"alternate" poems
I want to sneak up behind you and grab you
I want to slowly unbutton you blouse as I kiss the back of your neck
I want to undo your bra, exposing your perfect *******
I want to kiss your neck and **** on your ear as I slide one finger up and down your ***** slit and oinch your rock hard *******
I want to rub your **** making your body vibrate
I want to **** tease your ****** with my tongue before ******* your amazing **** as I slide my finger slowly inside you
I want to lay you down and feed you my throbbing **** as i continue to slide my finger deeper and faster, rubbing your **** until you explode
I want to rub your juices all over your ******* and areola and ******* as I continue to slide my **** down your throat until I explode down your throat
I want to slide between your legs and seperate your ***** lips with my fingers before I slide my tongue slowly inside you
I want to continue to lick your sweet ***** making your body quiver and your back arch as I alternate between licking, lapping and *******
I want to slide one finger inside your tight ***** feeling your muscles tighten around my finger and one finger in your tight *** as I focus all my attention on your **** with my masterful tongue, lapping soft and slow, then hard and fast until I feel you ready to explode
I want to **** your **** just as you begin to ****** and your bury my head into your sweetness, nearly drowning me in your juices
I want to stand over you and slide my throbbing **** up and down your ***** slapping your **** with my swollen head
I want to look you deep in your eyes as I slowly enter you, becoming one with you, rubbing your **** as I continue to pump myself deep inside you, watching your amazing **** bounce with each ******
I want to kiss you passionately as **** you hard and slow until you *** all over my pulsating ****
I want to stand up, taking you by your hair and put you on your knees so you can taste your ***** juices off of me
I want to bend you over and slide my hard **** deep inside you from behind as I spread your *** cheeks and lightly spank your beautiful ***
I want to tease your *** with my thumb as I **** you slowly from behind
I want to work my thumb into your *** as I begin to **** you deeper and harder until I grab your hips and pound your doggie style until I feel you ready to *** again
I want to explode with you, filling your ***** with my load as you continue to cream all over my ****
I want to collapse onto the bed with you, wrapped in each others arm, completely naked and satisified, until.... 26
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.
Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?
I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.
I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.
But am I just
pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
As you draw the knife
Ready to take their life
I sit and ponder
As i dream way past yonder
While you're watching your best friend die
You're screaming out your mournful cry
I'm reading about being twirled
Without a care in the whole wide world
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
raindrops bounce on
the window frame,
reminding me we're
in this room together.
your words are raindrops
playing on my metal frame -
nowness splatters
into existence -
you remind me that
someday we won't be
in this room together.
you repeat endlessly
between my ears -
I sing along to my favorite song -
I want to tell you
all the lyrics
but my words fall
like raindrops.
unspoken are my
tear-shaped raindrops -
their tremors taunt me
on this side of the pane -
you remind me that
we were always
in the wrong
alternate universe.
the raindrops refract
your light,
dissolving a warm glow
into the evening fog,
you remind me that you're gone.
maybe the rain stopped,
but the silence is only
the absence of your voice,
the rest is just noise.
I think of our raindrops now -
smiling -
knowing that you have an umbrella.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
We'll make this country great again!
I'll build that wall up high.
Climate change? Economy!
It's great! Don't wonder why.
I'll take care of all your needs and get you jobs you'll love.
Raise your right hand for the pledge and pray to God above!
Do your duty as a man and grab her nice and tight!
It's OK if she fights back, they like it rough, alright?
Civil liberties, really, who needs 'em?
Burn the flag? I'll just hang you for treason!
This country is first. To protect it is best!
Whose up for a fun little nuclear arms test?
Capitalism? Yeah, I'm the money master!
Pipelines! Who cares about ecological disaster?
Gays? Girls? Abortion? WOE!
If they want that, send em' down to Mexico!
I'll rule with blood and honor too!
I'll tame this crazy, jobless zoo!
I'll fight for you and family rights!
(Mostly for rich and mostly for whites!)
Minorities? No, I'm not a racist.
It's an alternate fact: Totally baseless!
America the great. America the free!
Put a bigger pair of **** on old Lady Liberty.
Goodbye all you immigrants!
All you do is steal and loot.
Leave a couple of 'em behind:
Someone's gotta pick our fruit!
Thank you all for choosing me!
This is very great and swell.
Prove that you will follow now:
Let's all go straight to-
Heil!
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
I.
The heart is clumsy,
our thoughts provoking disaster
when pulling on the wrong strings
before the storm, and after.
