Lyrics, poetry and art all meshed together

Friday, June 30, 2006

HAPPY FRIDAY and have a great weekend my fellow bloggers!!

Make sure you smell the roses, taste the rainbow, listen to the sweet verses from the balmy air and appreciate the beauty of life. Take the time to chill and kickback. As for me, I just moved to my new apartment on Tuesday so i'll be unpacking and cleaning around. I am thrilled to be in a new place. The scent of an unchartered territory moves me to tears, naw, i'm not that sentimental, lol. Let's just say it was about time. Moving is a pain in the ass but I have found my quiet niche. I will provide pics once I finally purchase a digital camera. I am so behind with technology, it's sad, lol, just two months ago a friend bought me my very first DVD, all this time I was using my VHS, didn't want to get rid of my baby.

Well, i'll keep you all posted with before and after pics, this place is so lovely, I can't wait to decorate. For now it looks overwhelming since boxes and hefty bags are everywhere. I wish I was somewhere at a tiki bar overlooking the ocean while taking notes in my journal and thinking of story ideas. Most of my friends have plans this weekend, they know where to find me from Saturday thru Tuesday, i'll be chained to my apartment .

I saw this cool pic and I had to share. Can you imagine being chained up like this, unable to be free? Unable to be yourself. Well, I compare this to my job sometimes. Being cooped up at my desk for 9 hours a day. Ugggghhhh, ok let's not talk about work. There is a tiny blessing when it comes to working, we get off at 12 noon on Fridays from July thru September 1st so I guess I shouldn't whine too much about it, for now :)

Of course I will make the time to post some more poems for your viewing pleasure. I haven't been writing as much this week due to my move but be prepared, over the weekend I will sizzle your BBQ palates with some spicy wings ;)

Here I was cleaning and packing stuff for my move and I stumbled upon one of my many journals, this one dated June 2001. I will share with you the first few pages of what I wrote...

June 2001:

What I crave...
Yes, sometimes when I lay down at night staring up at the ceiling, I crave...I crave for some arms to hold me near, to let me know I'm dear and to have no fear of tomorrow. I crave for lips to touch mine, soft and warm to remind me that he will be mine, real and genuine. I crave for romance, the kind that only ocean waves whisper to each other, deep and strong. I crave love, unconditional, that even when death comes my way, his love will not let me be forgotten. I crave quiet storms, naked nights, a snuggle under warm sheets, feet that tickles and cheek to cheek. I crave eyes that stare into mine and tell me without words I am to be desired and honored. I crave sweet words, sweet enough to put me to sleep, to rock me gently, passion hot enough to burn my skin. The music of a man's heart when my head rest on his chest and I smile with content. I crave too another world such cravings would be infinite and I would no longer feel such yearns.

There are more entries to this journal, this was just a small preview...

tata for now :)

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


At the sight of your love
I have summoned the skies to crack open
Its windows and pour a free verse of rain
White doves flutter sweetly like the song in your eyes
I understand how it’s possible for the heart
To speak in tongues when the morning mist
Covers more than a 1000 acres of

Handwritten deliverance
(c)2006 by Cathy Delaleu

TWAL ZWAZO (silk bird)
Her space is
The settlement of rusted flesh
Her sense of isolation
Is lamentation in her accordion dream
A female ventriloquist
In a state of longing
Collaboration gelled in her empty eyes
Empty heart
Empty soul
Buried climax
Head wrapped with recitation
Knotted by horsehair with fish bones
Underskinned fighting for courage
Crucified by sleep without rest
Politics urinating blood
Leave streaks of echoes

Chained by poverty
With lack of literacy
She wants to be set free
From instability
Free from coup d’etat’s whips
Free from the useless UN
Free from the ruckus of drop spit from the elite
Their legacy migrates seasons of drought
On eye sockets nestled in pus
No water to irrigate the peasants
My ancestors descended from Jeremie
Down the tiny hill of Rozeau
The village town where women eat mud with their toes
And men pour their wounds on Haiti’s soil
You will find her there
Sheltered in her carnivorous bones soft like manioc
Hairless with her virus
She will question you with Mardi gras smile
Who are you?
What can you do to help your own?
Take note
Take a tape recorder
Her story she wants to be told
Hurry before she flies away with Diaspora wings
Before she reach the skies with the claws of her spine
There is no rainfall in her coffin
No vegetation
The rivers have dried out her name
The scent of bones is felt
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Saturday, June 24, 2006


