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Don’t look down
where emaciated bodies lie beyond salvation
they’re beneath you
when you preach for profit.

Don’t look down
to idle bones on the edge of prison walls
they’ve already fallen
their hands too bloodied to shake
their eyes too blind to see the mistakes they are yet to make.
Save the souls with the pound sign goals
avert your eyes from the misery of the fallen
they’re not even there
if you don’t look down.
So, I was walking through the centre of Manchester as preachers had grins fixed on their faces, handing out flyers to the well-dressed passers-by, ignoring the homeless people that were surrounding them. Doesn't make sense does it?
Amy Perry Aug 2018
I watch him slowly deteriorate.
The first man I ever loved
Is being brought down,
Like a torrid helicopter
Caught in a hailstorm.
How much he must struggle
Against the current,
Only to be swept into unsightly circumstances,
Into a misfortunate gravity
He brings upon himself.
Homelessness, his vice,
And all I can do to help him
Is not worry so much
About all his suffering and whirlwind adventures
That make so little sense.
The delusions, the psychosis,
The wretched, wonderful mania,
It’s all so much for one person to contain,
And all I can do is watch
Him deteriorate
Before my eyes.
The first man I ever loved,
Fearful of none,
How terrible must be the parts of him
I cannot see
For his actions to be
So extreme.
abp 08/26/18
Madison Aug 2018
Staring to the heavens above

Two poor kids release turtledoves.

Smiling silent implications

Of lifelong adoration

There's no denying, the two are in love.
I asked my family for words to base limericks off of. My mother's contribution: adoration. Hope you enjoyed!
Graff1980 Aug 2018
Old eyes flutter open,
awakened by the sound
of soft water on
a car roof,
and a sharper thud.

Spheres of light,
blur,
breaking the night.
They vary in color
shape, and size,
while thin streams
of liquid slide
down the rear window.

The upholstery
is torn,
from time
and its stiches
being stretched
too far.

Blurred points of pressure
push in on his fog filled brain
as the rain
continues.

He rolls down one window
allowing the pungent odor
of sweat
and old ***** cloths
to spill out.

Another thud,
is followed by
an angry voice
bellowing
“You need to move this car!”

The old man moves
crawling from the back
to the front
disturbing the junk
he has acquired.

With leaden bags
and burning red eyes
from his harsh life
he tries to
start his car.

It will not move.

So, the city takes
the last place
this old man
called home.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
The wind is ripping
From the sound of oscillating
Overhead 'copters
Splitting my vision.

In the peripherals;

       A polyester carpet—sleeping bags—breaks the dry monotony of summer grass;
       The bicycle courier awakes from said floor, listless;
       Important man, suited, takes calls from other men, suited — octopus arms scattering papers, receipts, coffee cups and tie;
       Two hard hat builders chain cigarettes and fight visible hangovers, droopy eyes staring down some impending scaffold.

And I almost miss it all,
For the passing,
Of oscillating 'copters.
Cavendish Square, London, July 2018 (on the day Trump's helicopters circle London)

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.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
Pinprick morning eyes
See
Through blurry
Films;
            
            A rough sleeper/panhandling hopeful, wide awake, wishing a good morning — in my pocket, a toehold on Everest's side;
            A second (a girl), she's taught her dog to hold The Big Issue in between its yellow-black teeth;
            A scattering of people staring, smiling (at the pet)—"look, look"—"isn't it cute"—"bless"—;
            A flat expression, dead eyes (the girl's), she's ******* a selection of cuts on her arm, invisible;
            A tragic scene, in the shadow of London's limestone Everests.

But the toehold leaves
Selfishly
In my rushing, full
Pocket.
Oxford 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.
A Simillacrum Jul 2018
Chocolate pudding pillows press to cheekbone.
Lips. Make a sound. Muffled. I can't hear.
I can see your tongue escape your mouth and
fall. To the ground. Hungry. I can taste.
We once prepared fine dining applesauces and
store brand condensed soups on the asphalt.
Chocolate pudding pillows press to your cheekbone
But. Will not stop. At that. Happy now?
I can see your eyes struggle to appear
cogent. To the world. Orbit. E. V. A.
We once loved like children now we play like it's
more than ***** and finger inside.

I take the deepest breath I ever have as I
can't bear to see you sink.
Let's both breathe
cho co late
pu dding.
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