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neth jones Aug 19
fuelled summer  from my balcony        
                       fumes  and the deep night in heat
wilming  frequency  ridden under a flight path
        the red and green eyes of the airliner
stare us down whither                                        
           descen­ding the smokey stair
forest fires out west                                  
                     my eyes are wiltered against
aggressive peppery air   ***** creosote vapours

the view from my balcony                      
neighbours walk dogs
people earn their way back from the pubs
and restaurants      and concerts  
and some  greatly received  comedy show
and there’s the streetlight          
; orange wash              
this season
Nat Lipstadt Sep 8
(at a time and place, where days are no longer individuated by name, any day, everyday, can be a Saturday)
~~~~
sometimes ya gotta get help,
to see yourself, in the light of
of other's filtered x~ray vision,
to cut through the indecision,
am I this or that, dog or cat,
what the heck, I gave me best,
and no one has ever called me
                                                     poet yet,
cause i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

broadway is just an indian path,
we stole. borrowed & renamed,
the Yankees haven't won a Series
since time in memoriam, forget the mets
no one ever called them a baseball team
                                                        ever, yet,
when i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

guests /(locust pests) have invaded every
crannied nook, sand and rugelach
crumbs, will be spewed, & spend
the rest/best  of their now[Surprise!]
extended 7 day weekend, while the
man~maid/me!made follows close on from
behind with damp cloth & hand hell'd (not a typo)
vacuum till I throw in the towel and get
the big guns, showing my grumpy age of 101,
and I'm just doing my cranky impression
of Lenny Bruce in a Bill Joel fouled up mood
                                                          ca­use, yup,
when i'm in a new york city cranky f(r)amed of mined

been up since 195?, haven't gotten a good night sleep
since the first time they counted my fingers and toes,
god knows, came in yowling. cranky even then,
and here I am on a gorgeous funday sunday on
my hands and knees, not very pleased because a sandy
beach is now in the living room, the geese are back
for a fourth time, to foul the lawn and my mood,
around 10am, the guests will be emerging uncocooned,
stomack growling. for bagel, challah french toast, oat milk (WTFO),
and me listening to Nina S., cause today's a best-to-get-in-an all~in
moody blues haze around my head and all cause
                                                           nothing good occurs
when i'm in a new york city double swanky f(r)amed of mined

ok she's not eavesdropping on my mind or over shoulder
spying on what I'm writing, but she knows where my
head is at because she counts my sighs like I count
her sneezes,  and she's leaving before the cleanup
begins, and some blood may get spilled, cause **** me
when i'm in a new york city f(r)amed of mined

anything can happen, especially
when them they ask if they can "have''
the house for, uh, every September, weekend,
and i just walk to the beech,
and hang myself from with
the ropes from the tree swing,
and whaddya know!
                                                  i'm no longer in
                                  a new york city f(r)amed of mined
week of 8/25
MuseumofMax Aug 1
A piece of gum sticks to scuffed tennis shoes

Sidewalk cities all turn blue

Kitchen lights flicker deadly hues


But for the few that fear the dark

They stole a life, not faint of heart

A candle burns out, a dying art


Now all is glass with shattered bone

Growing cities turn to stone

Freedom from all that is known


So take a moment, two, or three

To look down, stare at your feet

Remind yourself of their defeat


Lest you face a similar fate,

Of growing old and growing hate

Release your fears and create
neth jones Aug 2
beautiful morning
    amber filtered . . .
                      with the forest fire smog
it's fine   don't worry
    it's been carried a great distance
                 to reach our city
a slight itchiness to the eyes
a slight betrayal      with breathing being
                                    a little harsh for some
beautiful morning
        teased branches
                       their tinsel shadows
               and a warm rustle
01/08/25version above
NOTES FROM 22/07/25 :
beautiful morning shadows/of teased branches/tinsel shadows/and warm rustle

Haiku version :
an amber morning
teased branches  tinsel shadows
                           a warm rustling
Zywa Jul 29
In the staff car you

don't see much of the city --


you see only cars.
Autobiography "In den vreemde - Kronieken" ("In foreign parts - Chronicles", 2024, Frida Vogels), chapter 'Een avond met vader' (An evening with father) - Den Haag

Collection "Trench Walking"
neth jones Jul 9
night                                                        
this is texture of apparition      
a little restless heat
the cat crosses between balconies
the cardboard set of the backs of city houses
stage of charming murders and secrets
the skies speed and health dominates          
there's a detonation of the half moon
then the treads of clouds                                    
and a sharp code of shooting star
we have no right                                            
bathed with loving context
we should behave to earn such a view
but our smarts aim                                    
at now't but hazard and flirt
war dooms at beat for thunder
the night skies become ominous                
                     with our ruined broach
suspended under every breath
[03/07/25 original notes written late after watching the movie The French Dispatch : night/this is a texture of visuals/an opposition to massacre/the cat crosses between balconies/the cardboard set of the backs of city houses/the skies speed and health dominates/the detonation of the half moon/treads the clouds and a code of sharp/shooting star/we have no right/we should behave to earn such a view/bathed with loving context/but our smarts aim at now't but hazard
and flirt /war dooms at beat for thunder ?]
mysterie Jun 25
i left behind
a version of me
that night,
at the concert,
on that arena floor --
lighter,
louder,
happier,
and still dancing
in a city
i don't live in.
the short version since the og is super long
date wrote: 26/6
mysterie Jun 25
i never lived there,
but i miss it
like it was home.
like i left something behind --
a version of me
still bundled up
in those hotel sheets,
in the merch line,
and in the way we laughed
way 
too loud
under those
neon blue signs.

it was just a weekend,
but the city held me
like it knew me.
like it didn't care
where i had flown from
as long as i sang
with everything
i had.

now im home.
but im not all here,
i left a version of myself
on that floor
of that arena,
still glowing.
still screaming.
still full
of everything
i want to feel again.

i left a piece of myself
in a city
i don't live in.
and some nights,
it feels like that version
of me
had it better --
louder laughter,
lighter shoulders,
less worry,
a heartbeat
in sync
with the music
she lives for.

and i wonder
if she's still
out there somewhere,
dancing along
to the beat.
post concert depression still hits after four months.
publishing straight after writing for the first time.
date wrote: 26/6
lost kid in a city so unfamiliar
no map, felt a life unfilial
walks lonesome streets, stretched thin
roams around, wondering dreams within

astonished by the things he ponders
amazed by flying rails and walkways
he saw money exchanged for companionship
and wonders—
is everyone just as alone as he is?

he thinks of tall buildings and money swirling
layers of bureaucracy and numbing workings
but the colorful streets are splashed with
hopes and dreams of silenced peoples

he wishes to educate, to raise kids
but aims for money to support his own
and pressure here builds like a box sealed—
can he withstand it, or choke up,
just to go home again
to a city
familiar to him.
neth jones Jun 23
lanky gal in swelter garb    tummy foaming out
barbed and fumed  punk  but no feud            
with a hench of post adolescent scents
and cradling a foppy doll of a rat dog

kibbling chancers stop                                      
         and ghop in adoration at the indulged pup
coddled on its back  and in its 'mamas' arms
its peddling limbs faffing with the hot air
                                 and attention
[original notes : 06/06/25 lanky gal in swelter garb/tummy forming out/and fumed with post adolescent hench scents/cradling a foppy doll of a rat dog/kibbling chancers stop /and ghop in adoration at the indulged pup/coddled in its 'mamas' arms/its limbs faffing with the hot air]
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