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 Jul 2013 Shayla Jade
Chris T
A beggar walks on down
Pushing a shopping cart,
***** bottles ready,
Gonna drink tonight,
And the lady on the street corner,
heavy makeup, tight clothes,
Has her sight
Set on the dark,
Peering into the void
Waiting for headlights to approach,
Gonna make some money tonight
While a man stumbles
Beneath the neon lights,
Shops of the seedy kind,
Pawned gold watch and all,
Gonna get high tonight,
Last call on that Saturday,
A nameless bar,
Two drunks whisper in
Each others ears:
“come with me honey,
For a hell of a time”

And she laughs
In drunken delight,
Gonna have some fun tonight,
A child awakes
In complete fright,
Monsters, ghosts, ****** knives,
Crying to his papa’s arms,
Gonna be a long night,
A lonely fellow
Stands on a stool,
Noose necklace ‘round his neck
Last few tears run,
Gonna be a short night,
Two young women
Head home in the dark,
Tailed by a mad cat,
Hidden face in black coat,
Gonna have a feast tonight,
Dogs bark somewhere far,
Active, excited,
While neighbors complain,
Gonna sing tonight,
A gang approaches
A coinless man,
lost all betting,
He owes ‘em money
And he’ll pay in broken teeth,
Gonna be a ****** night,
Taxi driver smokes
Another pack,
Desperate for cash,
More customers who'll buy,
Gonna be a late night,
The cars honk everywhere,
The lights
always on,
That city never seems to sleep,
Every night:
New scenes,
New people,
New victims,
New fools,
Everyone trapped,
An endless loop
Where insanity feels right.
I wrote this one like 2 years ago meant to be one of those poems that's read aloud. I don't know what they call 'em, performance poetry? Not sure. Anyways... here it is. I was just getting into certain authors and well... Yeah. Changing of styles a bit but I kinda like it.
i spoke to thee
with a smile and thou didst not
answer
thy mouth is as
a chord of crimson music
                            Come hither
O thou,is life not a smile?

i spoke to thee with
a song and thou
didst not listen
thine eyes are as a vase
of divine silence
                      Come hither
O thou, is life not a song?

i spoke
to thee with a soul and
thou didst not wonder
thy face is as a dream locked
in white fragrance
                      Come hither
O thou,is life not love?

i speak to
thee with a sword
and thou art silent
thy breast is as a tomb
softer than flowers
                        Come hither
O thou,is love not death?
Doll’s boy ’s asleep
under a stile
he sees eight and twenty
ladies in a line

the first lady
says to nine ladies
his lips drink water
but his heart drinks wine

the tenth lady
says to nine ladies
they must chain his foot
for his wrist ’s too fine

the nineteenth
says to nine ladies
you take his mouth
for his eyes are mine.

Doll’s boy ’s asleep
under the stile
for every mile the feet go
the heart goes nine
if learned darkness from our searched world

should wrest the rare unwisdom of thy eyes,
and if thy hands flowers of silence curled

upon a wish,to rapture should surprise
my soul slowly which on thy beauty dreams
(proud through the cold perfect night whisperless

to mark,how that asleep whitely she seems

whose lips the whole of life almost do guess)

if god should send the morning;and before
my doubting window leaves softly to stir,
of thoughtful trees whom night hath pondered o’er
—and frailties of dimension to occur

about us
              and birds known, scarcely to sing

(heart,could we bear the marvel of this thing?)
O Distinct
Lady of my unkempt adoration
if I have made
a fragile curtain

song under the window of your soul
it is not like any songs
(the singers the others
they have been faithful

to many things and which
die
i have been sometimes true
to Nothing and which lives

they were fond of the handsome
moon       never spoke ill of the
pretty stars       and to
the serene the complicated

and the obvious
they were faithful
and which i despise,
frankly

admitting i have been true
only to the noise of worms
in the eligible day
under the unaccountable sun)

Distinct Lady
swiftly take
my fragile certain song
that we may watch together

how behind the doomed
exact smile of life’s
placid obscure palpable
carnival where to a normal

melody of probable violins dance
the square virtues with the oblong sins
perfectly
gesticulate the accurate

strenuous lips of incorruptible
Nothing       under the ample
sun, under the insufficient
day under the noise of worms
A bee
staggers out
    of the peony.
The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams
How admirable!
to see lightning and not think
    life is fleeting.
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