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the competitors
shall be mounted on something high
and that something
stands on four speeding legs of ply

this particular sport
is presently staging a revival
as there are enthusiasts  
who want to see its survival

the outfits the rivals
wear are really heavy of weight
they must feel like
they're carrying a large freight

let us now hark back
to those days of yore
when the knights would
make a galore score

if you guess the
name of the sport
Sir Lancelot will be
your tournament escort
Kitt Apr 14
Despite the emptiness of the train station, I can hear the sounds of people.
Headed to work.
Headed home from work.
Day shifts, night shifts
Social visits
Business ventures.
All of the emotions and all of the stories they carry, unbeknownst to one another
save the innocuous and inadvertent clues given
by way of their postures or countenances, caught in glances
and forgotten just as quickly.

The station is full of ghosts,
of memories lost and faded from time.
Sentiments once deemed of utmost importance
but that now lie as irrelevant as those deemed unimportant.
All of them, lying together
as dead as dead can be.
There is an eerie chilliness to the air,
but I can’t bring myself to pull out my jacket and bundle up.
Somehow, the cold feels
fitting for the mood.
I haven’t been here in so long, yet I can still hear the ambiance
from so long ago.
I could almost feel the murmur of conversation
the occasional flipping of pages from books or newspapers
the omnipresent thundering of railways
the laughter of children on their mothers’ laps on the way to visit Grandma.
I can hear the patter of expensive Italian shoes
the shuffle of worn work boots
the clicking of heels
the scuff of flats
all running together
as the masses shift and shuttle hither and thither.
I thought about the loafers and stilettos that had once scuffed these hard floors.
I thought about how, in the moment, they must’ve seemed so vital,
so necessary.
But now?
Expensive and cheap shoes are buried together on decaying corpses.

I had lived near the train tracks, once upon a time.
After the world came crashing down around me,
it was only in rebuilding it that I found
something as benign as the sounds of a railway to be comforting.
But I did, somehow. It was a reminder of the world that went on
despite it feeling like it was at an eternal standstill.
Of course, back then I was completely unaware
of how I was building up a collection of memories
centered around that very sound.
I didn’t realize how I would forever hear that sound
and be brought back to a simpler time.
I never knew how important it would become, or the memories it would bring along with it.

And the rain came down,
and it kept coming down,
so nourishing to the parched earth
yet so gloomy and low. It fit the mood.
An event that must happen, for the world to survive
But that, in the moment, only feels like a dreary moodsetter on a blustery day.
It isn’t too dark out. Despite the rain coming down in torrents, it’s still bright.
As I drive along the highway I see that rays of
sunshine are poking out from behind the clouds, and I think that,
somewhere along the distance, from the right vantage, where the brilliant sun rays
hit the storm droplets at just the right angle, there might be a rainbow
somewhere.
Just too far gone down the road for me to see it.
Equality in demise
She was
nigh as
bosh a
lar gibbon
and the
edge of
water made
hotter season
now while
sun bakes
her bread
on Formosa
Strait and
shapes Sino-Taiwan
with her
by south.
a fire in Taipei
Jennifer Buzzell Mar 2017
Here today, gone tomorrow
Praying for your smile to come back
Even as a ghost, even as a shadow
I can't help myself but missing the good days of yore
I never saw a trace of that kind of pain behind your eyes before
But i can see; around you there's darkness and nothing more
Now i suffer from a constant ache, an ache without a cure
I can't help myself but endure
I ran out of tears early
Can you believe that i was on the verge of never seeing you again, daddy?
Please don't go, you are the best part of me
Please don't be sad, your little girl's still here and she love you more than anything
My dad tried to **** himself...
Lambert Mark Mj Feb 2015
Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor

To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,

Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,

Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads

So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date
Do not step back into past, renew yourself for tomorrow's war
Antonio Fonseca Sep 2014
Seagulls on the beach
along them chanting, I exist.
A mountain overlap on slaying deranged.

Mind-blown,
portrait of yore.
Sweet Belfast;
Antique,
unique,
ambiguous,
get obscene, now!
Martin Narrod May 2014
Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

— The End —