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Ray Dunn Apr 9
The brume dripped down the hills in inevitable
swaths, with mist dispersing across the
town, yet with no more room left to run.
I sifted through the fog dancing across
my windshield, with vision blurred from
headlights looking me deep in the eye.
Shepherded by racing heart, I spotted a
glow through the murky negative. A flame.
The red licks to the heavens stole my arms,
swerving my car out of the lane. I threw
my eyes to the source of the embers just to
identify a street light blinking at me, the haze
softening its edges. I laughed to the beat
of the music echoing softly through my
vehicle, after I bid my goodbyes to the
tale of potential heroism that floated
away with the wisps.
I’m not so good at this whole poetry thing
Apdoul Baron Apr 4
I'm a creep and I'm a ******
they all say so

because I always have a book in my face
because my thoughts aren't controlled by second head
because I'm black so can I be a metalhead

I'm a creep and I'm a ******
they all say so

because my humor is dark
because I let my natural hair grow free
because I don't fit in their little box

But honestly,
I think they're the creeps

They are the ones afraid to be themselves
They are the ones who worships corporate Machines
They are the ones who life is controlled by what others think

But whatever,
Yeah I an creep and I'm a ******
all the other weirdos say so
I wrote in a very teuvvling time in my life, I was still trying discover and find myself, I've had time to grown and fully embraced this part if myself, and I just wanted to share it
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.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;

off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
                                  hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a *****, polluted structure
                                  one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
                                  - chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
                                  arrows, words, people.
East Croydon Station, July 2018 (see cover photo)

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
Rastafarian perches on a BT wiring cab
Slapping dark green metal and screaming
Obscenities in Patois and nonsense
Alone.

          Passersby stare; shrieking oldies;
                                       laughing kids;
                                       bewildered Neil;
                                       and I

Sit drinking, taking it all in
Alone.
The Marquis of Granby, New Cross, 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.
Bryce Perry Apr 2018
Physical impulsion
oh, the sweet tension of seeing yer professor’s foot shaking ‘round and fro-
As some accented booble-eye
manly from the Amazon
comes into HIS Friday classroom
full of hungered heads & He
comes in and starts talkin’ poverty!
and an all-fix-this, animals and oh
he’s got a lot of wood-bead bracelets,
I admire their tight holy fit but
this Guy’s got somethin’ to prove!

Teodros watching admiring his beautiful
beloved, young students challenging “TRUTHS”. He took the reigns now!
Claiming his wild afternoon class right under that hardened commanding voice you know he’s trained you know he’s passionate, man
for good reasons!, you know he stimulated those thoughts,
Oh Teodros, I think of you...
Somebody brought their godfather into my Eastern Philosphy class last week, these are some notes I jotted down as I observed his speech to the class.
FRITZ Mar 2018
the shakes own my body they make it harder to type so i peck at my keyboard like a ******* animal and i keep smashing the power button every time i hit the backspace and i'm afraid the whole godforsaken thing will turn off. macs arent bad though. i might be okay.

wow this whole ******* thing just went to ****? can i even say that? i'll be ******* honest with you (aside from the avant-garde scene and the nihilistic WOKE poetry ensemble) i really don't know if i can say that or not? i mean when was PC invented? like 2008? *******. that was ten years ago gimme a break.

jesus man the shakes are horrible tonight. they're so bad im really just relying on autocorrect to do everything for me but sometimes it misses and so do i. i could use diction on the mac but then they would have my voice and once apple took o ver the world id just become one of their drones or something.

i know why too. maybe the "substances" im constantly ingesting. (oooh "substances" s cary word ayh right. you're an idiot.)

or maybe its the lack of creativity and originality in everything i see and hear and do? maybe not.

(taking a break to ____________).

all the bugs and trees are talking to me and you know what in not eve n gonna bother with typing at this point so if are still here then good for you,

.... six, no wait, make that, 12 bottles of wine. and some whiskey. and some champagne. and a jug of sangria. and...

it's **:05 as I write this. so if you're awake and reading this then either you're a night-owl or you live somewhere thats not here or there.

i m really truing to see; the shakes off and I think in doing pretty well so i have to just keep it up. right?

im going to shrink down and sleep with my succulent. tomorrow will be where hell is waiting.

******* come in early. 2-3 AM. i always wake up right about then.+
thank you once again, Fritz.
Men at bars cuddle their Mothers,
though the membrane of the woods smothered,
Soul drowning to find ache, curt
and half cut, been there - hurts
lost soul, he stares into nothing.

Who is he? Choking
silent clock descends, lowers
his spirit, that noir beast dreams,
he begins to lurch,
compelled move on, yet frozen
ice to the pool, cement in steel.
Jack Jenkins May 2017
I'm broken
beaten down
worn out
hollow
tired

all those other
synonyms for what
I have become

****

everything is just so wrong
all of my plans burnt down
along with too many bridges

I mean
I've lost everyone I can count on
in one way or another
So I wrap myself up in the hurt
because it's the only blanket I have
against the cruel world I live in

****

Why do I even bother writing anymore
there's only so many ways I can say
I'm a broken human being
Not broken in a good way
But broken in a way that makes me
non-functional

how many friends I lost
know I'm going to lose more
just because that's how life works
I stopped counting
after I lost my lover
then my best friend
stopped counting
after the fourth suicide
the missing

****

it's time to put the pen down
I can't write away all of my problems
there's no value in "I miss you"
no matter how eloquently I pen it
you're not here anymore

and I'm so ****** up
this poem don't even have a single
Person in mind when I'm writing it
I literally can't keep track of
how many different pains
I'm trying to address...

oh well...

*****
Life is like a box of grenades: doesn't matter how long you juggle them, they all will blow up in your face.
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