Escape with my petal
Come give me the gift of life
With reliable moisture
Not fast and furious
I want the kind that claims my Lower East Side
With lumiere and a “Oh Hello”
And spin me to Deep Space 9
Until a jury decides
You are no ordinary intergalactic lover
You can categorize my 718 glutes as an ass-banger
With spinna-fide skills when you ring my bell
Not the traditional way
You finger it like you know it
You’re the cock that crows the familiar
with an open mic session of earthy delights
I am wet
It happens often when you contribute matters of the heart
With your fiery blade
I love the moisture you leave behind
That tilts the moon with our medieval charade
I will mount lustful feet with blazing eyes
To smudge your body with a sea of physical evidence
© 2006 by Cathy Delaleu


She will only show you what she’s willing to tell
Every part of her shell is a segment of confessional intimacy
The spool thread of her eyes is a meditative mist
Of secrets passed between solitude and separation
She is a diaphanous frame of special circumstances
A glass lantern of icicle tears
Don’t make attempts to love her
She can’t promise you her heart
It’s hard to lie on
Easy to use
Impossible to clean
© 2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Thursday, June 22, 2006

The orgasmic sea tucks scent of the Milky Way
Spilling lava on her page like opium moonlight
And with the meat and juice of her erotic calabash
He uses it properly as his work of art
© 2006 by Cathy Delaleu


I am scheduled to smile
Smile like a clown with chalk-white teeth
A reference to let him know I’m happy with this job

To please the naked eye with images of comfort
Pretense feels like acid on my skin

No need to give me a raise
No need to drop me a quarter for every drop of overtime
Generally I should enjoy the scenery of justice
And the isolated clique of outward appearance
Your reputation is an investment you have worked too hard
To contain in your Marlboro breath
Your conception of the humankind lacks sympathy
For you will never understand the weight of my flesh
You will never step on my #5 train to Flatbush and breathe my air
Naturally it would make you puke
You’ll look down on me with questionable mockery
I wonder why I should smile for your ass
Your expensive suit rustles Armani
My Payless shoe artificially startles Madison Avenue’s carpet

You want me to greet you “Si signor”
“Bonjour monsieur” “Ciao”

While you ignore the rich substance seated in front of you
Go ahead give me the #3 review I have grown to swallow
I have studied your routine 9 hours a day
Even counted the many times you’ve gone to bust a rock in the men’s room
I know your in’s and out
Not even your wife knows as much as I do
Yet you look at me like a perishable good
By the way my day has come to say goodbye
The sun is slowly declining
It’s time for me to pick up my wings and fly
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu
I'm having one of those moments
where I wish I could quit my job and write full time
To me working a 9-5 job is torture
Especially when I'm not at all appreciated by my boss
I prefer to be home writing poetry and working on my novels
The hours in the office are long
I get to work at 7:30 a.m. and I leave the office at 4:30 pm sometimes later
I don't get home until after 6 pm
Well, I hope things will get better for me
I'm just tired of the same old routine
and i'm sure many can relate, especially if you're a writer
so my question is: what is your dream job?
Mine of course is to write and travel,
travel to acquaint myself with other cultures
and write about them, yeah more like a travel writer
What would you be doing with your life?
What is your passion?
I'm sure it's not sitting in a cubicle counting the minutes

Monday, June 19, 2006

(dedication to Audrey Hepburn)

Giving speeches with fairy tale eyes
Creamy cheeks offer a semester of Vogue
Compulsion frolic with sophistication
Breakfast is her hors d’oeuvre at Tiffany’s
Where she glitters with historical presence
The rules of femininity punctuates in her magical kingdom
Whistles sweet emblematic rituals
The fidgetiness of class in her funny face

Delicate swan-like neck
Well-schooled with modesty
Overly guided by a lover’s innocence
Twinkle this little star
Delightfully she shines with color and smiles
She will offer you a Roman holiday without frills
War and peace in green mansions a charade on Lavender Hill
She is My Fair Lady with the golden heart
Hanging her pendant charm with nobility
Cinematic serenity wraps her years of integrity
With selfless devotion
She wants you to love her intentional artistry
To venture her art of reverie
Her impromptu speech of princes and paupers
Are only found in a lover’s playground
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu


