Adult Film Star Fabrice'

Luna Bourbon Street

I became a creature of the moon.
No more day for me:
only the veil of the night to hide my misery.
Whose fault? Who is to blame for this fate?
Of the mistakes of a distant time ... Yet, around the corner,
an unhealthy love, madness, sold soul to the devil.
does not matter anymore, not more.

It 's like a sweet song, Gothic and elusive to tell my story:
listen and know everything, without that I should talk about it.
I just have to walk on this desolate road, bathed by the moon.
Listening to those magical notes ... let me drag as ...
I can not stop me, I must be here every night
to chase my wake below the fold of the moon,
with my pale face and a crowd with me ...

I crawl along this path and God is my witness:
know to be wrong and I repent and regret every night,
However, this is my destiny;
condemned to repeat it endlessly.

The endless pain of this if no love is
all happened long ago, as ever, as ever,
have been promised in this life, as a sacrificial lamb,
have been promised that drags me in the dark ...
I do not know, never again, the light of noon
is simply given me the light show at midnight.
A veil of coldness hides my bitter and beastly grin: I
the hands of sinful but the heart of a saint.
And my shadow is tainted by the shadow of the moon.

He, he, he ...
He walks every day along the streets of this city,
he is guilty, unworthy and contemptible.
I was waiting in his long, day, at night,
I waited long and painful, day and night fighting
my self-esteem, against reason, against the madness.
I prayed to the Immaculate Virgin, during the absurd expectation.
I loved what I was destroyed.
I destroyed what I loved.

I drag my poor limbs tormented every single night.
Maybe I will see, maybe you will see my shadow
a moonlit night breeze along Bourbon Street ...


(poetry inspired by the song Moon Over Bourbon Street Sting , a sort of remake! I read the text in the blog Sails / Ivy and from there, at his suggestion, the idea to write poems inspired by the suggestions generated by the song. This is the result: I find I have much in common with the gothic melancholy of the original text ...)

Weres The Pin Number On A Ds Game

Your senile childishness and my heart in rags


How could I imagine that was it the end?
How, how could I know ...
What is to blame?
Or rather, yes, even better:
of who is the crime?
of us has his hands guilty?
Who among us will be forever stained
of indelible shame?

Water, forgiveness, amnesia of the time that everything flows, everything
forget: wash away the insult.
carried away everything, every ... This

is my personal descent into hell.
Who had had a premonition? A coward
fate and dumb, unable
in his megalomania
to warn us before the
endless torments that awaited us.

And now inherit pain,
as they are miserable!

But imagine how all this?
on my hands and the unmistakable signs of humiliation;
and in your hands, your consciousness faceless
signs of lying, deceit ...
and this is too much, in heaven's name, too much for both!

taciamo now and we forget our miseries, joys
our alternatives.
Time will tear away the memory
return and new creatures, like a virgin
thought never thought about it. How
that dream ... just shut up.

Fate jokes, makes fun of us
behind us, certainly to my;
deception that has strained,
plotting its undisturbed plot.

A Picasso face, eyes and tears,
on my face in the mirror;
you walk bare-headed, head-
:
your senile childishness will be omitted
and your sin is hidden, concealed not only
to my heart,
to my heart ... or thing in his stead.

How could presage an epilogue so unworthy? How
intuit prematurely?
Shhhh ... this is the moment of contrition.
This is just mundane madness!
This is ... it was love!
Silence. That now, yes, it is now silent. I spoke too
:
now hide my shameful
hands and my heart in rags ... or thing in its place ...

September 17, 2008

(this is what is left of a born story wrong from the beginning, this is all that remains of a Year of Living Dangerously, this is the diary of many mistakes by not making anything, ever again, this is the bitterness of love ...)

Replacement Boombox Antenaes

Woman, heroine of the world

Woman, eyes with dew, the arms of soft feathers, heart
sugar, iron will,
your solid body is the pillar on which rests the world.
In your veins flows the love flows like the Nile.
Donna, the mother of Life,
walk through the steps of your life, with difficulty, but with unwavering confidence
,
dispensing food where there is only misery.
's smile and spirit of sacrifice are your wrinkles
and you show her fair eye watching you,
the show as a decorative lace and roses with thorns.

ordinary woman, this is you heroin in the world because
express your courage in the reality of everyday heroism in those small
nestled in the folds of each day.
You are the example to your sisters:
when wars, suffering, evil exhausted
will teach you not to yield to the yield of the offense.

Donna, an artist, queen, worker, student, lover
hundreds of portraits of Ms. evoke your face.
But nobody really knows who you are:
that is a mystery that only you know.
you the many faces of nature and the immortality of the time. You
History teaches with wisdom, you are poetry. You

resistance to pain!
resistance to injury!
resistance to poverty!
resistance to injustice ... Oh, your thousand names!
Women, the signs on the palms are your struggles and your victories.
This world often do not deserve:
not understand, can not love you, do not know how to respect.
yet, you woman, proud and tall,
shouting your claims without fear!

Now, stop to look at the blinding brightness of the yellow mimosa ...
But stop to it: you're so much more!
and enables a new future to find you,
stretch out your arms and tilt your steps to tomorrow.
Women, the world is yours! Every Day Is Yours!
're the favorite daughter of this that we celebrate March 8,
but you are the favorite daughter every day, you're always
woman, do not forget,
and makes' your nature is a privilege every one of those days!
Take up the flag of your passion and your courage with pride!
Women, never forget your strength
makes you safe and impregnable fortress!

2009

(poetry on the theme of International Women's Day written for a literary competition)

What Are The Top Ten Wegies

Rosa rosae II

The last rose that remains,
then I do not anymore. Yellow
.
yellow petal hand-painted,
-the-art,
prodigy with an intricate embroidery of silk.

Alone in a vase,
in undisturbed contemplation of self, of what was
.
Of what did not.
Never was. Never.

E 'the legacy of a floral gift
load of wonder and longing
shameful that I was offered.
E 'and the legacy of the unexpected surprise
thought of being a woman, me, whom tribute, as befits
, with typical attention
flowers.

My yellow rose. Only my
.
Portrayed in thousands of photos, pictures yellow.
It amused smile.

The first pink, my.
But it is also, perhaps, the last:
God knows if I will donate again?

The vanity of her tender pink yellow sticks,
as a star of silent films,
lonely in his water bowl.
the console with indulgent eye,
reassuring about his majesty, the
note with tenderness.
Youth disappears
be celebrated at the time and accompanied with a solemn face adult
seriously.
like the petals of my yellow rose, slipped into the rest
recently, very little ...

God knows if I will be donated to another, one day?

December 20, 2008

(yes, the only survivor of the rose of the poem "Pink Rose")