my second try for a lovepoem..
Dusting your masculine shoulders off
and licking your injured, bleeding feathers.
To that safe harbour, where a grey boat full of family ideals,
fireplaces and beautiful white napkins is slightly floating,
soothing your wild nature – I'd be feeding it fuel;
To the one who can cherish moments,
Be calm, wise, logical, even respected – unlike me,
She won't try to arouse you every second,
Won't tell you stories of great leaders, evil affairs
And dirty sexual sufferings.
A hundred twenty nights I held up sharpened razors,
But death deserves a better gift –
Sticking you head down the oven, seems
A curious statement, Sylvia.
Of course I love you more than myself,
A compliment and an insult clashed in one sentence.
You're like a unique museum to me, a tower
of heroic acts, big mindsets, chauvinistic inspirations.
A tremendous statue representing the male race.
It's ok, don't worry. Go to the one,
who is balanced and educated,
Who feels passion for you, not for mirrors.
The one who wears long garments, rational shoes
and imperceptible jewellery.
Unlike me – she won't seduce you into snaky issues,
Won't drag you into dark basement corners
To tear your shirt off and hurt your every bone.
But isn't sex supposed to be merciless?
I care too much for you, darling,
To ask you to shatter your little card house –
You were building it for so long.
I care too much for you, darling,
To ask you to make a choice.
What could I possibly give you, except
a deceived heart, my wild uninhibited craving
and a few devoted scratches on your back?
Go to the one who's under the blankets,
Don't bother about my vicious nightmares:
Writers are supposed to be miserable,
Actresses are obliged to laugh...
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 648 times
Written on 2006-11-16 at 17:18
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The one
Go to the one who was always near,Dusting your masculine shoulders off
and licking your injured, bleeding feathers.
To that safe harbour, where a grey boat full of family ideals,
fireplaces and beautiful white napkins is slightly floating,
soothing your wild nature – I'd be feeding it fuel;
To the one who can cherish moments,
Be calm, wise, logical, even respected – unlike me,
She won't try to arouse you every second,
Won't tell you stories of great leaders, evil affairs
And dirty sexual sufferings.
A hundred twenty nights I held up sharpened razors,
But death deserves a better gift –
Sticking you head down the oven, seems
A curious statement, Sylvia.
Of course I love you more than myself,
A compliment and an insult clashed in one sentence.
You're like a unique museum to me, a tower
of heroic acts, big mindsets, chauvinistic inspirations.
A tremendous statue representing the male race.
It's ok, don't worry. Go to the one,
who is balanced and educated,
Who feels passion for you, not for mirrors.
The one who wears long garments, rational shoes
and imperceptible jewellery.
Unlike me – she won't seduce you into snaky issues,
Won't drag you into dark basement corners
To tear your shirt off and hurt your every bone.
But isn't sex supposed to be merciless?
I care too much for you, darling,
To ask you to shatter your little card house –
You were building it for so long.
I care too much for you, darling,
To ask you to make a choice.
What could I possibly give you, except
a deceived heart, my wild uninhibited craving
and a few devoted scratches on your back?
Go to the one who's under the blankets,
Don't bother about my vicious nightmares:
Writers are supposed to be miserable,
Actresses are obliged to laugh...
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 648 times
Written on 2006-11-16 at 17:18
Tags Love
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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