Tonight you will cater romance with i-Pod ready candles
Black pepper stars awaits with silver and gold necklaces
I will impress you with my tiers and tulles
You will offer me calla lilies
I will toss my bouquet in the air in memory of Romeo and Juliet
The founders of love until death
Voluble corsetry to arouse track marks with a crotchless panty
A decadent fantasy
I am ready to commence love with fluency
This guiltless undefiled pleasure
Of flesh screaming legality
Our screenplay is unrated
A vicious dance hall of fingers
Murmurs symphonic liberation
Vocal cords acquaint with your projector
I am your evening jamboree with the carousel garden
I will pawn your heart implying philosophy of deep penetration
No delusion when my belly gasps your hunger
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Sunday, June 18, 2006


I’ll sing to you my blues
To win you over with open
Passages of my lungs
I’ll sing to you my devotion
I know my touch is not enough
I know my scent evaporates quickly
That’s why I shudder musical tones
To permeate the sultry wind and capture
Your heart juggling with my ebony kisses

I’ll tighten your surfaces with musical light bulbs
And flatter your breath until al dente skies
Turn soft and weep mutually with my blues

I’ll sing to you with soul
To give the impression of complete happiness
To lessen the pain-drenched climate between us

We’ll float backwards with belated air
We’ll pretend our night’s rest was only
Disturbed by my blues
© 2006 by Cathy Delaleu


Shhhhhhhhhhh…no words to be expressed
Feel the throbbing hurricane waiting to be blessed
The insistent beauty of earth and sand is feverish
Pull her out of the rubble
She is waiting
Her elasticity has promises securely snug
With the pound of excitement
The pace of her heart echoes without static
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


Frappucino blend produces a god
Tell me, what makes him glow in the dark?
She skinny-dips her thoughts on their water bed
The sheets shiver with waves
It makes him sentimental
A titanic ligature sneaks up with shyness
Her words flowers earth tone blend of musk
Hungry eyes gently brew like walnut
The moment he pierces night with promises
She puffs out stars
His pattern intermingles with her complexion
Somewhere the gloom of intercourse tinker bells
A love that captures their soul’s ignition
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu


I’ve been in love before…
I’ve read it somewhere under tremulous clouds
I’ve been in love before…
A busload of fingertips praised my universe
I’ve been in love before…
Slung by wide-eyed kisses
Chemistry warms murmurously
down my throat
And now I float
Feet smells like brown sugar

©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Big Butt Bold and Powerful

I got tits the size of watermelons

I got horse hair and I got me a horse's ass. Take a look, it's all around us. We are surrounded by it and men are loving it. Yep, ladies, i'm referring to the booty, ass, anus, butt, bootius maximus. Yours, mine and others are exposed for the men who are no doubt fascinated by juicy meat. What's strange is that more and more women are getting butt enlargements. 1. So tell me, would you consider a booty lift surgery over a breast lift to please your man or yourself, if so why?

Unless you're the kind of guy who is more
into a woman's chest then that's different.
Now dolls are made with extra junk the trunk and more meat on their breasts. You've seen the videos on MTV and BET. Guess what? Barbie is tired, fired and needs to retire. Ken been having jungle fever on the DL (old news), lol... Yep, believe it or not, women are having surgery in order to add more and more cushion, especially those who weren't blessed with buns.
Some men prefer both tits and booty while others specifically require a type A (ASS) similar to Jenny from the block (Jennifer Lopez) whom many believe opened the doors to the bootylicious Bible, but I think the craze has been here all along. So ladies: 2. Why do you think a man stare so hard at a round booty like a pair of cue cards? Is it because of the endless fantasies running in his mind of this fine ass? Of course some men would vouch they like boobs, but 9 out of 10 are gawking at a woman's behind in the streets, especially here in NY the land of milk chocolate and caramel thunder.
Well, hit back and share your thoughts.

