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Ghostlizard Oct 29
The rain falls, the light rises, darkness caresses the city
Passing cars and passed out pedestrians pile on
Darkness and moisture cling to what is not

Illuminated streets from billboards, street lamps, and storefronts
These passing lights fool me into thinking it is day
It is Night

Smoke from the sewers dance around me as I walk through
Will the beating rhythm of cars and shouts ever sleep?
A city that never sleeps

Colors glide over the sodden streets, through thunderous rain
A storm that beats down, hard, ambient, ever present
Inexorable tides of water from the sky

Headlights blind but never linger, as I walk my hustled step
In and around the grid that weakens the foolhardy
But rises those up, just the same

Thousands of buildings, thousands of droplets, all meeting each other
Those skyward skyscrapers are the swords into the clouds
Meeting them with their stand

New York meets everything with pushback
Umbrellas against the wet, Brutality against the poor, Sorrow against the weak
Love-hate calls to them

I stare across the river, to the skyscrapers of another world
Nothing to the majesty and soul crushing weight I get to walk under
A concrete welcome to The Jungle

All that is will be undone, those lights, those cars, those wonders
I among them fade into antiquity, my footprints lost into the washing grime
All is nothing against Time
Matilda Oct 26
The first time I left New York
The Architecture chased me....
Screamed in stone:
“Don’t go!”
Robbie Jean Oct 5
Beneath the Roses,
Down stairs of bone,
the Twilight has fled,
and I am home

At the Nightclub Carnival,
Six-Six-Six Feet Under,
Morphine Martyrs dance with
******* Thunder

Lost among the Nocturnal Nymphs,
the Wildflower Cannibals eat
Innocence.

Violet Vapors
Scholars of Marijuana
Let's **** the Beatnik Babes
into a different genre.

We are New York Fairies and
their ****** Brothers.
Our hearts play on vinyl,
we're the Devil's lovers.

I've become my own Altar,
for the dead pray to None
Under Ginsberg's Grave,
The Party's just begun.

- M.R
For Allen Ginsberg. (the Beat Poets didn't ****)
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
NY
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Bag
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?

She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
Hustler
And on the other, two
Strictly
Business
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration

It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against
pale
pale
Skin.

Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that

Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?

We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull

She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we know one another?
duang fu Aug 14
brooklyn, new york
is not just a place

brooklyn, new york
is sunshine caught in sandy blonde hair
it is the light dusting of eyelashes
it is a pair of deep, hypnotising blue irises
it is a warm smile and a pair of strong arms

brooklyn, new york
is morning kisses across the cheek
it is the smell of sweet syrup on pancakes
it is the sound of 70s music in the background
it is the taste of vanilla ice cream from a tub
it is the feeling of a smooth bubble bath against your skin
it is the view of earthy undertones wherever you turn

brooklyn, new york
is my lover's embrace.
Bryden Jul 31
The occupant sips wine,
*** burning fingers,
her only company
are the cockroaches
that sanctuary in the wallpaper
which peels like sunburn.
Faded linoleum floor
ceiling drips
mirror cracked
blank face staring back.
She sits alone,
grown children flown
like her husband.
Stereo whines from her night stand
‘I have a prince who is waiting
and a kingdom downtown’,
as she gazes through the window
(cracked with cold)
through weepy condensation,
hair knotted with stress
not long enough to let down
for the nobody who waits outside.
Clothes hang like ghosts
suspended from lines,
police cars shriek,
dogs without leashes rumage
through last nights meal.
She toasts to the moon,
lonely like her.
Unnoticed,
outshone
by blaring lights.
She pours another glass,
as the moon tucks in its trailing robe,
dreading the dawn that begins to break.
Bryden Jul 28
He has a bench in Central Park,
a step on Seventh Avenue,
a corner on Broadway.
But home is a feeling rather than a location,
something those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.
The gatekeepers tell him
‘That bench is for people to sit on’,
so he grabs his sleeping bag with beat up weathered hands,
and leaves the park,
realising ‘people’ is another category in which he does not belong.
Autumn is here
so winter is near.
A chance to rush to snowy mountains with Chanel scarves
to escape ‘dreary’ lives.
He takes his vacation
from park to doorway,
views aren’t as nice but it dulls the bite.
As night drapes over Manhattan, he zig zags between expressionless crowds,
invisible
like an unread word.
He seeks a corner just off Broadway (the bright lights numb his loneliness).
In soiled clothes and old scuffed shoes,
he sits on newspaper wrinkled by other hands
and watches passers-by with bloodshot eyes,
bills burning in their pockets.
A man with shoes shinier than dreams
soils his corner with a *** of spit.
He wonders,
do I belong everywhere, or nowhere at all?
And he pulls out his guitar and begins to sing,
October cough thick with illness,
‘They say
the neon lights are always bright
on Broadway’.
Bryden Jul 25
The buildings of Upper East Side swell with exhaust fumes
and the roads sweat foul-smelling tar,
while Central Park drips green and magenta,
as friends **** on strawberries
beneath the last of the summer sun.
Butterflies chase children,
children chase kites,
dodging marigolds
that suffocate between blades of grass.
Bird song and police siren compete for centre stage,
and clammy suited men seek shades of green on their lunch break
escaping their lives between midday and one.

In the sky
rafts of white cloud crafts the arrival of autumn,
the park drinks the last of September’s rays.
Maples blush as October lures in the park with a lullaby.
Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
form parachutes that glide
left  
        to
               right
and spill like coloured pencil shavings.
Warm currents retreat the advancing brisk amber sunsets,
submerging the park in an oily gold blur.
Clouds, swans, boats,
all float upwards
as Autumn peacefully carries Summer to its end.
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