Best Libertine Poems
The libertine flails his torches
Burning staffs in his hands aglow
Golden sparks from the kindle beseech you
To dance on flames that he throws
For he is a man they call Passion
No soul has escaped what he's sowed
Good bye to innocence
Only embers are left where he's roamed
Good bye to innocence
We all dance on the coals he calls love.
He is the thief we call Ardor
He spins plumes of turquoise and gold
Challengers fall, all are smitten
By warm sultry nights and moon glow
Behind his mask love is yearning
To break free of seductions steel glove
Good bye to innocence
His restraints bind us coarsely entombed
Good bye to innocence
We will dance on the ruins he calls love .
Tattered clobbered thoughts streaming to winged dusts,
spiral spasms tremble amid weary sounds.
The festal moods swing dreary interludes,
visions ache release with defloration--
throaty cries heightens the greedy man's lust.
He longs to possess the murmur of blood
from naked images throbbing desires,
it surges -- tinged to his cerebellum.
Dark libertine drained his desirous juice--
madness stings deep-- displayed to his ardor.
Boorish bashfulness etched into each itch
cracking unto his left to right onslaught.
Finitude fair Venus choked with disgust
as she wriggles, wriggles to free herself!
Her wriggles useless from black libertine...
Pristine Venus fallen-- now wanting death.
©O. E. Guillermo
5:15pm December 05, 2014
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Contest Name Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry)
Placed 6th
......Like lemons
Love lingers longingly.
Laughter lights lips lapping
Loco lemon lollipops
lodging
lust.
Lofting
Ludicrous licentiousness.
Licking
languid limbs.~ ~lap~
Libertine libidos
lose liberty laughing
life long
~loves~
lean lemony lips
Lionhearts
!litmus lovers!
LIVE!
She’s moaning: (”She’s primed and ready. I’ll turn off the light.”)
She’s groaning: (“Off with her clothing and I’m in tonight!”)
She’s shrieking: (“Keep down the noise or the neighbors will hear!”)
Bed’s creaking: (“I hope those termites weren’t nibbling here.”)
Just some of the sounds,
When the girls come around,
Simply put, I do it the best.
Deep breathing: (“It’s not the size, but the motion, you know.”)
I’m seething: (“This one! She always gets off so slow!”)
We’re thrashing: (“Yes! This is it! We’re both going to do it!”)
Bed’s crashing: (“God damn those termites! They beat me to it!”)
Just some of the sounds,
When the wives sneak around,
Simply put, I do it with zest.
She’s scheming: (“Tell me you love me. I’ll leave him for you.”)
You’re dreaming: (“I told you before to forget it! We’re through!”)
She’s crying: (“Oh God! You’re a bastard! How was I so wrong?!”)
I’m sighing: (“Babe, it’s been great. Now I guess it’s so long.”)
Just some of the sounds,
When I play around.
Who cares? I’ll pick from the rest.
She’s screaming: (“It’s over! We’re finished! Don’t shout!”)
I’m steaming: (“But how in hell did he ever find out?”)
Disconnected: (“Hide! Oh my God! He’s loading his gun!”)
I’m detected: (“I think there’s some packing I’d better get done.”)
There won’t be a sound,
When he does come around,
because I’ll be gone way out west.
Spring, the mischievous libertine,
Has twitched from the chrysalis of dull realities,
Sneaking, slyly, among norms and tasteless thoughts,
A live torch in the old auditoriums where science quivers with emotion.
With the gesture of a diva, she shatters windows of routine,
Performing a flamboyant escape from the "Notre-Dame de Sion" stronghold,
Letting her laughter fill the voids, in a gala recital,
Exuberantly, she unfurls her golden curls over the musty chapters.
The sign of a procession calls me to follow her,
And I plunge into the pursuit, a furrow-browed initiate,
To cajole her in the park's gazebos or along the edges of sidewalks,
Where shadows of the past still dance in minuet steps.
But I shiver and melt in this effervescent chase,
On the path of memory, her silhouette hides,
Slipping through the city's fabric, uncaught, shredding the call...
Perhaps she has transformed, donned new masks,
And our steps no longer caress the same pavement in the same symphony,
Our orbits are now from different galaxies,
And we dance separately in this stellar comedy.
On the somber walkways of the Athenaeum, to the horseless carriage of the hippodrome,
Spring has met no writer to sketch her entrance,
No one to greet her with the gravitas of a serenade - "welcome back!",
And, with her coquettish ways, perhaps she reflected herself in the shop windows of the city,
Realizing that she was the goddess of a round dream from which she's just awakened,
And reality has blown upon her the cold mirror of a fleeting epoch.
Spring, the eternal young charlatan, with lips of myth,
Do you wonder, dreamy and vain as you are,
If you've sealed your fate within the pages of an unwritten history,
And dissipated into the air, like a fantasy struggling for a moment of eternity?