Poet_LeTaur's Xanga

A december night in laughing

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 11:59:24 GMT

It shall not be a
Pint of cold whiskey that
Brushes you down against
My crown of layered
Words of
Crawling like your broken frowns upon
My less devoured days
Below the heavy sky,
The clouds we write on
Through,
Our sighs
and
Cushioned lights and
Rivers there
And I fare grandly with my
Reasons there
For bringing you down
To broken sweat
(And broken frowns)
Upon my face
And I leave no trace
Of snow for you
To shiver in.

Lonesome breeze of the winter (song)

Sat, 01 Nov 2008 14:59:57 GMT

"And she's cold and her body goes
Silver soon
With the dust and the darlings of the
Afternoon
And I'm tired in the mornings everyday
A spoonful of coffee that'd know
My way
Ahead
Into the dawns where we never meet
These streets that take us there in
Broken lines
And the fine winds that carry us in cradles stay
In the dust of the morning
That
Slips away."

Monday, September 29, 2008

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 19:31:12 GMT

"I threaten my life with your words, and when I'm sleeping, I'm a shadow again on the delicate porches of cold soul where we rest with our undone inners; our voices in the dense may midnight.

I have cleansed your wishes with my lips and my longing for desire, as you pass your cigarette-ends to my silent beats of sensation; and when I'm grinning, of course, I touch the passion of your voice in my sumptuous greetings, and reminders, which speak

I'm reading out my fingers, cursing silently at your words

I sleep on the floor when I'm done."

Song of silent women at festive grey doors

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 15:36:15 GMT

"By the time I am done, I shall have spoken of the wind on her broken blue face, and the tales that fall on the dry pavements. I shall have told you where the dark grey city keeps its words of longing and despair, and having said it, the night shall silently come with its crickets and graveyards to guide you to iridescent sleep.

It was in an alley that her steps were born to the asphalt and the dust of routine, and vagabond days. The layers in the sky spoke of sighs and reminders, and when she was full, they'd come with their open desire at touching her, not more than once, that is, of course, the clouds never fall in numbers.

In an evening, her skirt that gently brushed the dry floor stitched its inner voices of playing with the flowers, in a dizzy game of dazzling and deciding, and declining the stray feathers, countless on the old streets, sleeping lowly, and silent, as if with no words, no whispers for her to beckon them with.

One day the morning would hold her to its breast of dead distance, and the next, the years would crawl upon her days, and when the ways to the playgrounds knew their names, she'd stand, alone and easily frightened.

And yet, the months came and went, like her muses with the laughter of the lilies and their ribbons of blue satin words, and by swearing on their hearts of simple old play, she'd weave the seconds that would easily see her sleeping.

---------------------------

"In the shadows, there have been whispers and cold voices of recalling, and in the city, the traces of their slithering smirks of damnation cut the windowsills and the balconies, and the tired men within them, the armchairs that rock with their creaking sounds of defiance.

She shall see to them over coffee-cups and springing lamps and ballrooms decked in mirrors, bright and festive, in their damp sickened mirth.

The earth grows a little older when she is out with the men, waving her hands at their silly whimpers and anecdotes, and passing by, shaking her head, easily recounting the steps back into their hollow grey talks of the scents and the start of strong living, from birth to cold breathing every week, and when they are sleeping, sly smiles would know them better."

---------------------

As night falls though, her lips touch the ceiling with her inner heart of hearts crying, seizing, the deathly pests of the pavements on her tambourine soul, the holes in the rain, the grass with no when-and-where gliding even there, where the pathways are silent, only broken by questions and replies on the strength of the roads in front of us, (and the commotion always startles with its precise knowledge of answers, the ancient verses of easy lining and their hidden sly wishes). But through all of their reasoning with wooden spoons and wheezing yellow men with cigarettes, her wet voice of the earth, the gentle young flowers looking with no hurt at her margarine face, come to her in grasps at her sleepy blue breath, and she cannot look back at them, as she is running in shame and denial, even though, they look at her disappearing in wonder. And then she is nimble with her tears that stroke her cheeks while she breaks the easy grumbles in her tired words and days.

A dry flower in her diary has been speaking of the breeze still, the nameless will of her graceful eyes in the songly young spring, and the tiny restless brook that reads tales to her when, she is numb and almost definitely decided on.

A dry flower in her diary is what I shall name her tonight, and having gently let my fingers brush the tears off her face, I shall sing in pink lullabies till she opens her eyes, and I close my own to find her in me."

