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EP Robles Sep 2018
THAT in my fever while sanity has escaped by baluster
i continue to gaze in daze across the sea of white-
capped madness

Each o-shaped mouth
Each Black-bead eye
and all the ears
     all the chins

  speak an infinite story of nothing but sadness.
And within the orchestral pit finely dressed musicians
they shed b-flat note tears; their mannequin powder-white
skin a color of pink's sunsetting murmur.

Simply, the true story is off stage toward this
improbable army audience; the finely carved polychrome
citizens start to move;  half-bodied and more alive
than the flesh-kingdom.

   Last night.  Last night i felt.  
That one's life can be as real as one's imagination
   if you sinerely wish it.

:: 08-23-2018 ::
wishing the reader to decide what it means for them
faa Aug 2018
They were avid dancers, masterpieces
Twisting their hips elegantly to the beat
Fingertips against air, gracefully traces
Bodies callous in motion, against the heat

Yet they encircled the melody of clashes
Revelling to the disputes of their peers
On audience cheers and camera flashes
They thrived on their opponents’ tears

On pervasive fallacies they were merrymakers
In distorting realities they were professionals

How they prospered valiantly in our defeat
How they stomped over us and still proceed
How they annihilated us, and can still meet
Our eyes shamelessly, as we bleed
for those who are sinister by choice
Jabin Aug 2018
His left hand flourishes
The audience watches intensely
                                                       ­     There
The motions dazzle
                                                          ­          Is
Everyone paying attention
The illusion is shattered

           The magician takes a bow.
Ffion Jones May 2018
They tease and they tantalise
Those wild-haired men,
For a raging sea of shapes that
clamour and grasp for their attention,
Despite blending into the colours of others.

Their velvet voices softer than their
growling, grovelling masks onstage,
Their words full of electric promise that
dazzle a new generation in new times,
Transcending the blur of decades to provide
hope for lost souls.

Untainted by the cracked lines of age
Simply because they never wore them in the first place.
And yet they fill their caged time with
fireworks that burn into the heart of the
living, and spark the memory of the

Ah, how I adore those wild-haired men,
For they carry me to a brighter time
Which I can only experience in my mind.
I wrote this a few years ago as a tribute to my favourite rock stars from the 1960s and 1970s. Long live rock 'n' roll!
A Simillacrum May 2018
The battery mostly empty sends less power through
the act. The art of you. The heart of you.
I've heard the drums since I was a child.
Music sent from my futures unseen,
to touch me young with destiny.
Lowest now I've ever been in the pit,
the place to which ashes descend,
I know the movie must play to the end,
but I'll send back honesty and a meager providence
sealed with well wishes and love hidden in the frames.
Best believe in watching me I know your names.
Cyber ink is always bleeding through the screen,
writing me a list of beautiful, infinite minds.
Reading it back aloud recharges my mystic energies.
I take a deep breath before my return to form
then open my lungs for the dive.
If I drown in you, let it come.
I'll stretch it out though,
as I want to cherish the heights of
beauty lacking in me that I see for the future in you.
When the moment comes I'll show the tribunal
the heart of rebellion as I learned it through
the audience in their seats.
The spider shall rest for the weaving
as the suspicious oracle returns.
Silverflame May 2018
With a smile on your mouth
I see the evening breathing out
Calling my long lost name

And while I don't you recall
I hear you whisper, while I fall
Pouring memories down the drain

I tried to make you understand
You need to leave wonderland
The lion still kills without claws

But you crashed with the reality
Leaving strangers with serenity
Drowning in the final applause
Matthew Vargas Sep 2017
The rising anxiety
Flares my insecurity.
I clear my throat,
The words just
won't come out right.
And I stutter and avoid
Staring at my audience
And I bit my lip,
Remembering hours
Of memorizing my topic
Only to forget it
Right on the spot.
I gather my courage and do my best
I finish my presentation
And they clap politely
And the relief is my refuge as I sit
With something of pride in my eyes.
Pretty sure everyone cab relate to feeling really nervous while presenting a presentation
Stefan Sagala Jun 2017
coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.  

coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.

coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting  the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.

coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.

coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.

in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.

in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.

coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.

Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.
for you, whom i found in a coffee house.
Ana S Dec 2016
The words she paints so gently
Etch my mind
Her voice leaving me stunned
So beautiful and fine
Speaking ever so softly
Sending chills down my spine
She wispers in my ear
Babe are you really mine?
I am yours my love.
Always have been.
Always will be.
Til the end of this universe.
And life as we know it.
I will always be yours.  
Some don't believe in forever.
Some don't think about infinities.
My infinty rests with her.
She is my light.
She is my love.
Whispering gently in my ear.
I love you so my dear.
Is that so? I wisper back.
Well beautiful, guess what?
I love you too.
The words she wispers softly
JR Rhine Nov 2016
Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts

In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops

Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse

New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
into abeyance

to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies

Friday nights
     Saturday nights
              Sunday nights
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment

Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams

Pure when we're filthy.
Listen to Beach Slang.
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