Long Writhed Poems
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Les Bijoux (The Jewels)
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims
Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems;
Her art was saving men despite their sins;
She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems!
She danced for me with a gay but mocking air,
My world of stone and metal sparking bright;
I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair;
Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite!
Naked she lay and offered herself to me,
Parting her legs and smiling receptively,
As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea,
Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly.
A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent ...
Intent on lust, content to purr and please!
Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent
An odd charm to her metamorphoses.
Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs,
Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan,
Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes;
Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone.
Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster,
To break the peace which had possessed my heart,
She flashed her crystal rocks’ hypnotic luster
Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart.
Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously
Out-thrust, and yet ... and yet, somehow, still coy ...
As if stout haunches of Antiope
Had been grafted to a boy ...
The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out.
Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud;
Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt,
It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood.
This translation has been adopted by **** and escort websites!
The Perfect Courtesan
by Michael R. Burch
after Baudelaire, for the courtesans
She received me into her cavities,
indulging my darkest depravities
with such trembling longing, I felt her need ...
Such was the dalliance to which we agreed—
she, my high rider;
I, her wild steed.
She surrendered her all and revealed to me—
the willing handmaiden, delighted to please,
the Perfect Courtesan of Ecstasy.
As a child and a teenager I used to attend a mission-hall,
Which had an outreach to the homeless of Edinburgh;
And every three weeks until I was about seven,
They would give the last call so that god could your soul deliver.
They said at the end of every sermon,
Every three weeks in the evening,
“This is the last call!” and they meant ever,
‘Cos Jesus could return any time for the believing.
I felt so intimated by it, this unkind presence of mind,
That I could not properly sit on my seat,
But I knew that they were insane with melancholy,
And that it was the real dynamics of life that they could not heat.
I refused to chat with them after services and at the youth club,
About what I believed and about the in and outs of my thoughts,
But poignantly sat down with the Youth Fellowship leader once,
And talked to him about what in me life had very clearly wrought.
When I said outrightly that I did not believe in the Second Coming,
And that life was for keeps, give or take a few possibilities,
It was as if his world crashed down disarrayed in shambles,
As he was shattered by my philosophical sway and confident amble.
He realised fully that I was damning their last call,
The pressure of it and how it riled, writhed and tormented;
That it was for no good reason, for no universal moral principle,
For no disciplinary cause and for no complimentary angle.
So he arrogantly walked away from me, rudely with passivity,
Not aware of his own need of polity, sense and direction,
But it was a triumph for that mission-hall boy worker,
To react to an objector so firmly and not himself recapture.
They were generally unresponsive and indifferent,
To intelligent objectors who had a righteous way,
Because this left them with their day-to-day lunacy,
With reality dressed for them to face another day.
That mission has changed today into a Christian centre,
Bright and refurbished and selling lunches in a cafe,
And I am proud of its journey, how far it came,
Because the transition was by no means lame.
Well hi there this soft voice said
As i walked in through my door.
It only took me seconds to see
It came from a puddle on the floor.
It rippled and it writhed
Seemed to sort of expand
And there before my eyes
Was an arm with a hand
Which very gently,
Before I could quake,
Grasped one of mine
In a very hearty shake.
Extend felicitations
It murmured to its self,
Ask about the weather,
Introduce yourself.
My name is, and a long string
of gulps and belches followed
In sonorous rolling tones
That seemed somewhat dank
And somewhat sorrowed,
I was on my way to ilkley moor,
I’m not sure if you need to know,
But that’s a special spatial node
Where us travellers sometimes go
To enjoy that bracing air
And the healthy weather,
and if no one is about,
A long roll in the heather,
But I was taken dizzy,
Just needed a short rest,
But it’s time to go now
So, I’ll wish you all the best.
It writhed and flowed across my floor
And quickly oozed under my door
And it was gone, no trace of where it had been
Leaving me unsure of what i’d really seen.
