Joseph S C Pope
Joseph S C Pope
Jan 22, 2013

Last week we bought a bottle of epilepsy to share
at a party made to crash on dinner plates
rolling down uphill battles.

The clustering warm anticipation set to pounce falls short
with talks of who is late and who can't make it
because someone in the family disapproves.
Who cares about the bitter salt cakes in the dust of fossilized crustaceans?
The polar bears march to beautiful, pointless noise beating off the living receptacles.

The locals are scars in the conclusions deep in the visiting sounds—almost forgot but still murmuring.
The first citizens of noise.

A tourist's ride through vivid monotony,
abyjyt jn
abyjyt jn
Apr 21, 2013      Apr 21, 2013

Grimace was no more in my face,
for I have strode far from hatred,
Vengeance was not my heart's taste,
for I have flew a lot far from nursed hurt,
far from exhaustion.

I will walk nonchalantly and let it be,
A tourist's ride through vivid monotony,
I will leave no room for melancholy.

I no longer halt to comprehend,
I no longer rush to apprehend,
Pensive or sad was not I,
for the roads has taken me far,
from all the long stories,
and the lost dreams.

I will walk nonchalantly and let it be,
A tourist's ride through vivid monotony,
I will leave no room for melancholy.

The land of love, my love,
I left it behind,
the seasons, the reasons,
nay they, no longer intrigue me,
nay I care about them any more,
Thirst to quench and hunger to kill,
I got the boots on my feet,
and the song of my heart beat,
they will take me there,

I will walk nonchalantly and let it be,
A tourist's ride through vivid monotony,
I will leave no room for melancholy.

under a tourist's sun,
Samantha Richardson

my eyes are filled with wonders,
my heart is filled with spirit
like coffee for the soul
gelato for the brain,
travel makes me sing,
zambia, mallorca and spain.

mother and my friend,
embracing, reuniting
tightening the over stretched
ropes that bind
a mother and
her daughter

under a tourist's sun,
upon white sand beaches
luxury at my beck and call,

i will recover from this
third-world hell-hole

to be conflicted, engages,
happy and bitter-sweetend,

all of this and more, i
am acutely eager to live through.

come on, june 1. you can run to me faster than this.

Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ

Have I missed telling you about the endless rains?
How clouds cling heavy to London's streets.
And uniformed children splash puddles in the city lanes.

I scoped the East End immigrants and Kensington elites.
Seen the National Gallery and Wallace Collection finery,
Not to mention ClueQuest, HinHunt and other such treats.

I visited a preserved 19th Century sugar refinery.
Went off the beaten path to the Wimbledon track
And dropped by a tasting at the Bellamere Winery.

I've only seen England through the smallest crack.
Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
You must know now it was all a diversionary attack.

You see, what I missed telling you and neatly omitted
Is that I'm Jack the Ripper, never caught nor outwitted.

Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ

Have I missed telling you about the endless rains?
How clouds cling heavy to London's streets.
And uniformed children splash puddles in the city lanes.

I scoped the East End immigrants and Kensington elites.
Seen the National Gallery and Wallace Collection finery,
Not to mention ClueQuest, HinHunt and other such treats.

I visited a preserved 19th Century sugar refinery.
Went off the beaten path to the Wimbledon track
And dropped by a tasting at the Bellamere Winery.

I've only seen England through the smallest crack.
Witnessed  only what a tourist's permitted.
You must know now it was all a diversionary attack.

You see, what I missed telling you and neatly omitted
Is that I'm Jack the Ripper, never caught nor outwitted.

on display for the tourist's show,
Tim Knight
Tim Knight
Jan 22, 2013      Jan 23, 2013

Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.

The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.

Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.

Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-hom­e-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.

He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.

Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.

We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid virgin building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.

facebook.com/timknightpoetry
with the strain of a tourist's neck,
Kegan
Kegan
Mar 16, 2013      Mar 16, 2013

Touring all the unresolves
of the heart,
the muted self goes brimming.
Mannequin expressions of day
have possessed the insipid bed knob at night.
The woodgrain globe
exhibits some strange phase of the moon
from borrowed streetlight.

I remember when your face first appeared-
an icon on the plucked wing
of a grand monarch,
like a saint in a church window.

Glowing holy on a seasoned-turned leaf,
the wind thumbed you 'round and 'round
as if to read you like a page again and again.
And then you planted
on a crack in the city wall.

My head is no home fit for you!
You once walked this place
with the strain of a tourist's neck,
and now its inhabitants all wear your face!
A gray masquerade of ghosts,
a haunted gift shop.

I choked on my own
foaming confessions
the night I trusted you.
The night blood drummed
in your arrhythmic heart,
stammering, “I..I...lo-love...”
But you left...

So,
you wanted an engineer eh?
Is not the poet this?
The ambassador
for that which
cannot be said
addresses the equation
of life, syllable by syllable,
constructing the inner-universe
for himself and others.
Every night I interrogate
the stars with prayers!
And every word funnels off
into those silver-lined wormholes
and is never heard from again.
I am quick to try
and remove
the thick mesh of night
with clawing hands
that tear vulture-like
at the blackness,
bit by bit.
But fail to do so.

You are dawn to the insomniac.
Rude luminary of the tumored valley,
I have chosen the worst day to forget you!
As if to forget the vaulted shades of blue
that arch above me
after a heavy downpour.
O these ill-fated shoes!
I stare deep into them,
yet they lead me to a sepia sky
lying dead in a mud puddle.
Retreating,
I am again betrayed
and lead to a film-gray sky
lying dead in a street puddle.

Love,
our film winks silver
spooling on a ferris wheel
and a rusted Eucharist tray.
And I,
the inventor,
strapped the apparatus to my head
and plunged towards the ocean depths
reinventing suicide.

The dreaming eye is a sweeping submarine light
examining the blue mutations of memory.
And where it marries creation
the heartache, and the unknown,
you will find insanity
pumping out poem
after poem
after poem
after poem.

No love lost when the matter is through,
for I'd prefer my own lunacy to you.

© 2013 by Kegan Swyers. All rights reserved.
 
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