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Hugoose Mar 1
Wires from descending elevators whip tourists into buying more than they can afford,
A group of cleaners take worn sponges and grate them against sterile table tops

Tired eyes glaring, so many faces forced into a socially restrained concrete,
Sipping lukewarm coffee whilst a massive woman dives into a greasy papery bag

A waiting room for spiritually degraded human beings,
Who can no longer bear to hold a saucepan
One man’s anxious head makes a turn as he waits for his friends to turn up,
Everyone here sitting in transient seating that numbs the **** muscles,
The only thing that links us together

People making occasional eye contact with one another,
It’s so brief yet so uncomfortable
Another group of cleaners with gloves like loosened condoms
They move in like domestic vultures,
They pick apart every table in their sight

A young man runs and weaves past these tables with hot plastic against his ears,
He’s talking to people who are very far away,
He’s mentioning travel arrangements,
He’s keen to get away

Dried salads line rusted metal troughs
Day old dim sims bathe in ***** coloured oil
Drinks fizzle and foam out through people’s mouths and noses
They look diseased and shattered by everything

People eating here supposedly akin to cattle at feeding time,
Cattle eat fresh grass in lush fields with fluffy clouds with a bright blue sky above
Where you sit,
Plastic plants lay in corners producing no oxygen

Cold metal chairs hit stained tiles as cleaners start packing up for the day
Asian women in the distance paint customers long claws,
They smile at each other’s colourful toes with gleeful envy

Though a large bird **** splattered window you see people down below rubbing their bellies,
They ride an escalator upstairs,
To spend time with you in heaven

Wiping irreversible grease into your trousers,
You throw garbage into a metal mouth and leave
worked for a bit on this one, its long so thankyou to the one person who can be bothered to read this, this is based on a real food court.
Lillian May Feb 14
I'm not one for Valentine's Day.
Love wrapped up and packaged into superficial nothingness
The meaning, the weight and beauty of love, made less,
stripped away and replaced with balloons and chocolates.
If you love someone you tell them
Tell them with the way you look at them,
with the way you touch them,
buy her flowers because its Tuesday
dress up for him because you wanna take his breath away
falling in love is a whirlwind of involuntary passion
staying in love is an action
showing love is a responsibility, a choice
don't dull the song of love's voice because it shouldn't be loudest but one day a year
interlock your fingers and breathe each other in
not for a holiday, do it for the grin, that blooms on her face more lovely than any roses in a vase OH dear
Love is not just once a year.
I love you everyday of the year.
Manipulated the masses
through media.
Clear the air
for an explosion of silence
before the first acoustics
pierce through the ears
to the spongy minds
of the adolescence.
Close your eyes and
imagine the edited sounds
of the juxtaposition,
clashing the rhythms and melodies
mixed with the reprised chorus of
repugnant magnitude,
meaningless crybaby lyrics
and off-key utterance
with agonizing commercialism.
Corporate record companies
hide behind thick black velvet curtains
and produce highly profitable garbage,
so bad that it sounds like a
dead baby being slapped
against an untuned violin.
Pulling the strings on
radio stations like marionettes
to spread these undesirable
golden oldies like wildfire.
Using and abusing music television
to overplay videos repeatedly
until it nauseates your innards.
These puppet masters reel
the uneducated into the
blackest tar pits and capture
their gray matter for eternity
to what they believe to be
is acceptable music.
Unknowledgeable and unaware
of anything else in existence.
In a world that makes haste,
we don't take the time anymore
to appreciate what we listen to
that actually fulfills and pleases
our soul, body and mind.
Generation after generation
declining into the sludge and slop
of objectifying and degrading compositions.

Record stores hold sanctuary.

