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GraciexJones Dec 2018
Sitting on the beach on the coldest of days,
Winter chills which skims across my face and hands,
Watching the waves rising up and down,
Beating against the shore,
Roaring against the wind,
The smell of open sea rises across the land,

Birds are fleeting above my head,
Glimpse of the sun is peeking through the clouds,
My partner is drawing characters in the sand,
I run my hands over the seashells and tiny rocks,
I explore a combination of sharp edges and wet stone,

A misty gloom appears along the coast,
The sound of seagull’s squarking and dogs barking echo’s in the distance,

My partner lights a cigarette and sits across me smiling,
We hear the pitter-patter of a greyhound dog walking towards us,
The greyhound greets us with a curious gesture,
We welcome the dog with open arms and stroke their furry face to say hello
The grey-hound pondering between us,
Excitingly moving around,
We hear the sound of people talking in the background,
The grey-hound wonders off to accompany their owner,

A shift of temperature occurs in the atmosphere,
I feel the cold cracking my lips,
My partner begins to roll a spliff,
I contemplate about the warmth,
I propose we hit the Carrot Café along our way,
My partner agrees as he smokes his doobie
We get up and set upon our next journey.
Cassandra Jarvie Apr 2015
An evening spent washing dishes
makes my hands thin and wrinkling
like tissue paper.
It’s ten o’clock.
Tonight each streetlight will
pop on one by one and
me and the guys who smoke out back
will watch owls drop from the trees
and sweep mice out of their holes.
Inside the pizza boils in the oven,
blistering up like pimples on elbows.
They can smell it from the doorstep
peeling the paint from the asphalt and
the huger gnaws and claws deep into the belly.
Onward the light crawls
trying to outshine the stars
and our Pizza Hut sign,
blazes a banner of glory to the highway.
I feel sick on gasoline and the cigarette breath
that clings to your apron.
No one can clean out the gutters
like you.
After the doors close
everyone hitchhikes  
to the Greyhound bus stop
nobly trying to stay awake
over the thousand miles home.
Americana is not Greyhound.

People come and go like life,
Attached to the waiting random.

The road feels longer,
Relief of excretion and sanitation,
Home spreads everywhere.

Sitting strangers are stories,
Riding by unknown sceneries,
Thinking about their hometown,
Wondering if they will reach their destination on time.

Earphone music connects memories to a person so vividly,
It feels like a new chapter in my life,
Bookmark the important ones with parts of me,
It feels like I’m departing,
From something small to somewhere big.

an adventure
once     the      first
step          is         made
with                               you.
DaSH the Hopeful Aug 2014
This coffin
    I inhabit
         Floats along the nonexistence
    Of space
And time

        In such a way as to make me forget what comfort ever was
     Days become eons
Trapped in a box reeking of death and lacking in emotion
     I become nothing more than a trained chimp
            Acting out "living" as I see actual humans do

all for a few measly peanuts

*yes oh yes I wouldn't mind if this rolling coffin crashed and burned if for nothing more than to end this surreal nightmare of not existing
Amelia Apr 2014
Have you ever kissed a greyhound's knee?

— The End —