Psycho Romantics - Rose Blanc III

Transcribed on

  Rose Blanc - Poem Collection III

Psycho Romantics

<>~~<>~~<>Actually by: Zeerdank<>~~<>~~<>


Fawning love, what a dear blossom of affectivities; and so easily celebrated too. Indeed who may deny the mystery of the hearts, the shuddering excitations, and the stolen kisses… Oh passion just might taketh thee at its thought! Yet tip the line too far to then find lunacy to be bought… Forgive the rhyme, I dost mean it true, that couldst a heart be unchained, then psychosity is all there’d beeth. Obsession is a rather fine word for it I think— And I think I know that dullard regularly enough these days.


Yet, such a mind made it that I mayst stand sided with a great romance known only to heroes o’ old; and indeed that I am sided to—


A sweetest of princes, my held rose.


- Rose Blanc


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I -  Hope Lost and Manic


Unendurable pains, then…

To coddled by swathings o’ light!

Dost living its worthing lose all-

-When, leaving the lover from sight?


Couldst hum stably a heart, with-

Scars on scars that deepen or want…

Shouldst then that maniac love know-

-Frith, their mind is nearing detent…


Angel which angels make idol~

That is as thou are to me~

Painful, to I faith from thee~

Yet trapping thine idyll stills be~


Unwavering hungers, pray…

Nature o’ carnal affection…

Mayst flesh sear never, I beg thee-

-Stay, persist as my affliction!


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II -  A Leering Pretender


Darling, dearing, dost not voyeur~

Disgusting, distrusting, cease at once…

Lascivious eyes play games far coyer~

From hands and tongues, perverse confronts…


Like that, thou art a lecher certain!

As well as any creeping wont….

Should fear or passion close the curtain…

The same will force thou then to hunt!


Pedantic, be the vulgar mind,

On judgements to the fuller bodies,

I speak not just o’ vintage wines,

But fair chaste antitheticals!

That dichotomy is ultimate!

On prudence or perversion,

And the choice is then imbalanced,

As far as libertines are certain~


Is it not just of the sophist?

Should pretense masque en mass?

And if propriety comes hand over fist?

Why not lecher true and crass?


…Lest we play pretend all day, 

And then to self we ask…

Wherefore that freedom true of flesh~

That then needeth a masque?


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III - Full Bodied Love 


Waste not thy lips on love’s sweet wine,

Too full for I, too saccharine.


Drink instead, that cup so sour,

And so greatly bitter not pass’d the hour.


Yet confuse not my ferments; tyrannic,

Even shouldst it seem titanic.


That I mean; the way it tastes,

In bittersweet, not a sweet that wastes.


I beg thee, look to me as you are, pray,

Not but pourings of the day.


Nor the vintage prise to keep,

But instead, the caution of prices steep.


The savvy knows of those bodied red,

That our lips must easy tread.


Moderate or harm thy’d will,

Upon our love which thou might kill.


Waste not a tongue on wine which sings,

A cruel bottle which never brings.


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IV - Roses Which Prick


Sempervirent, one with life;

A merry fleur shalt great make rule.

Vested tryants, making strife!

A perfect picture blinds a fool!


For king and country alone!

Doth that crimson petal fester…

That with their targets unknown;

Doth a rebel play the jester.


Roses which prick, bleeding red~

Roses pretty, country’s dead~

Roses I love,  them to me~

Roses for eternity.


Selfish for the nation wilt…

Like, as if, no sun that breaks out…

And with lie a kingdom’s built—

Like, pray tell, a high noble’s tout!


Fleur so intoxicating,

And vivifies the ideal!

All logic abdicating;

To make clouds of what was real…


Roses which prick, bleeding red~

Roses pretty, country’s dead~

Roses I love,  them to me~

Roses for eternity.


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V - Metempsychotic Heart


It beats like no others;

It bleeds just the same;

It screams and it wuthers;

It knows not of shame.


Return now to me; immortal heart;

Fraught with a love on which I beckon~

What dream doth call thee, from me, apart?


Wherever the wind blows I reckon,

And any other movement taken;

Cannot thee hide; not for a second.


I see thy fear; thy bones cold, shaken—

As to my love, thou have cut loose;

Heed no more calls of which beg waken…!


My heart; immortal, drenched in abuse!

Bereft from all loving to obsess,

And it cries so sharp, in pain profuse.


Yet surely thy love, to me, profess—

Thou could run, yet still, I chase wrongless.


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VI - The Lovers Upright


One to other, ‘fairs o’ gray— now vest to here and there~

Volatile and further vile a heart may turn to fare…


Think no more that love is but unmoving and now dead,

Lost the mass to greater class, or manner higherbred…

Hurt and bled: by which thy heart… Come over hitherto,

Dear held rose— my muse of poem— whose love despairs ego!

Fret not there… For what thy care, I cherish with no end~

Fleur romance, the heart thy bare, like roses which I tend~


Dear, let not the charring hearts to thee scare ofter hence…

Good love rules, if only should: my vanguard give thee sense~

Offered then an invite writ, to thee; that which I ‘cate,

Correspond, thy darker words and weights I then await~

Shouldst daemon or a mental grim go on a hexing free,

Countless love— a shine of stars, to thee my light shall be…


Dusk on broader lines that light the darkest morning moon,

In a mind enduring blacken stars that soul consume,

Pour o’ rain on: oth’wise whiten days or purer skies!

Ephemeral, my tears that tear the deaden hearts, arise!

Stopping sleight: a slight upon thy lovest hearting wiles~

Symphonies, an epoch true of loving all the while.


Lest they then forego…  The promised charters I demand…

Pity it, yet dost not think to what exact comes hand…


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VII - Within Hunger


O’ painful pang which wraiths all proper thought;

That wanting hunt who would strike to bring err;

O’ hunger throes midst crucial logic fraught;

That grating scratch of which we call hunger.


And no good man if he is so knows such;

Cannot the virtue shield him from its claws,

And never will the few upset the much;

Cannot the reasons stave us from what gnaws.


Again the hunger pangs do take their minds;

Strumming songs that speak for carnal somethings;

Again they heed the pangs which lustful binds;

Strumming their profoundly perverse heartstrings.


Rather what a pity to then witness;

Rather what a merry with its fitness.


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VIII - Moon of Rouge


I— On the even, on the night of…

Whereverfor and evermore the light doth shinest;

Thence on were a hue of passion’s time…

Which sayth— direct, to me, of love sublime.


Such luminance of which I am akin;

The light it shone that maketh life less dim.


Pray thee, dear, pray thee!

If only but a second shine on me~

Such red celes; such cruel succour!

My dear, my dear, your rouge allure.


Render me— as promised— that pure ecstasy;

Consecrate my whole with your sweet fantasy.


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Lovely isn’t it, darling?

- Rose Blanc

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