Long Laurent Poems

“ANTE BELLUM”


BEIGEBest served where it can’t be seen
On Stirling Silver platters
With redruM narcotics
Delivered by sharp Blood-Red
Well-mannered talons
Strutting in sleek wet rolling tight-skirted
Long French Silk Stockinged legs all the way down to 
Lethal Six Inch stilettos...

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$hawty Got $wag

Shawty got swag,
Shawty mad dope.
Face all cheesin’,
She real turned up.
Goin’ to da club,
She steppin' wit her peeps,
Lookin’ so ratchet,
She’s straight up hoochie.

No racks in her pocket,
No stacks in her wallet,
But she all into...

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[ credits to LAURENT YVAN from France who read my poem ]



launched over ages of primaeval forces
my nomadic ancestry calls out to me
winds howl driven over rolling hills
atop a ridge of rugged mountains
beyond vestiges of...

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The End of Love

A secret grief rips apart all that was
Slaves to the sexual caresses of time
Stallions in black gallop gallantly in fields
Of spring full wishes
Thou seeith the birth of love
Naked hopes surrounded by sweet...

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Afrika, 
Open your eyes. 
You know well your oppressors 
Just stop being their spies
The people you spy are your only defenders 
You could be out of those generational problems 
If you stood to support people...

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Multiple premise
olfactory adventures,
contemplative tactile
sensory ... Clothing
colors, odors, hues,
varnishes ...
Beauty has always done
fashion ... or your own
reason for being...
Fashion is a game
to show the generations
information, transgressions,
transmissions of customs and customs ...

What, or who influences that
and who?...

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[ credits to LAURENT YVAN from France who read my poem ]



"Though I freely walk these streets, sometimes I'm mentally confined
Yesterday, today and tomorrow seem forever entwined
When I think I'm moving forward somebody pushes rewind
Gone...

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‘Do I look good in this and I want the honest truth?’
‘Well honey it would help if you stepped outside the booth.’
‘The zip’s a little tight’ she said, so I knew the task ahead,
But I...

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The dam broke in Quebec.
My thoughts,
my words, 
and my pen
all moved.
Moved like the thin layer 
of brackish water
over the icy depths
of le Fleave St. Laurent.
Moved like the evening breeze
over the cobblestoned streets
past the lighted shops’...

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