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X F Lacasse Poem
She, who had seemed my sun some bygone time,
feels now much icier than even far
forsaken pluto’s sunless hemisphere.
Please! reckless Universe! enable rhyme
to unriddle unreason’s paradigm!
—The frozen side of the sun!—What bizarre
world bears such contradiction? Bringing near
fire and frost? both deform eachother’s frame!
And so: she never was my flame—nor now
my glacial winter—.No, she simply was
a human hurting, a someone hurting
me.—a cornered creature caught converting
an inward chatter(,adisconcertingbuzz,)
whichever way her body would allow.
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
after Poetry is a Recited Art, by Brian Strand
i am a written not a talking work
and were i there with you to speak this piece
i’d do it as you wish no extra grease
but the medium is wrote that’s it’s quirk
Victor Borge his name i’ll give it’s mark
makes humour of the topic we caprice
my opinion is the fun does not decrease
by giving poems their lurches and a smirk
Ah! See here how, with my punctuation,
I guide your eye, move the rhythm of my
words. A pause, at a natural junction,
Is given you by clever notation—
Don’t be so quick to slander and decry
the period and comma’s vital function.
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
Meet me—by the abandoned houses—>there
not here<—, for it’s a danger! to be seen
in such ill company as I__I mean:
if strangers knew how strange was our affair,
they’d **** us!—meet me when night has grown fair,
bring gifts (flowers) (for nothing’s more obscene
in such situation as we are keen).
Though I’m well loath to leave you unaware,
you’ll must need hear silence ‘stead my full name;
—(it’s customary practice;)—tell me not
yours either; I want to know as little
as possible,—so to go without blame,
and still to lick the flame:to spill the plot:
to linger - - - on your delightful spittle.
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
“O’!, work, work, work away,—ignore your thirst
and shovel steadily—keep nourrishing the coals
of locomotive life!(the cost is but your souls);
All other occupations?—to hell dispersed!
“Amen! your bosses, with cash (to be disbursed),
busy their hands with myriad controls
made to mold you for your determined roles;
Yes… yes!, because the silence would be worst!
“Aye! Men! your calling is made manifest!
my stores, my mines, my workshops, factories
come crawling, groveling on their sore knees
to beg: ‘Please! healthy muscle![sic]—invest!’
What else would you do with your God given time
if not that I could earn you my damn dime?”
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
Said the Heifer to the Ox: “O‘ sorry Ox,
How terrible to work your heavy yoke,
All day to wheel around that grinding spoke!”
She lay lazy in the shade of nearby rocks.
But Ox plowed onwards. Hearing Heifer’s knocks,
And paying no heed to her pitiful smoke,
He laboured, knowing well the dreadful joke
Which soon was to repay her mindless mocks.
And just then came a large procession near,
Garbed in diadems and resplendent frills;
“O‘ Heifer, if only you’d known your lot,
You’d have held your tongue and lived life in fear!“
The priests, dragging Heifer to the high hills,
Offered her to gods whose favors they sought.
(Inspired by Aesop's "The Heifer and the Ox".)
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
Pow! the pale powder pumps power into
The pastor’s panicked pulse. Peeing his pants,
He pulls his parcel and pitter-patters
To the piss-pot, paying his penile penance.
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
My bars the words, the prison guard my verse,
Rattling the staves of this poetic cell,
I struggle vainly, locked up in this jail.
Yea, thus is my predicament, my curse.
Oh, how jealously, you smirking blank verse,
I look upon what freedom guides your quill;
For formal phrasing does of me compel
Stubborn structures—the styles which I rehearse.
But, boldy bumbling, art is now arising!
Walls becoming my score, and tallies tones, ?Confined to meter, bound by rigid rhyme,
I yet find measures full of surprising
Motifs. The modern poet at sonnets groans,
But I, I do believe they’re quite sublime.
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
Memories lost within a frozen mist
And dangling in the static atmosphere
Of muddled recollection of things dear
Haunt the backwoods of the years she has missed.
Through foggy glances, blurred thoughts that persist
In the dim haze, shapes of the past, appear;
These flittering figures, some far, some near,
Skitter through her mind, meek and shadow-kissed.
But soon they drift to a fathomless past,
A time she can no longer touch, just hear.
Rocking mechanically, her face austere,
She searches, brow stuck in a furrowed twist.
As I watch her eyes wander vacant space,
I wonder, “Will she still recall my face?”
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,
the soul unleashes on the stage of writ
a flurry of pen strokes, a wanton blaze
of mangled meanings, aiming now to split—
—to split the atmosphere in half…for praise!
Ah—perhaps, in this contest of our wills,
I do not joust against “you”,—just with “I“;
so the looming question mark lurks near: “Why?”
Simply for the thrills! merely for the frills?
Thus, muses Nietzsche, the great unveiler,
“Bist du echt? oder nur ein Schauspieler?…”
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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X F Lacasse Poem
To twirl like a dancer upon paper,
And execute the swirling pirouettes,
One needs to keep a balance of the pen;
So step by step the stage is swept in strokes.
Now left, now right, and two and four, the beat
Pulses, pulls the body up to the brink,
Draws back, recedes. Silent is the hall. Now,
The ballpoint tip toeing the lines of ink,
Building momentum, movement towards
Climax — the bliss of literature achieved!
Copyright © X F Lacasse | Year Posted 2025
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