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city of flips Oct 20
speckled cityscape compulsion

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it is 6:40am.
the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film
that I’ve seen many times.
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
slept through it thankfully

the kitchen window gives up a sunrise,
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
a streaking swath of burnt and bright,
so oft described, the color commentary
previously immortalized by better poets
than me, easy found elsewhere.

the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity,
it is their moment, these red flashes, all about,
tall buildings chanting “stay away from me”
to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land
in a tumbled jungled of obscene density.

still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges,
burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue,
compelled against my will to thankful write,
for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed,
cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments.

a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself.
the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies
will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars,
at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing.
Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted *****, Hershey white chocolate,
checked by adults for safety and quality control.

all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness

the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River,
for a reflection is always a second best version.
30 minutes later the real and the apparition both,
disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky,
just an old rerun, familiar deviltry.

why is the sun rising
is so worshipped,
for there will never be a full day of
just sunrise colorations,
but the speckled reds still
a true color, still showing,
on perpetual guard duty,
bidding adieu to its
morning lovers,
until tomorrow,

in my city of lips.






sun. oct. 20 2019
noren Sep 2018
We have become cities
Our dreams high-rises
which feel the morning haze.

Our hearts swanky malls
which are always abuzz, but lonely.

Our ambitions crawling cars
which pollute innocence.

Our thoughts metro trains
which run only between fixed destinations.

Our bodies are urban landscapes
which are eroding
our souls.
Charlie Dog Jun 2018
Nighttime, and a cloak of blue veils the earth.
I, nothing in hand I set out.
Gaiting under the streetlights,
Harkening to the hill's call.
Trembling, in the darkness as I climb.
Towering above the town
I see all the city lights, shimmering and bright.
Moving farther into the dark folds of the earth.
Envisioning the lives of those below.
samuel nathan Jan 2018
Here I sit upon this train
As if again inside a dream.
Same people, same smell, same unknown stain.
Everything as it was or so it would seem.

Outside a shattered cityscape flickers by,
A million metal mountains that hold us all.
They reach, as we reach, toward the sky;
And we, not them are more apt to fall.

Something cold takes hold of my brow,
Returning me tersely to the present.
I fell asleep against the window somehow.
A pillow or porcupine might’ve been more pleasant.

I guess I dozed off when I got on.
And now my wallet and phone are gone.
Jaclyn Harlamert Feb 2017
The s k y has come down from it's p e d e s t a l
Chilly m i s t is layered over the c i t y,
Blurring the e d g e s and l i n e s
That define what we know as r e a l i t y

Keeping us from worrying
About w h a t  i s to come
Until it is actually in front of us
Though w o n d e r keeps us on our t o e s,
C r e a t i o n is at our **f i n g e r t i p s
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
Pop top rings and coffee cups
Were dropped across the sound
Of paper screams from campaign mails
Discarded on the ground.
A splash of spray paint lettering
Spelled "Bobby Loves Marie"
And left a message of its fate
For passing friends to see.

And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?

Two girls passed the masterpiece
And walked away enraged
They guessed about the artist
His parents and his age.
A sailor and a merchant passed
And argued as they walked
Of rising unemployment
And the hopelessness of talk.

And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?

The lady rolled her window up,
The chauffeur changed her tire
As Bobby sprayed her limousine
For rich men to admire.
Later in her drawing room,
Her husband called her down.
"A lady has no business in
The ***** part of town."

And the children asked their elders
Questions of their brothers
Of things that seemed to matter
Of things they had to know.
Are these the gleanings,
Forgotten in-betweenings,
The measure of our meanings
As we come and go?
Mel Feb 2016
The car rattles along and the cityscape comes into sight. The city bustles with life and I watch the never-ending whirlwind of characters in a motion picture show. The flickers of city light diffuses and casts a shine on the photographic opportunities.
I see you and how you are oblivious to your own enchanting and radiant soul.
You are more stunning than the stars, yet also unattainable and heartbreakingly beautiful to gaze upon. I hope someday you achieve your goal of happiness and that you meet someone truly worthy of you. All I want to do is embrace you, ease your pain, carry your sorrows and share your joys. However, I know that I will never have the privilege.

I sense something on the horizon that beckons and pulls me in. Do I resist or investigate the call? I hope that in the future, I don’t instigate a further parting of ways. The only thing that would compel me to do that would be if that I were to cause you great harm emotionally in some way, intentionally or not. I will endeavor to the best of my ability not to. But like everyone else I’ve ever known, I might still push you away.

You are so wonderful to me but how am I even worth of being a part of your life? I don’t understand and I’ll try not to disappear. Honestly, you would be better off if I did.
In the future we might walk right past each other and in a flash we become strangers again. Sadly, all of our history and time together have ceased to be. Of course, I will inevitably be the one to blame. Oh Darling but it was worth the while.
Simon Obirek May 2015
Keen little neons
playfully jump around, colliding with her mind
and she sits there, legs crossed, her ***** aroused,
but it gets doused as the Wall Street pinstripe type walks by
she utters a sigh, looks at the sky, the ending's nigh, and it's night.

Skyline looks pretty
beams and lighted apartment block kitchens and real pop-up ads,
them keen little neons,
her eyes flicker like those hanging lights in horror films,
perpetuate fear, the skeletons are in the clear.
I told you, you schmuck, the end is near.
Mel Harcum Feb 2015
Standing on the scenic overlook,
(the one just a few miles out)
the city lights shine brighter than stars--
multicolored luminescence burning
its image on the insides of my eyelids,

and you, who drove me here,
(some 3AM adventure created
from a series of “I-don’t-know”s)
inch closer to the precipice,
sinking knee-deep in snow before
facing me with eyes that seem
backlit by street lamps and 24-hour signs.

You told me how you so loved
the feeling of being awake and alone,
while the city slept and yet--
I felt only loneliness,
stinging silence scratching marks,
my ribs battered from working
too hard, and I could feel them
cave in beneath solidarity’s weight--

alone, though you stood beside me
speaking of snowflake matters
that melted as they touched my ears,
your words dripping into my hair,
wasted on a mind preoccupied
with retrospective tunnel-vision:

First: the morning I woke to find my mother
screaming and stomping loud,
her plate broken on the carpet and
when she left, my father’s eyes, they
turned to sea-glass as he stood blank
(gone, I suppose, in a different way),
leaving me responsible for my little sister,
who hid behind the corner.

Then: the time I found my little sister
crying into my jersey-knit sheets and
asking me to help her skip school--
she couldn’t bear to face the boys
whose uninvited touch lingered
painful on her adolescent skin
(self-inflicted cuts would appear
in the following months)--
the memory drowned with whiskey and ***.

Later: my mother’s cancer--
no, liver failure that nearly killed
everyone who waited in the white-walled
hospital, bad food sour on our tongues,
stomachs cramping hard as if we felt
the surgery deep inside our own livers--
and I with my classwork, face buried,
because no one should see me cry.

I suppose the sandbag solidarity fell upon me
in parts, dragged me from lofty childhood,
each moment a simultaneous end and beginning
to all that followed and held me far behind--
further still, though you stand only
one foot away from me, near enough to reach
(and I can imagine my hand outstretched)--
somehow the cityscape seems closer.

— The End —