Lily (song)

Sat, 10 May 2008 00:00:39 GMT

Hey lily, whatcha lookin' for?
The sky's all silly lookin' for
The places where you want to go
There's a little girl who'll never know
This house is broken, has no doors
There're footprints resting on the floor
From your copper bed to the field below
And the gate you seek has only snored
Hey lily, whatcha lookin' for?
Your feet are tired, you adore
The sunshine on the ragged floor
And it's true you couldn't want him more
Hey lily, whatcha lookin' for?
Aw lily, whatcha lookin' for?
Hey lily, whatcha lookin' for?
Hey lily..

P. Q. Leah

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 14:05:08 GMT

Mr. P. Q. Leah is a man I have never known, though I cannot say I have never heard of
him. I've heard of his coat, and the napkin he hides in his brown patched-up pockets. He
has a wife and three kids in a painting he made on an ugly April evening.

I have worn Mr. P. Q. Leah's scarf though. It's a fine scarf, too. A rib of old wool and
fragments of his hair, and some stitches of different colours (though mostly scarlet) has
made it a scarf, that is very dear to me. Then again, I have never worn any other scarf.

When Mr. P. Q. Leah's father tried to show him how to ride a bicycle, it was the wiser man
who learned of learning and the fussing over trifles. Mr. P. Q. Leah's father had a strained
relationship with Mr. P. Q. Leah.

At the end of it all, after hearing of Mr. P. Q. Leah, a perfect number of times, I must
admit that he is a rather awkward person to talk about. At most, his father would've been a
fine person to talk to had he not been the father of Mr. P. Q. Leah.

Interior designers and the fashionable young

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 18:08:42 GMT

I button up my trousers through today
And tomorrow
To keep the last stitches in the cupboard for later.
The waiter in this coffee-place knows how the
Odd ends of indifferent pant-plans have summed up
My reasons on the alibis which decide
The slant of my walk.
Gently, the aroma of coffee-beans rises from
His lackadaisical sighs
That fall to my feet.
In my seat there's been a fidget and a fatter
Fist and more
And the sore cupboard has made chums with our
Old mumbling waiter to tell him of the same
And amuse itself usefully
(Like most people usually do
Anyway)

Nursery rhyme from a while back

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:35:13 GMT

Birdy humble
Birdy humble
Took his stumble
With the men.

They told him
Birdy! Don't you know it?
The streets are muddy
You'll mess up your whims.

Birdy said
My boots are lonely
I don't think they'd mind
A sticky friend!

Birdy humble
Birdy humble
How they fumble,
The silly men!

The white dog and the brown dog (Dismal narrative)

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 13:57:00 GMT

To ruin my sleep through three consecutive nights, I went out in search of cigarettes on three consecutive evenings. On each of those evenings, as I found my alleyway, and the old ragged school nearby, I met two dogs; one brown, and one white.

On the first day, I looked at the brown one and cuddled him and spoke to him the best I could, considering that the rain had failed me in cleansing my nails. The white one whimpered rather dismally, and even pawed at my friend a tad bit.

On the second day, I found the white one as my lover, and her whispers my verse. She rubbed her nose against my feet, instead of her own; but I liked it either way, so I shrugged and let her be. The brown dog wasn’t one for whining.. no, he haughtily leered at my hand and sat steadily.

I went to the same alleyway the last day, and the same two dogs, one brown, and one white, came looking for me. But I was nowhere to be seen, they thought. From beneath my shawl, I looked at them wandering, and looking here and there, and peeking even into the bushes. I had no watch with me, so I cannot tell you for how long it went on, but exactly thirty-six breaths of mine later, I caught something new in the two dogs’ eyes.

Each looked sad for the other, worrying that, in my absence, the other dog would fall to the cold asphalt, cursing me.

So, very naturally, each took on my role, and I watched them (from beneath my shawl, which was a bit tired by now) cuddle each other grandly, and tenderly.

I did not wait very long after that. There must’ve been something that bothered me about the whole matter, and I was sure it wasn’t in the fact that they didn’t need me anymore.

When I returned home, there was neither coffee on the table nor postcards in the letterbox.

“Maybe I’ll go out for some coffee,” I thought. “Better not take that alleyway, though.”

Poem from a year ago

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 19:16:18 GMT

"Who is the wind to have told me what I could not do?

I have seen to it that they burn our lives!"