Walking Dante's ninth circle,
a pocketful of sunshine
and blood full of blossoming promise.
I'm alive
and dead.
The gods laugh at me—
or is it Bacchus alone?
A hedonist,
looking for approval,
unaware of mine own godhood.
Who taught the Shakespeare of a prosody
Or a book of words comes and coalesced
In every verse of Shelley romance and tragedy
'To a lady,with a guitar'escaped the summit of breast
For every physicians why the feather decents
For the every poets how they flutters
Not a hedonist but prophetic soul of fancy presents
And humns and shored on their mossy cutters
Kings and folks,sailers and merchant
Brethren and sistren speaks of bard of Avon
Thracian Orpheus wept in Shelley's mastery of poetic ardent
Therein the sullen dorado scowl in river of Devon
Ever hoped to greet mine those pierian spring
The pen snug in because mine thumbs are ageing
Of all I hear of wild Amazon lands,
Of terraces and quiet shores of Bali,
Of Rome, where past and present join their hands—
Unless both seen and known, they seem but folly.
Of Stoic, hedonist philosophies;
Tall structures rising behind scaffolding;
And emblematic, vast theosophies—
Unseen, they fall to heavy dust-gathering.
How might I feel within the quiet tomb-womb
Of Mother Earth, wrapped in the final dust?
From here, like a pure lotus, I shall bloom;
Unseen and known, how can I grow in trust?
Can soul-deep truth be reaped from glance and eye,
When boundless streams of unseen wonders sigh?
On wrinkled canvas winter spider
weaves senility web,
grief of loss instilled in hedonist psyche.
Memory morphs into metaphor
for the past panorama dislodged,
captured in snapshot of narcissist framed.
Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry,
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes.
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie,
painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance,
designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
with the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
by pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep,
the spider of age weaves the web of wrinkles deep.
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland,
wilted lips lose luster of lotus once lovingly grand.
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss,
even when time comes for the last mile to cross.
What is a face if not a metaphor for trait panorama,
snapshot in beholder’s eyes of concealed charisma.
Sleepless nights keep piling up.
Always in a foul mood,
I poison myself with nicotine, caffeine, ethanol, and cannabinoids.
I live like a hedonist with suicidal urges.
I won’t bequeath my body to science.
The wreck will be too battered by my twilight.
One life, one ride—no concessions, no compromise.
I'm on alert, constantly in crisis mode.
I sleep with the windows open, like every criminal does,
A machete under the bed, a firearm beneath the pillow.
I will never trust the human species.
I've been repeating this deadly routine since I became a man.
Its consequences will deliver me into the devil’s arms.
I wasn't born to be anyone’s mop on this Earth.
I automatically break the law when my interests are threatened.
I unwind at the shooting range, my brain scented with cannabis.
I'm a paranoid forced to sleep with one eye open.
I don’t believe in love—only in the freedom money buys.
Forever alone, I blend into crowds only when it's time to grab without counting.
I came to make my name immortal.
desultery
make-believe
festooned
in
patterns
of
.pleasured
opulence
a
cornucopia
of
hedonist
innovation
flourishing
interludes
of seismic
seranades
embracing
sumptious
magnificence
AN OPEN FORM uses spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,& relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood thus is inherently variable.
Time strokes the wrinkled canvas,
the ancient spider in twilight hour
weaves the senility web,
the empty eyes wander in the wasteland.
The hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss.
The face morphs into metaphor
for the past panorama dislodged,
captured in the snapshot
of the narcissist impulse congealed
in the portrait I make of me.
It’s made of latent lattice of delicate design,
lines on lines contour my body.
The vibrant epitome of expression align
with the pattern of unique look personified.
An insular captive of my mental making,
I’m an inimitable loner within me,
defined by the entrenched essence singular,
scared to face the crowded world.
I get driven by the self-obsessed urge
to uplift my sagging morale,
clothe the portrait with an apposite attire.
I open the sparse closet to select a T-shirt
with the walking punchline
“Be Brave, Be You” inscribed bold.
It makes a simple style statement
for me coming out of the lonesome shell.
