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Well, I think you could my red wine.
My sweet decadence.
Or maybe you could be my sunshine,
My moonlight.
You could be my celestial dream.
In my heard is such precedence,
Such a hope sublime.
I hope that you could be my red wine.
In time,
My sweet decadence.
You could be my red wine
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
Stern men line a path, to
Doors with plaques stating former occupants:
Chopin, Churchill, Napoleon III.

Overhead flags hang early evening shadows
From ornate golden arms
Across the first of nine or ten marble steps.

And up them walk folk with schmoozing faces
From cars with private drivers
And windows tinted black.

White limestone porticos are
Split by solid black adorned with gold,
And expensive gowns in violent colour.

And I notice the eyes
Fixed on my passing
As I slip into familiar grey.
St James' Place / King's Street, London, July 2018

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
Anthony Mayfield Jul 2018
And so we go.
Travelers two
Upon a long slick road,
Salted for safety.
The moon in the lagoon laughs at us,
Laughs with us.
Such a sweet giggle.
A laugh not heard before,
Too innocent to ignore.
It’s victorious.
Because the sword has won,
And the monster is done.
The scenery fits,
Melting away revealing a new day,
Unveiling miles upon miles of decadence.
Yes.
This, my sweet, is how we know,
We are finally going home.
We are finally going home
Andrew Jan 2018
I can’t enjoy the present
I’m busy waiting on the future

Working hard to produce
so I can be a consumer

And my consuming habits
have made me decadent

Keeping up with the trends
in hopes of being relevant

Waiting for the next fad
to infatuate our mind

Mindlessly ******* up
our money and our time

Timelessly circling in
repetitive motion

Going through the motions
and coming to the notion

That life's too short
to let it pass you by

But now time has passed
and it's soon time to die

And oh my

Give me something
to distract my mind

I liked the way things looked
before when I was blind
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
On Market Street on a wild and wintry day
I saw their shapes in the gathering gloom
By the Christmas markets down Manchester way
And my thoughts of the elephant in the room

Concrete protects Albert Square in a decadent December
Queues for Yorkshire Pudding Wraps sold by Europeans in caps
The fine smell of pine fetching my childhood to remember
Where ghosts of Christmas past occupy gaping gaps

The currency of time I gave the shapes in the city
And recognition of their unseen existence in the bustle
That surrounds their incongruity with little or no pity
From worldwide voracious visitors flexing financial muscle

On a midnight Piccadilly back street where the shadowy shapes meet
Away from the shuttered stalls and boisterous behaviour
Under starry skies with tear filled eyes and frozen feet
No guiding shining star or wise men to bring them a saviour
Based on Patrick Kavanagh's On Raglan Road but with very different subject matter i.e. the shapes are the unprecedented multitudes of rough sleepers and homeless in Manchester city centre while the Christmas markets sell their overpriced goods to many who pay the price but can't afford it.
Wellspring Aug 2017
We are in an elegant ballroom,
Surrounded with decadent silks and lace.
Everyone dancing,
Prancing,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

Our hair styled with jewels,
With our golden gilded chaises.
Everyone twirling,
Swirling,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

But with all their talking of peace,
And their stalking about with grace.
Everyone falling,
Stalling,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

We are all poor in life and in spirit,
But we put on a fake face.
Everyone lying,
Dying,
At this hypocritical masquerade.
When you're attempting to avoid all of your work... I'm a pro procrastinator
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