New Poems...

And since I can find no other outlet right now... seems no one is interested in my material at current... why not just toss them on the blog and make a vain hope that something germinates and catches and excites some literary type out there to gimmi a chapbook, or shudder... a full fledge publishing deal. Ha! This one is to wild dreams and aspirations...

Left Behind


...And it seems,
When it is you came to mind,
You'd moved on,
And I've been left behind.


Yannick Nesta Pessoa
Copyright ©2007 Yannick Nesta Pessoa

Run Away Thoughts on Love and Cost

What it is about you,
Sometimes I just can't tell,
Maybe it's your purple pheromone,
Or the fact that you wear it so well,
My favourite flavour of green,
My flavourite smell,
What it is,
I just can't tell.

Maybe it's how your scent,
Pricks my nostrils,
Until...
Memories arise and I am aroused,
Yet constrained by what time and space allows,
Dying to linger and to carouse.

Yes, yes, yes,
I must confess,
I am left...
Feeling like less,
Saddled with the still life images,
Of when I would sipple,
On impurpled neck, lip and nipple.

Maybe it the tip,
Yes the tip of your lip,
Or the convex curve of your hip,
That brings that moth in me fluttering to life,
Like being drawn to light,
Ending if only temporarily my turmoil and strife.

Yes, yes, yes,
I must confess,
I am left...
Feeling distress,
Saddled with the still life images,
Visions of us living in rural seaside villages,
Prisoner of passion in times passages.

Likkle Ms Red Riding Hood
 
Back to reality I said,
Fantasy worlds she explores instead.
So if you must go...
to the real world as it were...
Which of your fairy tales am I?

Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White...
And she names quite a few,
In a haste and in a rush she asks...
Which am I to you?

Hold on nuh, hold on nuh,
Stalling for time,
Ploughing and rooting through my mind,
Trying to get one through...

She had hurtled her questions,
With Matriarchal Supremecy,
She brimmed with a hubris of one certain of victory...
This I knew.

Hold on nuh, hold on nuh!
Now finding the one to get me through,
I found my stone,
Now in memory of father's face let my aim be true.

And like a shepherd boy and a giant,
I am that which you had not suspected,
The one she never knew,
In coy shy dry wry humility I sail one bullet,
Now let my aim be true.

And like a King before me,
I am the wolf in shepherd's clothing,
The big bad wolf,
And before she can finish hoisting another
which am I to you?

I respond...

You are...

My Likkle Red Riding Hood.

My Gospel

My dearest dear,
My fair-est fair,
It is you I invite to read my Gospel,
To be enchanted by my god-spell,
I'll be your Jesus,
And make you my dearest apostle,
My acolyte,
Secret place at night,
Cleave to me,
Let your thighs show belief,
And hold me tight,
I make miracles and set things right,
I am the golden child,
Brilliant and bright,
Touch the hem of my tattered garment,
And I'll undo yours.
 
Yannick Nesta Pessoa

Christmas

I had dream where Jesus turned in his grave,
Christmas consumes the souls he came to save,
Money and mammon are masters and many are slave,
Picking up their crosses and forgetting his cross and all he gave,
Neon signs on the road to future we pave,
Commerce and WWJD is all the rave.

The cock crows thrice on Christ's mas Eve,
Many celebrate not knowing what they believe,
Content with meager salaries and bonus the receive,
Merchants peddle and use fat red saints to deceive,
Tell strange and compelling stories about how a virgin did conceive,
Always forgetting the truth of how the King does grieve.


MY LOLITA

So, so, so...
I've be lulled by the way you loll,
By big bottoms and dimpled thighs,
Imperfect skin like mine and coy smile,
Unrevealing eyes.

Here I am in my secret place,
Cursed in the strangest of ways,
By you my Delores Haze,
Captivated, I simply look and gaze,
...And view,
You.

Sixteen,
Young fresh and not so green,
Black velveteen,
And me the Natty libertine.

Bubbler bubbling in...
Her Rapunzel room,
Her Board House Bordeaux,
Secret smiles,
With secrets in eyes,
Do you realize,
You are my Lolita.


Left Over Wine

I must have been forgot,
In his Majesty's schemes and plot,
For I am king too...
Am I not?

