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Temporal Fugue Apr 2017
The sidewalk ends, with a solid solemn note
the purpose has no walls, but has a perfect moat
Birds in the eaves and overhangs, raccoons in the hall
imagination as it flows, or does not flow at all

Dwelling on the the bitter absence of simple electrical thought
some things cannot be purchased, sold, or ever bought
A daydream or a nightmare, solidified by pure control
molding what's at hand, as diamonds, made from coal

String the pearls of all things grasped, and so upheld
as are good dialogues, leading too, a quintessential spell
Hone the blades of heroes, bending edicts and all rules
using words as barriers, against the bravery of fools

I never thought to hold the strings, of all the prose that I have lost
divining a newer better phrase, running up a dire financial cost
Give me back all the discarded pangs, I've left there in my past
conjoining in deliverance, as broken bones in graves, been cast

It's like the final days of great Pompeii. or greater Rome
Nero on his lyre, Pompeii's burned within their homes
Draw the dipped quill across, what is and is not so
gleanings of similar minds, inspiring as it goes
Ya never know where it comes from, it either comes, or, it doesn't. :D
.
NeroameeAlucard Aug 2016
If I had something inspiring on my mind don't you think that I would've written it by now
I love being a writer but sometimes it gets me down
The pressure escalates like the water in the everglades to top myself, like pulling miracles out of my head is a miraculous act
I can't turn water into wine And I can't turn stacks of hay into clever punchlines
I guess what I'm trying to say, like Dr. Mccoy  is that I'm a writer not a magician
I can only take what myself and others have gone through, and turn it into something relatable, that maybe just maybe someone will take something positive out of what was written
R Dickson Mar 2015
Hey ****** ******,
The cars do a twiddle,
They twist and turn on the road,
Dodging the *** holes,
Some with broken controls,
I've even seen some being towed,

Hey ****** ******,
The road in the middle,
Needs a little repair,
If you can swing by,
And give it a try,
And pretend you're a council that care,

Hey ****** ******,
Thanks for the repair in the middle,
But the road needs a whole new coat,
Take care when crossing,
Cause the road's all rutting,
You'll need to be a mountain goat.

Hey ****** ******,
Is the council on the fiddle,
Just like Nero did in Rome,
Please come and fix it,
You'll need to bring a tar pit,
Cause it's shaking the walls in my home.
A poem to the council about road repair that doesn't go right.
Kyle Kulseth Jun 2014
Befriended street lamps' static hum
Timed steps slashed through electric buzz
Fled from the dawn's grey stain
chased night with anxious breath
                                              erupting
Out­flanked and pinned down
                                         by the days

Strike up the band, roisin the bows.
Compose another tired piece.
I dread the melody
and cringe away
                              from the next movement
I'm only up for burned out wandering.

     Another balance overdue
Took out a loan for time well spent
     Roll out the carpets for the doomed
It's unforgiving turf where our steps are bent

I'll draw these lines
     of ghostly profile night
and coax the specters out
We'll roll on with the tides
     where we can dance macabre
until the core unwinds.

Defend the fort for sleeping ghosts
I'll man these walls until the dawn.
I'll fight these memories
beneath the banner of
                                  some others
Shell-shocked with gun arm
                                  growing sore

Outside, the sidewalks glow red-orange
I throw my shadow on the sparks.
Charred homes on cindered streets
I draw my bow
                           across shaking half notes
Chart out a map of burnt meanderings.

     Default on friendships I misplaced
I'm wrapped tight in familiar fear.
     But I'll warm to those familiar strains...
Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere, and Summer's here...

I'll cross the lines
     into the ghostly night
and wake the specters up
As fires kiss the night
     so I can sleep real sound
and let my core unwind.

— The End —