Daffodils At Midnight

The burn is...unbearable
Whispers in my pores
I can’t balance midnight’s darkness
With your humid desire
I can’t control the glossy shot of lips
Wanting to lick you
I am in heat
My sweat speaks scorching truth

©2006 by Cathy Delaleu


He has come too late
I am no longer the village he awaits
My dancer shoes I have put away
He can’t see me cry
I won’t let him
My tears are broken into tiny specks of flesh
Glued under my spine
I can no longer carry his lies
For the sake of sensibility
Deep in this graveyard my torso is limp
I have shaven all spectacles
To start over an anthology of pleasure
And welcome the sanctity of silence

©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Friday, June 09, 2006

Scented Roses on Afro Puffs

Come here baby
Have you noticed?
See what I did today for the name of love
For the name of OUR love
I cut all my hair
I want you to smell me
I want you to smell my natural beauty
My hair I cut short
I took out my weave
Exposed for all to see my vulnerability
You can feel my scalp
Smell my pores drenched in scented tea tree
Run your fingers through my hair
Soft like an angel’s wings
I’ll pull them back today in afro puffs
Thanks for the roses baby
With them I’ll decorate my hair like the garden you constantly water below
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu

I was inspired to write this poem because I am thinking about cutting my hair. The last time I was spotted with a short hairstyle was over ten years ago and now I've caught the itch to do it again. I will keep you all posted. I am nervous about it. I've been so used to braids and weaves, but I am now at a time in my life where I feel comfortable under my skin and don't really care about what others might think about my short-do. I guess it comes with age, you reach a point in your life when you say to yourself "self, I am going to treat you right, I am going to make you feel and look better."

6/10/06 (Sat.) So here's the latest scoop, I woke up early this morning to call some hair salons for my hair but the five salons I contacted were all booked. Here I was on fire to get my hair cut and now I must wait. One place in particular which I researched online was Curves Hair Salon and they specialize in short or long natural hair and I have to wait a month to see a stylist AND I have to pay $75 in advance (debit or credit card) to hold my spot and if I cancel the appointment I lose the money. Can you believe it? I've never heard of a beauty salon asking money in advance for an appointment. Of course I was disappointed. Oh well! I ended up getting my braids done again and I will gladly share pictures soon. It looks nice, i'm happy with it but in the back of my mind i'm still thinking I want short, short, short. I'm sure many women out there can relate, when you're tired of the same old style and when you feel so ready to make a change.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006


What he paints is her skin
With oil soaked by the sun
He makes her in his creation
What represents beauty in the horizon
His pastel fingers caresses love in her eyes
Melancholic dreams in a field of orchards
Cheerful rays spill raw notes into her peach lantern
Fingers molding her into gold clay without any shades
The beautified goddess is preserved on a bathtub of grass
Bubbled with fragrant notes of peonies
Massaging his imagination with her angelic face
Touched and re-touched by her floral scent
He puts her on a pedestal
High up for all to praise
They will all see she is the sweet muse of his exhibition
She even glows in the dark
Come and reach for beauty
Before you kiss her goodnight
© 2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Monday, June 05, 2006


The last kiss he gave took 4 years to erase
I remembered the blindness of love
All I saw was his light and crooked shapes
Resembling intimate rituals
He powdered my eyes with blasphemy
The pitter-patter of fingers poked
On my pasty face
Indented with delusions
In a raw state I soaked my heart
The size of chestnut under rough covers
Synthetic flesh screams mille-feuille of hate

Almost he wants to tell me he cares
Almost he wants to touch the fetish dreams we shared

I won’t look back
I am afraid of his pious insertions

He takes my fingers
I watch him lick and suck each with precision
His moist tongue is like hot whisky
I know I like it
He knows I like it
Desire swells without courtesy
But the last kiss he gave took 4 years to erase
The crustiness ridicules with irony within my folds
© 6/2006 by Cathy Delaleu


I want to crawl back to womanhood
To reach for my genitals and bury them under a hammock
Parade naked under a heated moon with faux pearls
While I throw confetti trinkets to a city of sea virgins
Their bushes still smooth not prickly pears
And behind barbed wires they stare
Envious of my perky breasts
They resemble two flights of stairs
Pricking the sky
The city of wind strokes famishment
Barbaric eyes with sappy tears
Yearn for copulation’s secrets
Of meat and ass
Of gentleman’s appetite
Towards the weaker sex
Decontamination is what they crave
The blessing
The bath of ecstasy
Impatiently they wait for the rain
See other things that don't coincide
© 6/2006 by Cathy Delaleu

Sunday, June 04, 2006

The power of Haitian Art

I feel totally alive when I see how my culture is being presented beautifully out there in the art world. Haitian art is indeed unique and fashionably colorful. The paintings tells a story without words, all you need to do is stare with appreciation at the play of colors. The mood says it all, the landscapes and the settings take you back in time. I simply don't glance when I look at art, I take my time to analyze and try to get in the artist's mind. What made him stroke his passion on an empty canvas?