I shrugged my shoulders shook my head
And carried on towards my bed
Making a note or two to be sure
To check on those folk up on ilkley moor .
The curse driven by the full moon
Drove him to the forest where nature looms
Hunger fueled his charging rage
Uncontrolled hormones set to be uncaged
His body writhed and twisted
As if an unknown evils' power assisted
Elongated nose, canine teeth, bulging eyes
Coarsely grown hair , teeth large for size.
A cave a dwelling some place to hide
To conceal this beast from human sight
But the mind of the beast was not the same
To kill and eat by the moon was his game
Luna called with her full blown light
The beast responded killing that night
His disgust and dismay had just begun
Controlling the evil inside would not be fun
Blood soaked face dried from the feast
No memory or recall to save the least
Suicide or devastation destroy this part I be
Lunas' control is too strong over me
From the first instant
my eyes laid bare
circled and squared
at the feet
of a Vitruvian man,
the one uniqueness
in my possession,
I was lust to your loins
as images permeated
and shivered my thighs,
I felt a rising veracity
to savour the tang of you
longing to rip your Levi’s
into little streamers and hang them
from my window,
while tieing your Johnny Rebs
to my planter box,
the world would know
you were mine
I became the seductress
you could not resist
relentless,
designing schemes
so Machiavellian,
Lector would
have been impressed
and helped
shameless in my pursuit
pulling out all stops
I acted unaffected,
but the sight of your length
made me drool
my first tell
finally,
the maelstrom
churning my gut
my hunger,
gave me away
under the slick
of your hands,
my body arched
addicted to the textures
and plains,
mania seized all good sense
I writhed as you rocked,
by the time your hands
released my breasts,
I was howling my release
a wildcat thrashed to frenzy
my tricksters hand called
and beaten by a pro
who could have guessed?
ME!
aced by the hand of a machinehead
Written: December 07, 2025, for contest sponsored by Benjamin Bartley
**************
One day, the wiggle-wobble wobbliness begins to shake.
They writhed and jiggled in a truly amusing wake!
They dashed across tunnels and bounced on a breeze.
Tickled the blossoms, and sniffed the trees.
They gulped laughs, they sipped up the sun,
They hiccupped together—oh, what fun!
They painted the sky with a bubblegum tone.
And carve the skies with one or two stones.
Wizzle, a Woozle, exhibited socks on his head.
One other donned pancakes in place of his bread.
They drummed on their drums and shook their rattles.
With twiddly thumbs, they sang "Zibble-Zabble!"
Both the adults and the children laughed.
Wherever Woozles woo, they convey a raft
They educate us that stupidity is vibrant and bright.
That absurdity twinkles and tickles the night.
Thus, if you feel blue, grumpy, or gloomy,
Simply summon a Woozle; they will dance and draw me.
They will chuckle and wobble, rhyme and rattle;
And allow every moment to prattle.
Written: August 14, 2025, for Contest Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
*******
I writhed in the womb of a necrotic hush,
a stygian silence where barghests lurk—
My slack-jawed soul, sodden with oblivion lull,
clanged against the obelisk of despair.
The wound, a molten mouth of aurora,
sizzled with sacred suction—
a fipple of fire, ineffable and fecund,
where pestilence pirouetted with puissance.
I danced—yes, I danced—
in the desiccation of my demise,
a gavotte of soulfulness,
My blood is a rubicund aria of rapture.
Alabaster bones bore the torque of truth,
Each fracture is a triptych of ephemera and flame.
I was a poltergeist of my former self,
grappling through the noosphere multivocal maze.
The stench of bygone hexes clung to lava rock,
But I, stalwart and sinewed with mettle.
careened past the clamor of puerile pabulum,
past the gossamer glamor of grief.
I was broken—yes—
but bold enough to resuscitate,
to regale the necromancy of my rebirth,
to supplant sorrow with the sacred sizzle of self.
Now I stand, an empyrean echo,
a veridical vestige of velvet versatility—
my heart, a burnished niche of noble hope,
My spirit resembles a smooth, celestial sunset.
