blond Aryans exult
Under star-striped umbrella
State seal insignia
Some Dad yells « OUT », muscle-men catapult
Can SUN also set in the Wild West
Where the cash – the Man says – will come to rest
How many will share wealth
How many get free health
Deplete coffers for great job conquest ?
The tragic loss of a rising star
O ! Mark « Blond » face ! He’ll shine yet afar !
Blocked not by Destiny
But by peer fear envy :
Winsome mien sage’s ears passion galore !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Categories:
baby faced, anti bullying, fear, freedom,
Form: Limerick
Head bent
His eyes firmly fixed on the ground
Guitar in hand
There he goes
Trying to keep the biting winter’s wind
From nipping at his nose
Baby faced with a bouncing gait
Bob Dylan is walking the streets
Of Greenwich Village
It’s sometime in the late 1960’s
Now, I’m not saying that I’m old
But I remember those times
And when I close my eyes
It was just the other day
That the Village
Was a mystical portal
Of finger pickin’
Music and words that kept you thinkin’
Moonlit nights with lots of coffee drinkin’
And smiles of friends who are no longer singin’
‘cause they’ve gone far, far away
But these days
I can still hear their harmonies walking
Down the streets of Greenwich Village
Past the old Coffeehouses
That no longer have a name
Except for the ones we remember
And on those cold winter nights
When the wind blows chilly to the morning
I can hear
The clickety-clack
Of Bob Dylan’s boots
Walking around the 1960 streets
Of the Greenwich Village I once knew
-----------------------------------------------
While I was writing this
A funny thought occurred to me
… it was this…
Who remembers?
Why Pepperidge Farms remembers
That’s who!
Categories:
baby faced, life,
Form: Prose Poetry