What inspired him to create a place he has never been before? Unless he imagined it in his dreams. What makes him look at a woman and bless her with golden wings?

Painters like writers are free spirits, they walk the earth with one foot on the ground while the other foot kiss the clouds. What does it mean? Only that their heart is fragile, they are always floating on cloud 9, not jumping out of their skins like the rest of society. Their seduction with life is deeply wrapped inside their pores like a tropical fragrance. Lost in the moment, they think of nothing else.

Haitian painters to me are under-appreciated, many are not recognized for their ability to bring out a sigh of climax in their brush work. Flirtatiously stabbing our eyes with their individuality and not one art work is created equal. Not one color will give you the beginning of a scene without another color telling you how it ends.
Making love with vivid colors using sensibility in abundance is truely a discovery that nourishes the spirit. It's meticulously sketching a character, building layers and layers with exquisite details laced with geography. Haitian painters are philosophers with creative expressions, they keep in mind that they are meant to feed us with symbolism, show us emotions, ignite desires behind their actions. They are great performers but most shall remain nameless unless we pay attention.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Writing for Love without Pride

I like to compare the love of writing to food, I can't live without it. And now that I have found this refreshingly sweet home to post my thoughts, I'm addicted. I'm on chapter two of this short story i'm working on, and the plot is getting better and better. There are ups and downs to my life as a writer, for example the lack of sleep. Ugghhh, yesterday I hardly had any sleep. I went to bed at 2:00 a.m. then woke up at 7:00 a.m. then slept again and woke up at 10:00a.m. I have a tendency of thinking too much about my characters, what they should be doing, what they should be saying and where they should be going. The main character of my short story is a man, i've never written from a male's point of view before, this is the first and i'm loving it. The challenge is of course avoiding the little cliches here and there, you know stuff a woman usually say that a man won't. I hope to finish this story before August in order to go back to my incomplete second novel. I am a little tired, wish I could have a tall cup of coffee right about now with some chocolate chip cookies.

Friday, June 02, 2006

A Kiss Is Not Just A Kiss


The rain kept me up most of the night but knowing it's Friday makes it bittersweet. I am ready to listen to any of your thoughts about kissing. When it comes to the palate, mine is always in search of a great kisser. Kissing a man is like an intro to his history, his sensuality, to his soul. What makes a great kisser?

Kissing is a form of art, you must put your all into it. It is the most intimate form of communication and is understood in many languages and cultures. As long as you're teachable you can always take a crash course.


This place is no longer a place

It is a landscape of kisses

Kissing you is like tasting sunset

Caressing my loins with your fire

Kissing you is like tasting your radiance

and this tongue never tires

SHORT STORY: So I'm on my way home after work today, I step off the train and a June muggy drizzled rain welcomes me. I was baptized from my braids down to my dress. My eyes wandered the busy streets of pedestrians and cars for a Dollar cab. I much prefer to hop on a cab rather than deal with the mob of rush-hour passengers in the bus. You can't beat the price. For a buck, a Dollar cab drops me right on my block. I was standing there on the side-walk when I noticed in the corner of my eye a tall, dark gentleman. He wasn't too tall, maybe about five feet eleven inches. I took a quick glance, long enough to notice his broad shoulders and neat shoulder-lenght dreads. He had chocolate smooth features as if he had been carved by a sculptor. When a cab stopped at the curb, I jumped in the back, an old woman was already seated there. Suddenly, the guy I was checking out also sat himself next to me. I was squished between him and the old woman. I didn't mind at all. There was no sign of thunder outside but I felt lightning struck inside my belly and butterflies were fluttering. The cab drove off with madness like a fire truck. The driver was playing some slow reggae music, taking me to a world of coconut palm trees and white sand beaches. The velvet voice of a Jamaican was swooning a recital of desire in my ears. I closed my eyes. His scent was heavenly, a blend of amber and Egyptian musk. Odors like the slight hint of muskiness from a real man can turn me on. The sickness of arousal ran through my body as I sat still, wondering what I should do to get this guy's attention. I wasn't going to allow this opportunity to go to waste. I decided I will give him my business card and tell him in a cool and collected voice that I'm a writer. When the car stopped on my block, he got off to let me out and quickly I handed him my card. I blurted out, "I'm a writer, check out my work anytime." He took it with a nod and a smile. I walked fast without looking back at him. Oh my God! What the hell was I thinking? Will he call? Was I too bold?