Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
Low lights.
Low hum, clinking of cups, blurred coffee stains on a napkin.
Soft touch.
Soft laughter, squeaking of torn up leather seats,
     fogged up windows and bicycle bells.
Fault lines on the top of a crème brûlée
     and on the backs of your hands.
When my life was changed by a piece of pastry sometime...
Phoebe Jan 2015
My fingertips will never let me forget the scent of stale cigarettes.

I was a fool in London. All the friends I made had better accents than me.
I dreamed of Bulgaria and Brazil.

I walked through mud. I waited for French tides.
I trudged in heavy water waders.

My hands built a house with stones older than the country on my passport.
The etching of cement on my boots still reminds me what we carried there.

We drove along tired volcanoes and craggy cliffs in the dark.
I never learned how to drive manual.

We flew further south. I dried out in the sun.

The glands of Spanish streets pulsated
citrus mist into the air, my lungs.
I never did remember the difference between limon and lime.

We stayed in a haunted castel but missed Halloween.
The upper peninsula, where Napoleon dreamed of a better dinner.
We moved to Shangri-La. Even in Eden, people still snore.
But there were cakes laced with flowers. And I was over the moon.

Then, a dreamscape. The closest to the Arctic I’ve ever been.

We ate deer for dinner. I baked Danish pies. I slept supine in a smoke-filled yurt. It was all peace. It was all over.
I wrote this poem shortly after I returned to USA after backpacking and working in Europe for three and a half months. I lived in a hostel in London where I made many friends from all over the world. I built a house in Bordeaux. I lived near the beaches of Normandy. I worked in a castle, or "le castel." I had many siestas in Spain. I got ****** in Amsterdam. I was a pastry chef in Denmark.
Umang K Jan 2015
Orange skylines with
Copper inconsistencies,
Cobbled pavements
Converging, at odd angles,
Stepped on
By fairytale homes
And tourist feet,
Almost, just almost,
Drowning out the violins
And the voices,
Almost making me forget
That Europe isn’t home,
Somehow.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
No peace in empire  .  .  .
Blind surveil themselves freely,
  .  .  .  Perpetual war.
The world of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four exists in a state of perpetual war among the three major powers. At any given time, two of the three states are aligned against the third; for example Oceania and Eurasia against Eastasia or Eurasia and Eastasia against Oceania. However, as Goldstein's book points out, each Superstate is so powerful that even an alliance of the other two cannot destroy it, resulting in a continuing stalemate. From time to time, one of the states betrays its ally and sides with its former enemy. In Oceania, when this occurs, the Ministry of Truth rewrites history to make it appear that the current state of affairs is the way it has always been, and documents with contradictory information are destroyed in the memory hole.

A dystopia (from the Greek δυσ- and τόπος, alternatively, cacotopia, kakotopia, or anti-utopia) is a community or society that is in some important way undesirable or frightening. It is literally translated as "not-good bad-place" and synonymous with the opposite of utopia. Such societies appear in many artistic works, particularly in stories set in a future. Dystopias are often characterized by dehumanization, totalitarian governments, environmental disaster, or other characteristics associated with a cataclysmic decline in society.
Eliza Jane Oct 2014
You’ve left a handprint on my heart, from where you reached in and nurtured the burns and scars and helped life to grow again. you held your hand out to me and lifted me up to dance with you, a slow waltz that I had to learn as you lead me ‘round the room. When you left me to catch my breath, the fear of leaving you almost paralysed me - and the realisation that I must nearly broke me.

You showed me what it was to live, and to live in such reckless abandonment that I knew I would never belong in the place I once called my home. you redefined home for me, showing me the truth of “home is wherever I’m with you.” Your sunsets were painted more beautifully than anything I’ve ever seen, and the way you always lead me to the artist behind such great sky-paintings left me in awe. Who else can teach me to fall in love with two beings at one time.

I still reach for your hand subconsciously, lean in to rest on your shoulder before I realise that you’re no longer with me. You’ve left me homesick, wondering where home may be, the place where these itchy feet can finally rest. You’ve filled my mind with reminders of cities, people, prayers and dreams, and I’ve found that as long as these thoughts rattle in my mind, sleep and rest are impossible.