Springtime facade shines
in embellished topography,
embroidered enshrined on
Monet landscape,
luminous
in effervescent elegance
with sparkle of blue lagoon
in dreaming ebullient eyes,
entranced,
and with lustrous lotus petals
of luscious lips
fervent,
painted on silken canvas
of magnetic countenance,
carved with narcissistic contours
of innate pride
with dormant Dorian Gray syndrome
subdued.
The sands of time
roll over wrinkled canvas,
winter twilight spider weaves
webs of facial furrows
of creased contentment,
empty eyes gaze,
forlorn
at weathered wasteland,
the lips of faded flower lose
passion patina,
enticing once,
hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss,
trapped in transient notion
sanguine,
for what is a face
if not a metaphor
for proclivity panorama,
the enduring snapshot
capturing mesmeric moments
in timeless frame
of concealed charisma,
contained.
The chromatic cords
of splendorous spring
embroider arcane art
on convivial tapestry
embellished elegance
dramatically drapes
the luminous landscape
of vibrant vivacity
as dream-drenched
blue lagoon
gets lashed
by idyllic eyelids
and
the lotus petals
of luscious lips
painted poignant
on silken canvas
of content countenance
the dulcet design
of narcissist facade
of innate pride
swathes furtively
the secret scars
of suppression syndrome
expunged.
The toiling time
revolves relentless
on convoluted canvas
etched with
fading felled leaves
of auburn autumn
in life consumed
while
the winter spider
weaves with strands
of twilight moments
the ordained web
with senile streaks
around hollow eyes
staring forsaken
at forlorn fringe
of weathered wasteland
as the lustrous lips
the fading flowers
lose withered
pristine patina
hedonist psyche
refuses to gauge
the grief of loss
the face morphs
into metaphor
for living panorama
captured by
the sanguine snapshot
of concealed charisma.
Time turns on wrinkled canvas,
winter spider in twilight hour
weaves senility web,
empty eyes wander in wasteland.
Hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss.
Face morphs into metaphor
for the past panorama dislodged,
captured in the snapshot
of narcissist impulse congealed.
So disciplined and distracted,
as it should be you’re an artist;
Wild imagination stays fed
when you are passionately kissed;
Remain a modest hedonist,
breaking ground where it was stable;
Dedicate that to the process,
that rush is unforgettable.
The face of spring shines
On the convivial tapestry
Spread on luminous landscape
Of vibrant vivacity
With the dreaming blue lagoon of the eyes
And the petals of lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the silken canvas
Of charming countenance
Engraving the narcissist features of innate pride
With marks of suppression syndrome subdued.
The wheel of time turns
On the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter in twilight hour
Weaves the web with endless senile lines
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly
At the weathered wasteland
The lips lose the patina of the wilted flower
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
The face morphs into metaphor for panorama
Captured by the snapshot of concealed charisma.
____________
April, 28, 2023
For A Brian Strand Standard No. 1212 Contest
Let’s check what we missed
in our to do list:
touch kind.
As a hedonist,
we merely exist,
confined.
Never by love kissed,
dark desires persist;
we’re blind.
Let us bear in mind,
it’s time we refined
our soul.
Lest we fall behind,
release thoughts unkind:
be whole.
Our form’s so designed,
God in heart’s enshrined;
our goal.
Playing our life role,
let love we extol,
assist.
Remain in control,
love has no loophole;
life’s gist.
Love doth love cajole,
reclaim joy fear stole:
bliss mist.
23-March-2023
____________
Write Me a Virelai Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
He lights cigarettes not his regular,
The Poorest Tobacco making popular,
For it parting with hard earned chinks
And its service enjoying with blinks;
Beer not his proclaimed Brand
Still finds its way into his hand;
To its bringer The Longest Hug,
Much of the beer spilled on a rug …
A woman in the skin-tight
Has made her flaws light,
He willing to be quiet
And concentrate on inner riot …
He is The Permissive Hedonist,
Not qualified to rubbish An Animist:
Feeder on Worldly Pleasures,
Bat-blind to other treasures.
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