Providing hidden gems and treasures
for explorations.
Rummaging through the LPs and EPs
and scrutiny of 45s and 7 inches
to find the pearl in the oyster
concealed under piles of
flotsam and jetsam,
thrift store throwaways.
Music lovers are like
archaeologists and scuba divers
rediscovering obscure rarities
in old crates of the deepest,
darkest depths of
mildew basement cellars.
One moment before the next,
in the highest fidelity
as the needle drops on the licorice pizza
and off the twang comes
the lovely wax statics
of the most ******* reverberations.
All the little hairs stand upright
and tingle the back of your neck
and arms as the notes
flow off your fingertips
and you fall into a
complete state of euphoria,
like a Buddhist that's reached
Gritty Maestros of the underworld
construct celestial symphonies,
so soothing they can tame
the wildest beasts and
orchestrate the most
diabolical spazz noid cacophonies
as the high frequencies skirmish
through cracked speakers.
Music can summon the demons
inside you while reaching
therapeutic climaxes
Scarlet McCall May 2017
Hello Darkness my old friend
Who knew your herald would be a *****?
Spandex, and *** shots, and smirky metaphor—
I’ve come to talk with you again
Pulling up shorts and promising more.
Ride that bike so hard—you’ve got to be sore.
‘cause a vision softly ere creeping
Visions don’t come softly these days; they come in your face.
Hot diva so young, telling girls what’s their place.
Came to me while I was sleeping
No time for sleeping, just dancing and *******,
“Female Empowerment”’s  now about stripping and *******.
And the vision, that was planted in my brain
Planting visions of *** is the best gig in town,
raking in millions in dollars and pounds.
Still remains
These images burn; they’re from Hell, I am sure.
A woman’s a woman; let a girl be a girl.
Within the sounds of silence.
Now silence reigns, no beats, tweets or lies.
The star’s somewhere safe; a child in hospital dies.
In restless dream I walked alone
Alone is better than ***** on the floor.
Alone is better than pushed through the door.
Through narrow streets of cobblestone
Call me a hag with flat shoes clutching pearls--
a relic of cobblestone times; to be sure.
Neath the halo of a streetlamp
The glare and the blare of incessant Youtube
promises glory with high heels and **** tubes.
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
No collars for girls; unless for literal *******--
"Submission is ****", said Rihanna (smug in her riches).
My eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
You can’t look away; it’s everywhere;
on awards shows. On radio in shops selling wares.
That split the night
And touched the sounds of silence.
Fools said I you do not know
How could they know? They’re only teens.
They do not know what makes self-esteem.
Silence like a cancer grows
Name it, shame it; it’s exploitation of women;
if we don’t stop it there’ll be much worse coming.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you,
But my words, like silent raindrops, fell…
Into the well, of silence.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the Neon God they made
And the Sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the Sign said
“the words of the prophets are written on subway walls,
In tenement halls”*
And in blood on concert hall floors.
Lady Ravenhill Mar 2017
You are not enough, as you are.
You need to be perfect, beautiful, unique.
Define yourself, pick a label, conform.
Don't be too fat, but don't be too skinny.
Get that healthy glow, but stay out of the sun.
Everybody has a talent, why haven't you found your's yet?
You are special but not as special as me.
Believe in what we believe, but always be a rebel walk your own path.
Take the high ground, but don't rock the boat.
Less is more and more is better.
If you can't make it here you can make it any where.
If this place doesn't place will eat you alive.
Check your privilege and stop the disparity.
But matching those shoes to that blouse is absurdity.
If you're normal you're boring, if you're boring you're worthless.
Follow me and you can be beautiful, buy this and you will be worthy.
Only the beautiful deserve love.
Fix yourself or one will ever love you.
Live your best life, Buy more stuff.
Minimalism is being surrounded by a small few very expensive things.
Success is fame, fame is success.
©LadyofRavenhill 7/6/16
Joshua Haines Jan 2017
I once was a kind of smart man;
pretentious to the bone --
I took a pill for the thrill
of masking a part
I thought was gone.

Something, Something
College Dropout
Something, Something
No Good Son
I took a drive to stay alive
because I swore I
was once someone.

I once was a good American;
dollar bills on my bones --
I fell in love with the glove
that covered the debt  
that made me feel alone.

Something, Something
Godless Monster
Something, Something
First Born Waste
I bought a gun to
have some fun and
thought I'd have a taste.

I hope I'm a loving father
and don't vanish in the dust.
There aren't many thoughts
that bounce in this head
I find I can trust.

Something, Something
Standard Loner
Something, Something
Find Me When I'm Gone

Something, Something
Where Am I
Something, Something
Am I Someone
the Sandman Apr 2016
                         in light,
                In blinding light:
Lights on cars; and buildings;
and lit up trees lining lit up streets;
             Houses with sills all lined in gold
And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould;
Street lamps; and laser pointers; and
Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers
Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards,
With bright teeth and skin and red words
Everywhere you turn,
Telling you what you want
And never knew you wanted;
Shop windows; chandeliers;
Presents for that time of year;
Cell phone pylons with twinkling,
Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees;
Christmas trees, with stars and angels
Speckled, Frosted,
Dusted on the tops;
Disgusting glare on sunglasses,
And a smiting gaze along the arms;
Bridges and fountains with gold poured on;
Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn;
Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands;
Every window, but the ones
Being jumped off of;
TVs and refrigerators, opened
Thoughtlessly at night;
Screens shooting onto impassive glass
That used to be faces;
Cameras, going off in quick succession,
Quicker than you can keep up;
I'm drowning.
We are taught desire, in light,
We learn to read in light
and scarlet letters of fluorescence
We are blind,
Now that the road is paved for us,
To the light that was before.
Goodbye, jungle of pylons and scrapers of the sky. I will live among your shards no longer.

My first list poem (that actually remained a list poem by the time I was done with it)
Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
Santa murdered Christmas,
by excluding the Christ
and only caring about the Mass
of how much one can get.

No-one gives a **** about Christ anymore.
Myself included,
but I didn't need a perverted holiday
for that to be a thing.

— The End —