Let the world scrutinize my scars,
They are not grotesque—they are garrulous.
They speak in tongues of alchemy and amaranthine ache,
a quixotic quiddity, a quintessence of comeback.
The sun has long receded from the sky,
Pallid gloom invades the wintry air,
Morbid silence hangs over him,
Memory sleeps like hibernating toads.
Trees stand bare with no leaves to array,
The Earth lies shielded in its icy crust,
There is stillness, the stillness of the grave,
Breaking it, a fox is heard howling afar.
Feeling utterly down, discouraged, and weak,
How he longs to overcome the emptiness he feels
Even nature looks dull and devoid of life.
Depression takes hold over him and his soul sighs.
Despondent lies he, in his battered shack,
With a run-out lantern throwing pale light,
It burns sending spouts of fume,
Like the last breath of the dying soul.
Tormented beyond endurance,
In excruciating pain, he writhed.
The tears that flowed from his eyes
Could easily make a swelling sea.
Once mirages of hope danced before his eyes
But he is now devoured by dark clouds of solitude,
Behind a wall of emptiness, he now gropes.
He is in the throes of utter dereliction.
Hungry for affection in a desolate arena
He once fought like a losing gladiator.
Every passing day was like a decade.
Everything was damp, life was mildewed.
Now he seeks redemption from all torments.
Lying in the darkness that has become his life,
He stares into empty nothingness.
He longs for death to come on swift wings.
Deserted by everyone, he awaits the dark space,
To lie unattended six feet underneath.
He wishes to be devoured by the Grim Reaper
Who is no longer his enemy, but a bosom friend.
He listens intently for advancing steps,
Of his long-awaited companion, sure to come,
To deliver him of his baneful state,
To row him away across the frozen seas.
Satan did all he could to block the birth Divine
Through a cold and shameful ordination, the King emerged in time
Satan pulled Herod’s strings when pride’s a subtle art
A murderous decree from a murderous heart
What was going on in Mary’s mind, her thoughts her own
While Joseph’s trust was nearly overthrown
No palace welcomed Jesus, just a stable’s Dairy air
The fallen sought to harm Him, danger everywhere
Satan reveled in the same ruse that led Eve astray
Repeating, “Did God really say?” to lead hearts away
He slithered in with accusations, a clause of old
But the Nazarene’s arrival was prophecy foretold
That dragon waited ready to devour the Child
Yet Heaven’s warnings left the enemy beguiled
Defeated at the Cross his schemes undone
The Strong Man plunders darkness as victory is won
On that first Christmas night Satan Christ profaned
The serpent’s fate was sealed as God had ordained
Satan schemed in shadows, darkness was his shroud
He fought to halt the Light, arrogant and proud
He whispered things to Mary, stirred Joseph’s deep unrest
No welcome for the Child, no royal place to rest
The manger’s straw became the Newborn’s bed
While Herod’s rage and pride is dancing with the dead
Before the throne of God, the serpent raised decries
With twisted accusations, his purpose was his lies
But even as the dragon plotted, waiting for his chance
Mary’s Son was born, and darkness shivered in its stance
From birth to cross, the serpent’s schemes are undermined
For the Strong Man’s victory left the foe confined
So, Christmas saw the ancient snake, defeated in his cause
He writhed and railed the bitter way, behold, Satan’s clause
I gently stroked her neck, as she lay calm,
and ran my fingertips along her back,
although surprised, she didn't seem alarmed
quickly relaxed, with both her shoulders slack.
But seconds later I increased my grip,
pinning her face down upon the bed,
panic set in, she tried her best to slip
out from my grasp, she writhed, twisting her head.
She cried, lashed out, and managed to draw blood,
I gasped in pain, but still I held on tight,
despite all her attempts, it proved no good
she now lay still, had given up the fight.
Few things in life are much harder than that
of trying to put flea drops on a cat.