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I’m walking by the dimming remains
of a building of future past:
its once stylish streetlight, now decayed,
points at the Moon that’s rising fast.

The old streetlight was made of globes of glass
that circle its core of steel bars.
It looks like a starship, sleek and fast,
but now its globes are dusty and scarred.

The globes, a circle of eight bright moons,
orbit the streetlight’s tall spire
that points up to the glowing sky jewel,
to the place to which it aspires.

Up there, on brightly lit lunar plains,
our spacefarers once walked in awe
and dreamt of Zarathustra’s booming strains
in two thousand and one proud hurrahs.

And so this spacecraft of glass globes
was made to look up to the stars,
to urge us on to launch further probes
and take wing from this blue globe of ours.

Years later, this dream has faded
to fleeting stars of reality shows,
who leave the people fixated —
not by the Moon’s, but by screens’ dim glow.

The streetlight was fixed firmly to earth,
iron bolted to grey crumbling concrete.
But it still points up to the heavenly berth:
Moon rises, a dream left on repeat.
Inspired by a streetlight at the now decaying 1970s futuristic International Congress Center in Berlin.
A Berlin building. Sunbeams of steel
made to shine in suns of future’s gold,
now dreary, dimmed and forced to kneel
to the timeless gods of growing old.

Its shining future could not last.
Sinking in a golden fade, a forgotten grail.
Of sunbeam ore, new futures are cast,
bright dreams unbound by fear’s black veil.

From the forge of steely sunbeams
comes a new grail of sunlit dreams
and the tireless gods’ tired reign
is overthrown for another day.
Inspired by the futuristic International Congress Center in Berlin, built in the late 1970s, but now mostly unused and decaying.
A cobblestone road
in a dark night dyed with woad.
Faint glitter under pale street lights.

Icy blue fog in the late night
turned electric by the passing lights
of rumbling cars that rush on by.

They leave their streaks of LED beams
that quickly fade as if a lost dream.
The night watches with a hint of a sigh.
Elvin Dec 2024
A mythical chimera galloping against the direction of the wind
7 different philosophies divided over the 3 of your heads
Your neck is always covered
in hickeys and pus-leaking bites of disgust

I watch you as you lift the red wine glass up to your lips and loose myself in the conviction
that you too would have found a way to part the sea
if only it had not been army troops crusading after you, but another past withdrawn and tremoring loveress persecuting you for the feeling of your high

She has been picking up filthy cigarette butts from the ground and she gets drunk with strange men in the night,
for that is the closest she can get to you
again
without you deserting yet another brand-new city and another untouched life
as you blemish those of them around you like candles staining the white table cloth with irremovable hot wax and the ceiling with cough-provoking soot as they are yet to decide whether they ever want to burn out or not.

Despite of the transience you so desperately try to project
There is a part of you in every speck of light and shadow
That is perceived by both
your waken and your resting eye.
You cannot outrun the light.
Lacey Clark Oct 2024
can't get too comfortable!
hair grows and then it's cut,
furniture is placed then it's moved,

perhaps its why there's
dust on all these picture frames
dried roses living in a small box

grocery store aisles
rearranged again, familiar
labels now strangers

bus routes change
leaving empty stops with
only a small sign where to go next

the pink-glazed mug
chipped but cherished
holds more than lukewarm coffee

sidewalk cracks
memorized then forgotten
on routes no longer fitting

pockets full of
crumpled receipts,
a paper lifeline to the corner stores
Jack Groundhog Oct 2024
A-walking through the foggy wood
I found a Roman urn
It marks what seems a noble grave
but its fate took a turn

It lacks a name or token word
to tell just who lies there
It blankly stares right back at me
without the slightest care

The puzzling urn says naught to me
I sit in somber peace
and then the answer falls in place:
it’s a grave for all deceased

For all the nameless of the past
the memorial stands here
The grandest grave that ever was
Unsung now sung I hear
Inspired by an unmarked grave topped by a Roman urn, seen in the forested overgrown Southwest Cemetery of Stahnsdorf near Berlin
mike Oct 2024
he doesn’t take his shirt off anymore
he never really liked to, but now he never does
“I’m sagging. I have wrinkles,” he says through beautiful crows feet and a sad grimace wrapped by dimples lengthened through smiling as hard as he lived
once, he was young
messy, poor-intentioned, headstrong, mean
when his smile lines started staying
it was new

are you ashamed you became an antidote?
or that you were once poison?
Erwinism Sep 2024
We spend so much time blinking and looking away,
we blink so much that we don’t realize our fuse is alight.
A turn of the dial,
into another scene,
never rooted in the moment,
as transient as everything mortal.
We blink, to erase the unpleasant,
we blink, to jump forward,
coil our bodies around rest,  
wrap paychecks inside our hands,
so, we can blink a little more.
We skip and jump out of the day,
when tomorrow is worse than today,
we blink it away,
as if we have unlimited blinks,
and soon enough we’ll hit a wall
and wish we could have kept our eyes open
more frequently.

—e.d. maramat | erwinism
AE Feb 2024
a world
of distant voices and glittering echoes
painted with a thousand sunsets
that I've poured into my eyes
to find some relief from this tiredness
Days walk beside me, years run ahead
I wish I could collect all the silences
between all that I've said
and fill them in with things
I've lost to time
Thank you notes spill from my hands to yours
The permanence of things begins to fade among dialogue once shared
There is a world I have spent building
With stories and reminders
you left for me
I hope you'll find in it
the transience of an anger
that ceases to be
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