Poèmes sur le thème : pleasure

Poèmes sur le thème « pleasure » sur Poets.by.

TristeDave Bonta

Sadomasochist’s lament

pleasure is a spent country having laws but no art like pain which the poor have perfected and now refuse out of hand
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Sluggish

a slug is light lined with velvet a modish rider on foot full of beer he is a prodigal memorandum signed and sealed on the arithmetic of pleasure
TristeDave Bonta

Pimp

the pleasure merchant in his gold-buttoned suit is only gentle alone late at night a bottle to fill with wine
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Now or never

measuring pleasure I have found thin things and fat let desires not trouble me which are too little for any use but I must not blame now for never the longest unpleasant afternoon
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Emptying

in some mathematical vision we proceed by striving to find a void quick pleasures and sharp agonies turn into art after a time who at the burial of lust could forbear being ash
ContemplatifDave Bonta

Surfeit

A full ox is said to tower, half house and rank as night. Life be blessed, but I am much against too much, now that we leave pleasure to the rope.
En colèreDave Bonta

Re/creation

I work at leisure— a holy war. I have bought all my own pleasures and so proceed in a supper of ash, ourselves a dish.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Cogma

I work with pleasure. Near an end of work, I burn to give satisfaction to the company. Take me. Make me.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Khayyamesque

Lord’s day. My Lord preached: “To whom much is given, of him much is required.” I took her to my Lord’s wine garden where I was exceeding free with her and she free as me.
JoyeuxDave Bonta

Gain and Ache

Gain and ache are the greatest guides. We lay with women, being pretty handsome. We went to bed, being somewhat ill, afterwards disputing for and against extemporary prayer.
TristeDave Bonta

Purge

Not quite rid of myself, what is best to keep? According to instructions received from the Lord, pleasure is a question that I should not understand, my mouth ought to rage. But my books had been flags without a country and I a pen. Cold cannot love the winter, or