It seems in the grand design,
I was left behind,
For after lesser mortals do dine,
It is I who must suffer sipping the left over wine.


She Greaves

Some how...
I failed to expect such vulgar and hostile silence,
An uncommonly profound and intangible sort of violence.

She left and still leaves,
She grieves,
Because I deceive,
She couldn't believe,
In the web of lives and lies this dreamer weaves.

Was my presence so bitter and so vile...
Such a nuisance all the while,
That now...
Not even a smile.

And has my doubtful path,
My unwavering course of majestic disasters,
My penchant for being the dirtiest of pretty things...
Caused this harsh and parched and caustic... exile,
To the periphery of your embattled existence,
Have I compounded the blighted years,
Add green bottles of tears.

I don't know...
But I do understand...
That though she ...
I'll never See Moan or mourn,
I now know she Greaves.


Rahab: Into An Harlot's House

She has eyes like fire,
That dance and flitter with desire,
She had harlequin lips,
Soft subtle hips,
Coy postures and quirky quips,
She shimmers with the danger and legacy of hollow tips,
Black and comely,
She is a lovely... thing,
And oh how the crescent is alive with whispering,
Rumouring... that you might be inviting,
The neo libertine... The Herlequin King... in,
And oh isn't he tempted to prolong this legacy of sin.


Seekers of Dreams

Across the blank, white landscapes,
We battle the vapid and mundane,
Lexical mancing and lexical graphing,
To paint images to bland minds,
To link soul to art,
We make works of heart,
Searching the caverns of the brain,
Ever yearning for the pinnacle of the mind,
We battle on a deep, silent plain of white,
Spilling ink with ever slash,
We tie yesterday with memories,
Bound to honour beauty,
Love and art are our duty,
We are the seekers of dreams.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa


Turquoise Sea

…And I see it clear, 
It’s fluid, 
somewhere in here, 
whispering of something, 
I should know out there.

It’s the world I want,
it’s mellow, 
With the girl I want, 
supple and spirited,
I need to reach yet I can’t.

My eyes burn with clarity, 
As I am immersed in briny waters, 
Sky blue and teal,
Colour the world I can feel...

Yannick Nesta Pessoa


Silence On All Frequencies

I won't speak,
For to speak is to lie,
I won't listen,
For to listen is to be deceived,
I won't think,
For to think is to make belief,
I won't be touched,
For to be touched is to hurt,
I won't smell and taste,
For to smell and taste is to remember.

AM, FM, I'm dead on all frequencies,
I'll take it on mono,
I'll take radio silence,
Fly solo,
Its hard to determine,
Did I dream a belief,
Or was it that I believed a dream.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa


Middle of Nowhere Restaurant

…I sit amongst devils and a whore, 
Exactly where I’m not sure,
The Middle of Nowhere Restaurant most certainly.

The children of the damned scamper here at dawn,
The wretched of the earth stumble in,
Here is home and haven to sin,
The elderly are imps of darkness,
Bent and crooked and thin.

I’ve heard it said,
That the rapture must come,
The good ones must go,
While the rest will reap,
Hell in the evils we used to sow.

The light shines here,
But it’s still dark,
It mourns of a yesterday with a hope and spark,
But its all gone now,
The Beast has left its mark.

Yannick Nesta Pessoa

The Wandering Jew

I wash the dried saliva from my face,
I hope the scent of sin will wash away too,
I look out the window and see the world by night,
Pastel designed in mellow moods and tragedies,
While stars, watchers, sing melodies of memories and maladies,
I search the sky for David's star on my way to my very own beloved Bethlehem,
And I wonder...
Are the stories true...
Is there really a long lost wandering Jew.


Ode to Idle Thinkers

For all those who stare out the window,
Beyond the mountain and beyond the tree,
This poem connects all those who think like me.

Holding on to all those... though,
Shackled by people's alleged reality,
Still manage to look pass the ocean and deep into the see.


Unleaded

The sunsets and the evening sky is period red,
Simon Garfunkel's Cecelia is playing in my head,
I unhear all the things she said,
I only wish the succubus were dead,
She said she liked me cause I was unleaded.