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neth jones Apr 14
a sorry fist forward                                                          ­  
             and mortally i follow                          
coldly into the first dark flint of day                                            
              not my natural habitat                                                      
so quiet.. or near so
a vacancy for occasional clean                              
                             ­              isolated noises

 i pause         and pass a scan about
the hailing lack of conscious population                                 
                     ­                     all packed away
hauntings themselves in beds
- like some form of post apocalyptic storage -
they add a vague lended charge
nature is on a limited budget         this early                             
no birds yet                                   and no solar minting
a massive racoon      with only three legs      crosses my intended path
              in its mouth                    a gory wreckage                        

i steep to make balance
                         but my pores won't take it
                                                       i am sickened by the ballast
                                                         ­                                  of my breakfast

i hollow onward into these new conditions                            
still deriding what to be                                                    
     a tourist and an informer dud                                                     ­  
i have switched to the dayshift                                        
from off the spire                                  
of my regular hour                  
the evening routine

breathing is surprisingly ***** at this time
                                            a failing of settled pollution :                      
the public buildings and restaurants          
                                 are muggy in their overnight stale degassing
awaiting air currents and dispersal        

the first gulls of the morning                          
                                              emit a defeating siren
spearing through detritus                            
                            ­    they dispel the bells of purity
               somehow i've made my port of call
a struggling invertebrate
in this state i dispose my spirit                        
                                at­ the salted threshold
security staff and sanitation process                              
         between the sets of automatic doors

a workplace made alien          
   and adverse to me
purely by        
            the indecent hour
of day
neth jones Oct 2021
[gulls] summer
the morning gulls
morning gulls defeat me
an accuracy to the early hour
they spear
thorough amongst the detritus
dispelling the bells of cleanliness
in an urban morning
Justin S Wampler Nov 2021
Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.

***** sheets.

Always *****, no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.

That sparse sunlight
It highlights the
and the sweat.

I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.

The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.

I hum.

I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.

I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.

A couple hours.

A few beers,
or whiskeys.

Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.

Until it doesn't.
Dave Robertson Sep 2021
September heat to melt the
sealing wax, closing off summer
as grasses, golden as they die
still whisper with insect thought

the trees reply in kind
though the greying of their temples
can’t be hidden
reminding of the irresistible slide
to winter’s wide silences
Dave Robertson Sep 2021
Commute recommenced,
the verges rekindled their
annual morning conversations,
heard twenty times

As my muscle memory drove,
I sought the last red comments
of poppy heads cheering,
but the long, dry grasses
sounded familiar tired whispers
that threatened to drown

I could allow them to dictate the script
of another season,
clichés so often spoken
as to be silence

but I can still hear
the poppy red
I hear the poppy red
A creature so hopeless.
The embodiment of boredom.
Flips through his life repeating the same sentences often,
Never getting to the end in time,
Placing the bookmark every now and then,
Fails at wooing Routine,
Ultimately gives in to immediate reinforcements.
Carlo C Gomez May 2021
This isn't happening
all of the sudden
we need to close the beaches
and call in sick

Don't cry again teargas
it's not your fault
don't get hot there gun
you gave it your best shot

Song and dance, weekend warrior
soothe your soul
with a little radio friendly fire

The forest can be petrified
the sea wild
working without a mask
is both, you know

It's quite out of this world
but you haven't
really seen outerspace
until you've had DayQuil
with dissociatives

Then you take hot trips
to odd places
like an international
convenient store
where they're always
out of Africa and milk

I wish Monday mourning
would go jump off a bridge
I wish taco Tuesday
would become a festive holiday
nevertheless, our girl Friday
is always good for the job

The weight has lifted
the wait has (week)ended
the search for
my socks and sanity
can now kick off

Microbees Mar 2021
Now close your eyes
And open them at sunrise
Grab the string to the blinds
Think of how you miss the sunlight

While you stretch your arms with a great yawn
And watch butterflies lay on the rose in the lawn
You ponder on what you will dream
Then wonder what else hides in the green

Smell the dew upon the grass
Your mug of coffee, done at last
To feel its warmth upon your fingers
And hope that maybe it will linger

Water the tiny kiwi tree
Study each and every leaf
To wonder how large it may grow
And hope in sixty years you'll know

To wonder where the sun goes
And if the butterflies eat the rose
To ponder if you'll sleep in turn
If you read this in reverse
sophie Jan 2021
she leaves for hours on end
then she comes back
a girl escapes.
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