You’ve shaken me to my very core, and all that remains is that still beating heart, with your palpable handprint glowing in the darkness
non-fiction. I wrote this a few days ago, and tonight it's becoming more real and painful than before. Each day that passes makes me ache for 'home' more.
Luis Mdáhuar Aug 2014
"We can say that we have crossed the threshold of myth only when we notice a sudden consistency between incompatibles"
Mash Aug 2014
I want to live in Europe.

I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.

I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.

I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.

I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.

I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.

                                                                             - *Shilo
Braulio Romero Jul 2014
And I want
I want to go far
Far exactly from here
Somewhere
The noise, the corruption and I don’t
want to surrender through these politics
down south where they’re a backwards world
I need some release change

Where am I
Where do I go?
I don’t care
However where I go
Andalusia, Bratislavia, Coimbra, Cranberra, Gijon, Yemen
Dancing on the Dead Sea
On my feet in Turkey

I want to go far
Somewhere I’m not known on
Where nobody cares about my business and private decency
Let me breathe
Let me be calm
Let me be me
,
Martin Narrod Jun 2014
Most peculiarly of most things was that I thought all of this very fishy, daudry, drab, and boresome. This is where I turn on the second table lamp...

In a muster I arrived to the home of my aunt, where at once she drew me into the back of the house, down a flight of stairs made of tusk and bone into a catacomb where she kept a alive collection of wooly mammoths. She said the upkeep wasn't awfully horrendous as she had an invisible backdrop which led to a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe sort of thing. I stood in the gangway behind 10 foot high thigh bones waiting for one of the monstrous red beasts to come greet me, but what arrived was a very large elephant with longer tusks than usual. None of the red sillyness which I had dreamt of seeing in my previous years.

She could see I was not that impressed, and so I was led to another part of her home. Around the corner walked in my uncle in is superb and luxurious dress, reminiscent of 18th century British military fatigues. He said, "I bought the E.T. ride from Universal Studios, but as bringing the whole ride to my home I had them adapt a more suitable version to fit the property. A hangar opened and inside there were four chariots of orange and blue, diamond shaped school buses with their undersides aimed at withholding a V-shaped street. Then in two and two single file order all the classmates of my K-12 years arrived and took seat into the strappings of this 'ride' we were to take. Music played, John Williams even was produced by hologram, and after the ups and downs for several minutes we arrived to what I thought would inevitably be the forest, but rather was what I perceived was a Finnish town. The chariot I was in was stuck in the street, mud, rain, and soot entrenched us. I unbuckled the polyester straps and when I stood I realized that though the seats had built in urinals and toilets they were utterly noiseome to the senses. I followed a local girl to a food mart where I asked how I could find where I was but no one spoke a drop of English.

I corraled the group and told them to wait for me. I followed this girl who seemed quite younger than I to a small apartment in the uppermost floor of a very unsturdy chapel-like home several suburban blocks from our ride. She immediately removed her pants and I saw with my very own eyes that she was hairless and nubile. She insisted that we have a ****, and after I caressed her and complained too that she was far too young, she insisted that the age of consent in Germany was actually 13 yet she was 16. I remember it clearly. The most gigantuous feelings of pleasure as I mended a studio closet for my dining room furniture inside her ripening channel. Eventually after an hour we finished, she offered me a towel and some biscuits, which I consumed joyously.

Upon leaving her home I remembered that she had said we were in Germany, and so I produced a measure of Deutsch that I had been saving in my repetoir for the right moment. As Finnish is not my strongest language I was pleased of this and became instantly popular among the other candidates of our journey. This  E.T. ride is far different than  I remember it having been. Moments later I awoke quickly, a tuft of her black hair on my eiderdown comforter and a veil of tears from the merriment of glee shrouded over my face. After I rolled and balled into the soft feathers of my bedding, I twisted myself again into a knot, and allowed myself to rejoin the soporific treatice I was aiming for.

This is now where I turn off both lamps and go on watching films of a similar style.

Wishing You The Very Best,

Sir Martin Narrod

I keep my family of conscience
I shred my folly of heir
In case of torment or fondness
I never wear underwear.
Next page