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Lee Brewer Mar 18
She was laying there
Flesh icy cold
Dying brown hair
In a warm summer night
Dead in a parking lot
No sign of a fight
She died from overdose
At around 11:30 pm
The scene was awfully gross
The killer was never found
Police tried
But have failed to get him in the pound
It has been 10 years
To exactly this day
There have been a lot of tears...
This isn't based off any true story
Light Jan 2020
parking lots on suburban nights
we would congregate there after long shifts, held captive
as conversations and arm gestures played out like symphonies
secrets drifted past lips and simmered at the surface.

we ignored all the lines
there was no place I would have rather been.

when the moments of silence grew longer
like shadows that disappear with the sun
we marched back to our cars, one by one,
or my favorite,
two by two.

fingers finicking with the temperature controls,
my stomach crawls into my throat.
one second
your eyes flirt with the car door
the next
they’re teasing my lips.
                                                           ­                             
I learned a lot in that parking lot.

I turned myself inside out
every inch of me exposed
illuminated by orange street lamps.

in that car, you never dared to venture beyond those straight white lines,
you painted over them, again and again, thickening the divide
between your seat and mine.

maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected on my face
or the way the music made me feel, just sad enough
or the look on my face in the rear-view mirror
but when you ran out of paint
the line began to fade away
I faded with it.

I learned a lot about lips
whose I shouldn’t have kissed.

so why do I coat my lips, first with lipstick then with tears?
because I place my self-worth in the curves of my mouth.
I cover them up just to wring them back out.
Paul Mar 2019
Over the bed a ceiling fan swings in
arrhythmic ellipses
pushing the hot air back onto a lone smoker from whose
yellowed fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning
tobacco loops, widens and merges with the unseen
everything. What she said, what he’d done everything. all of it
replaying in a faltering loop of half truths
and deliberate deceptions
The grift finally worn through, the rubber shredded
the rim of the wheel titling on its axel and
scraping ruinously
to the this room yellowed by the by post-****** or solo smoke-filled
lungfuls of salesman, hookers, preachers, cheaters, the luckless
chancers, the gamblers, the grifters, the desperate, the deluded
the lost, the plummeting, itinerants of every stripe
lighting up with and breathing out with the narrow hope
of every fresh smoke archived on the wallpaper
To which he now adds, breath by breath,
thought by thought
Hope by hope. She has gone back to the world from which they’d run
A husband, a home, the wearying balm
of acceptable comfort
and now finds himself in an aftermath,
as in the denouement
of a minor character in a hero-free
subplot. Shaken
by his new status he turns on the rumpled mattress, stubs
out his smoke and tries to think of what comes next.
Tries to corals his possibilities, there was Tom with car yard
he’s give him work
there was Lucy, who once loved him, and single now
Instead, he light up again, sees the sheets strewn about his ankles
and warms recalling  how they'd named this the cellmate’s noose,
the way they roped around his legs during
their thrashings.
it was Funny because she'd done time, for years. And it showed,
in the way she assumed her role in the act,
face to the wall,
*** up, expressionless with silent jailbreak intensity.

He inhaled, and a ring of orange fire bloomed like some brief proclamation of hope or plenty. A short, bright clarion call
of a thought that stoops as soon as it stands.
He exhaled. The open window frames a field of empty blue sky from which frayed curtains, flap and seize with sudden and passing forms, pleasurably meaningless, and under the window
in a shadowless heat outside, a dog, limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
Elizabeth Brown Oct 2018
Sometimes on days like these
I watch rain wash my skin like whispers
and it reminds me of you.
I remember when you taught me that the drops
splattering on your windshield like screams
(making it impossible to see
the impatient bloodlights in front of us)
were beautiful.
I couldn't hear you at first
from the ear-beating whip of your wipers.
Then with just one smooth, ink-like movement,
you silenced them...
and I sat in
serenity,
amazement,
as your eyes lit the falling tears on the
slowly diminishing glass-metal frame
that swathed us.
I forget when it disappeared...
but before I had the chance
to fashion your visage in my brain,
I was sitting naked in the rain,
letting you wash my skin
while you murmured sunlight in my ear.
This was written when I was 14 about my first boyfriend (and the man who ***** me), and was the first poem I wrote in free-verse. Despite the pain obviously attached to it, this remains one of my favorite self-written works.
JR Rhine Dec 2016
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.

A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.

When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.

I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—

A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.

What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?

Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—

delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.

Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.

The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—

The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.

A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.

Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
i could write about
a lot of things
like my day
or how the pavement
looks when it
rains slightly.

or how the parking lot
feels when it's full
of cars and void of people
or how i feel when i'm
surrounded and
afraid.

how i'm angry and
insecure and
i don't owe anyone
anything
not my friends
not enemies
or elders
not an apology
or a single
**** explanation.

but i think i'll just
forget about the
whole thing and
write about death
or something
nice like that
after all it would
weight less on me
then the words
on my fingertips.

i had assumed
that i was done
struggling with
all that identity crap
but now i've concluded
that everything we ever
fight is a battle for
our own lives.

and it's odd
to think that i can
have such a strong
sense of myself and yet
my personality can
be so unlike that self.

there are more layers
to a parking lot than
what you might
first expect.

i suppose at one point
there were grass
and trees and pure
unadulterated dirt
and then somebody
leveled it
maybe added a coating
of gravel and
paved over it and
put some vehicles on top.

but that doesn't mean the
layers aren't still there
under the asphalt
i mean.

and that's what i'm saying
is that i've got something
under the pavement
i just can't get the cars
to move out for long enough
to tear up the layers.

i feel other people's wheel marks
burned into my skin
and the signs and lines
that proclaim no parking
have been vandalized and
ignored for too long.

how do you tell a parking lot to stop
without looking crazy?

and there lies the
exact problem
i care
too much
what people think
i look like
and i don't mind if they
think i'm insane
but i mind if they don't
like me
there's a big
difference you know.

and there goes
another piece
falling into place
and the
puzzle not
yet completed.
Copyright 4/25/16 by B. E. McComb

— The End —