Behind the polished brass and red cedar
She lifts the florescent bottles and glasses
At her own classy pace
She’s earned that right by now
I understand well
Her beauty a galaxy
Bundled in dark space of the Miami hotel bar
She’ll not be rushed
To chop blend mix slice our Moscow Mules
Folds her arms
Reads the mantle of faces like unfinished portraits
Propped to her easel of cleavage
Makes me read her mind
I like the game
I think she does too
She’s heard a dirty poet’s lonely old thoughts
A thousand times over
At least lust pays attention
Tips well
Passes the night time game of shells
My eyes sit on elbows
Following her Brazilian-French silhouette
Like wind atop the Eifel Tower
Mardi Gras in Sau Paulo
I’d like her to take my hand
For a long autumn walk
To find Jim Morrison’s grave in Pere Lachaise
Ask her name
Strike it like a match
Steal the bourbon
Left on the Lizard King’s sad defiled headstone
Ask her what she really thinks.
frère dans ta chaise
c'est moi qui t'embrasse
When I die
I wont say goodbye
If you die
I shall cry
Shall we both die?
Who then opens the sky?
Flowers will bloom though
Père Lachaise knows why
When death dances
We all shall cry
I lay my head down
so to sleep
In vats of wine
dreams ferment to keep
Souls be damned
Love made us weep
I will be there
With you and the roses
Birth
Crawl
Tears
Steps
Laughter
Smiles
Fears
Careers
Diseases
Betrayals
Denials
Full circle
Death nears
Tears
Laughter
Frowns
Dead clowns
Dead
In ground
No sound
Silence
Abounds
Alone
Under stone
The road ends here
Grave of bones
I reached out to caress
The past, and her sweet heart so blessed
Tears water down flowers, that one day shall wilt
For even they, gave up on loves bloom
I have been devoid of heart long ago
Dead to the living
Living for the dead
Love does that, so do not dread
She, who stole the essence of me,
Where ever she shall be buried
My bones may lie over yonder
My heart lies heavy, with the phantom of she
The past burying all, to the one and last
Says I
Alone under grey washed gravestone
At long last
Père Lachaise
Pere Lachaise
Five into the Twentieth
Death is not worth the doing
Life is not worth the living
So I am in-between two worlds
Rotting above the ground
Whilst the corpses laugh in their comfy warm beds
They sleep in peace
I walk upon their heads
Trembling
Seeking solace where there is none
As the leaves fall the season will soon change
I shall remain as I am
Inebriated with ravens and fools
In cafes with strangers
Safely away from the human touch
Wine flowing through my veins
Wine caressing my very pains
The clouds float overhead
Raining on the dead and almost
Feigning hopes when there is none
Five and twenty blackbirds singing deaths song
They offer me a map at the graveyard entrance
How trite, a map to my very own hell
My journey though might be a hard sell
Tumble as I do upon so many stones
Black roses hidden where once they were shown
Bloody nights with both razor and thorn
When I arrived at the morgue
Surely I was scorned
Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve
You have no home, not even in death
So it’s with you I wish to hold hands
You the first and I who will never last
As I crossed the gravel way
Of chemim de la Geurite
Through dead leaves that fell astray
I dodged them in a wild mad spree
As I crossed the gravel way
As I climbed up the granite wall
Thick and cold and high
To the top, feeling small
I slid across the rim
As I climbed up the granite wall
Down the other side I went
Through coins strewn about
Through photos and through flowers spent
I slowly crawled along
And down the other side I went
There were people standing over me
People standing high
People with teary eyes did see
The writing on the wall
As there were people standing over me
And as I headed towards chemim Lebrun
I heard some people sing some old forgotten songs
Holding candles of whitish hue
Lamenting a man called Jim
As I headed towards chemim Lebrun
And as I rested for a while
In my house upon my back
I rested with a blissful smile
At the end of my shiny track
As I rested for a while
Young visitors
to his grave
at Pere Lachaise
wonder why
an old chick like me
gets up on his tomb-
stone which is littered
with wine bottles
stuck with flowers
and written upon
with loving graffiti
to take a photograph.
They stare,
hide smiles,
not knowing that
while my babies slept
I played The Doors,
dreamed of un
buttoning my blouse
and walking with Jim
down the dark streets
of Jacksonville.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.