Music is in the air at the gleaming funfair,
With the moon and sun there celebrating cheery.

There are millions of streams under the signs of gleams,
Following the night's dreams with curiosity.

Shining are the bright lights, throughout the depths of nights,
Offering many sights as a sweet luxury.

They are shooting like stars, the luxuriant cars,
Along the shiny bars and each murky alley.

Now it's time of the dawn; off are lights of neon,
Lets celebrate Gihon, instead of poetry!

There once was a posh boy all alone in town,
He saw the sign for a good night going down,
The sign was neon and bright,
and all it said was,
SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS,
So down he went and started his decline,
Shouting SHORT'S, SHORT'S, SHORT'S.

The smoke circled halo,
Bent smiles and summoned demons,
Brimstone come a reverent silent
And obeyed sort of way.

I let my left eye avoid.

I’d let my right dream,
As I munched skewered calf,
Innocent, slaughtered, salivated
And my only excuse – Survival.

Toe-to-toe with
Home-field advantage
I nodded from shadows
To the one who scented venom;

Lace tucked slightly thigh,
She’d wink and hours later,
The demon would meet the Devil
And she’d devour –

All I’d known,
All I’d ever know
And all we’d ever be.

@cyber
    @punk
headset not
clear enough. can't receive circuitry
rewiring veins back to my
internal mainframe in which two
magnets start to spew out
dystopian propaganda. neon motorcycles
that can turn at any corner
dash through the streets.
concept? oh no
    @end
@function

"I got kissed once," she mumbles,
sitting outside the local Sonic,
between her fingers a corndog fumbles,
mixing her slushy with beer and tonic.

The not-so-neon sign of the dive
flickers like a flashlight there;
the activity isn't alive,
its fundamental force impaired.

"I remember it vaguely," she groans,
the seat of her car squeaking,
"The times were full of gasps and moans,
my memories are fleeting."

Many things happen at night
while others are asleep.
Under the not-so-neon light,
the stillness made her weep.

sharpie scars on gas station sinks, and "for a good time" still staining my thigh

(splatters of red on a ceramic floor are the only remains of a three am high)

the ballpoint names are fading away, red and white under flickering bulbs

somebody's number is left on my hip, **** it and see if I ever grow old

neon blue and a pale yellow buzz, xenon and glass no different from flies

lighting bandages and a Trojan box for moments of warmth before the flame dies

years of stories on bathroom stall doors, but all that remains is dates and a time

I write my name over cracked reflections, say a prayer for somebody to know they are mine.

The *** stood stars on end, so to,
whispered, “play with me,” and in
haste we fled. We explored,
discovered, and devised something
bright, half something else sinister,
notarized – black roots pinned a
pink-scorched Mohawk, and
reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,”
or so she’d named the hair on my
arms. The moon endured whilst we
knifed each other with each and
every gasp and sutured wounds left
prior lovers. I’d only come across
her name near the end, “Xiaolian,”
though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told
me, “Lola.” Come what mothers
christen us innocent would be a
poems in and of themselves,
addendum, the delirium aged and the
dance of neon atop our waterfall
soaked bodies - epic.

Today my little town is bright.
Its like there have been neon lights placed on the pathways,
but surely it is the full moon.
Like a crystal it glows so clearly.
Watching its light spread to different directions,
i find my joy spreading all over my body.
If only the moon could fo ever stay full,
and glow overhead my roof i would forever stay happy and young