Stephanie Lynn May 2014
The blackened skies will send you warning
but you will never listen
The wind will scream a frightening story
but you will refuse to hear it
The falling rain will cry tears of agony as the sky opens up in pain
All the while you never imagined the sight unfolding on the plain
And with only your cameras, cars, and trucks you face the hand of God
To warn the world of what's to come, remembered and not forgot
Respect the fury of the sky; something we may never understand
To us Mother Nature is the universe;
To her we are but a grain of sand
The anniversary of the May 2013 El Reno, OK tornado is coming up and one of my favorite group of storm chasers were killed. It just shows that the force of mother nature should be given the highest respect. She shows NO mercy.

(C) Maxwell 2014
THEY were calling certain styles of whiskers by the name of "lilacs."
And another manner of beard assumed in their chatter a verbal guise
Of "mutton chops," "galways," "feather dusters."
  
Metaphors such as these sprang from their lips while other street cries
Sprang from sparrows finding scattered oats among interstices of the curb.
Ah-hah these metaphors-and Ah-hah these boys-among the police they were known
As the Dirty Dozen and their names took the front pages of newspapers
And two of them croaked on the same day at a "necktie party" ... if we employ the metaphors of their lips.
RW Dennen Aug 2014
Walking walkers
that soon vanish
around corners
  Crazy
          cracks
                    catch
      ­               crumbs crumbling in crevices.
And some man-made drilled drains
drum drum drops dripping droplets
                                               down
                                               drowning
                                                drowning­
                                                drains for rats
Roaches run rampant
randomly.
Running rats reach
reeking rotten
radishes
as walking walkers
crush roaches
running rampant
randomly for crazy cracks
that catch crumbs crumbling in
                                                    crevices.
­
And running rats
                      reach
                      down
     ­                  drains that
                                   drip
                                    droplets...
Thank thank thank thanks
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
Sometimes desires can be cruel
Tugging you towards the blind alley
Mind is in conflict with the heart
Dragging you along the ground
Getting bruised all over by desire
And the heart somehow craves
To walk the path towards rejection
Living in the world of denial
The whole world turns a blind eye
Hurling down the path to oblivion
Bearing the brunt of collision
Waking up from stupor quite late
Jimmy ain't fuckin'
the cows've gone mad
Jordan's mom has breast cancer

Alex got a trophy of
a guy with a stump hand

Jordan's mom died of AIDS.
Sean Fitzpatrick May 2014
These kinds of stories are hard to find.
I posted up in a bar between
nowhere and a town named Ida
(probably named after some
sweetheart, that old southern name),
and in the characteristic openness
that I can only find during my travels,
I decided to say,
"hey stranger."

It was early in the evening,
he was a traveler too,
but of the trucking sort,
ashen eyes and
pale breathy skin,
we got talking amid
electric neon glow and
the pale blue light
that shown in through the rain.

His name didn't matter,
I won't tell you his name,
but the truckers know thumbers
(there are 5000 or so
across the country
at any given time),
and so he told me of a thumber.

This thumber was in the thunder,
clothes torn and eyes wide,
and with a mind that was,
at that point especially,
oblivious to the solidity
of the dry towel that was
set on the solid truck seat,
and, what a mess this boy was,
so by appearance, I presume,
it was easy to ask,
"what in the hell happened to you?"

It went like this:
the thumber turned those
wide open eyes
(I imagine he was shivering),
and told of how he was
walking, backpack and all,
and of how he smelled a storm
approaching, how when he
saw the treetops bending,
he expected the rain and
pulled a waterproof cover
over his pack just in time,
it started pouring.

This time the thumber,
he said he knew he had to
keep going,
he said he didn't like rolling
dice, no, he said it was a cheat
because if you knew enough
about throwing die the die
land the same, they land
the same enough.

So,
listen, have you ever
walked through heavy rain?
You get dizzy, but
in some deep part of your mind
in the spray, the insurmountable
lukewarmness stealing
a little with each blow,
you lose yourself,
and that's what I imagine
happened to this thumber.

At one point, the thumber
knew ground no more,
that's all he said. He said
he landed one county
over, that's all he said.

And by the jingling
of the die hanging
from the truck's rearview mirror,
one of the truckers laughed
and said bullshit
as the story of the thumber
came around,
what in all hell else could
you say?
And the thumber wiggled
his head and gave a queer
sneeze.

Against the neon glow
I peered at the trucker,
you can't tell an honest
man by his eyes but
you can tell it by his breath.
I shook my head and said,
"that's a kind of story that's
hard to find."
I'm no writer but I hope someone smiles.
Remembrance for a great man is this.
The newsies are pitching pennies.
And on the copper disk is the man's face.
Dead lover of boys, what do you ask for now?
Frank Ruland Sep 2014
Late at night, cold, concrete
Alleyways come to life. Night folk
Bleed into their hellish, narrow lengths.
You aren't welcome in this seedy,
Ravenous, grievous gullet. You'll wind up
In your tired city's infernal intestines.
Nothing can prepare you for the
Torment that lies behind our veiled streets.
H**ere, you are lost to heathens and perdition.
Everyone thinks the major cities of the world are glamorous and pristine, but once you step into the mouth of an alleyway, you get to see just how much a imperfect labyrinth exists in all of our cities.
Drifting Down Jan 2016
Dim lights
Deep voices
Darkness all around
Faces floating
Floor shaking
Heart shattering to the ground
No control
All alone
Left with no one there
Danger coming
People shoving
Left lifeless with none to hear

I sit and stare
Wondering why
You left this mark on me
I have to breathe
See my steam
You need to leave my body
I drop down
To the ground
Far from time and saving
Temperature rises
Heartbeat slows
To a line of nothing more
Ariel Hill Nov 2011
each tree has a secret
I swear it is true

the way fountains runs red
when the moon is blue

they stared at the veins
exposed on her hands

sweaty palms
sticky lips
ticking time
swollen glands

tricks trickling down alleys
on cobblestone paths
where a lady in black lay
red on her lap

blank stare compress
the distress left to hide
the people all saw
from pale windows inside

screams like white noise
but the people they knew

the trees all have secrets
the people do too
J Penpla Feb 2013
Up and over the barbed wire gate
Crept a dreadful Mr. Despair
To meet a horrible Mr. Hate
Who was impatiently waiting there
The dark alley that they had chosen
Was well off the beaten path
But it wasn’t long they heard approaching
A reckless Mr. Wrath
He greeted them with a grunt
A courtesy, for they’d never met
Then up from a steamy sewer
Rose a rueful Mr. Regret
He hardly nodded his heavy head
On his face a grumpy grimace
And so there they festered
Awaiting their last accomplice
Then out from a dirty dumpster
Creeping quite quietly
Fell the gang’s last felon
An awkward Mr. Anxiety
So there they plotted to pillage
In that abandoned alley
That lovely little town
Then called Vulnerable Valley
There they consorted, concocting
To bring the town nothing but gloom
They snickered, spat and sneered
Oh, the impending doom
Suddenly all peered upward
As a light shone through a window above
Their riotous rebellion had roused
A light-hearted Mr. Love
“Top of the mornin’ down there
Dandy weather wouldn’t ye say?”
To which there was no rebuttal
To sewers and shadows
The creeps had crept
To fraternize another day
Inspired by a Tim Burton exhibit. I shall call it a tribute.
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