II.
You
and I,
encompass the sky
that hovers above us
holding clouds that serve purpose
to embellish or destroy
waiting for the wind
to mould us into strange shapes
tugging at others’ curiosity
not knowing what we are
or where we’re going.
III.
Muffled speech,
blinding weather in his eyes,
today we are not raining together
drop by drop
He falls and changes,
beauty into anger,
I await on a lonely ground
to catch him.
IV.
We exist in all shades,
unpredictable,
beautiful,
converging into one another
calming the anxious souls
that we transport to the heavens above.
V.
I watch the sun and moon alternate,
natural occurrences, I notice
just like the thoughts
that feel like clouds in my head
when my heart reminds me
of him
at an ungodly time of night
striking me like lightening,
thunder echoing between these ears
that long for the voice of an angel instead.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Someday we'll all be dead
And we'll be sitting in our graves wondering where the time went
It's no so much a problem; it's just a shame when you realised
How many wasted opportunities passed you by and you didn't blink an eye
Take the cute guy opposite you for example
You let him just walk away
With a thousand possible outcomes from one word, "hello"
But maybe in a parallel universe, an alternate reality, you ran off the train with him
And just took a chance
And maybe you wouldn't be lying in a grave regretting
The boy with the blue eyes opposite you on the train
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
Todd Totally Toad
Finger Smell McGee
E-I-E-I **** You
Captain Sally Potato
Blackhole Sound *****
The Glass Candy Imagination Man
Dew Snot
One-Eyed Duce Leg of the Cement Dimension
The Guy Who Makes Sailors, Pirates and Fisherprice men shake their Buoy.
The Saccharine Snake of Compatibility
Yeti Jenny ******
Johnny Loch Ness **** Deck.
Chicken ***** McGillicutty
Blanket Face
Rev. 3D Trigonometry
The Little Pistachio ****
The Killer Doll That Only Exists in My Alternate Universe's Self's Imagination.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
I yell and I yell
enclosed by the air
and yet I can't feel it.
I want to hurt myself
just so I can feel something
So I try and I try
but not a drop of blood shed.
I shoot and I shoot
I clash my cymbals
I set myself on fire
I bomb the whole **** cloud.
Nothing moves.
I am stuck in an infinite circle of an alternate reality.
Isolated from life.
I sit and sob
in a cloud of white air.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 9:44 AM UTC
I wear the letters NYU sprawled across my chest as my individuality is asphyxiated.
Lungs choke under the weight of the added pressure.
The thought of college plus my complexion,
Equals complexed looks that ponder my intellectually-heightened direction.
Will you think a little bit more of me, with my conformity?
Attempts to better myself meet enough ignorance to even cloud the vision of God.
Segregation and alienation cause mental spasms the strength of lightening rods.
I guess you're just a product of the environment to which you were exposed.
But I'm always trying to fight the stereotype that black people are ultimately foes.
I am the ant and the kids of rich parents are magnifying glasses.
Cremating me with the solar power of son's who were taught that their existence was worth more than mine.
I lay motionless, in bottomless quick sand pits, itching to alleviate my stomach stitch, engulfed by set standards that could not be met.
I am tired of trying to be what you'd like to see.
Astute, respectable, young black man-just so you can approve of me and hopefully think that we are not all "up to no good."
Say it loud,
I'm black
And I'm,
Not going to lie,
The proud part is kinda hard to say.
Because I walk down the street and see my face in the homeless everyday.
I fill the prisons and I'm famous when the news reports crime.
And when I show up early to interviews,
they look confused to see that I,
Don’t run on Colored People's Time.
I don't hate black but I hate the fact that black means that sometimes I have to find alternate routes to success.
While other people's roads are already paved, I suffer from all the stress.
I try my best but I'm always categorized as less, then a man.
And I'm trying to change perceptions but I still feel like a visitor on American land
And the poor are physically trapped so I relate mentally.
We both suffer from the oppression and accept the hatred like it was meant to be.
Society has led you to believe that blacks are not worthy of equality
But take a long, hard look into my eyes and tell me that you don’t see my humanity.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
*i was looking at an old and tattered black and white photo of my grandfather
a man i never knew and wondered about
his existence
like a horizon of dissolution
his soul enshrined in my own
and like him and all creatures
ultimately i remain defenseless
against realities magnitude
while my father loved me as a child
he grew unkind over the years
and we where set bitterly against one another other
his tyranny and my disobedience
as i gathered strategies craft
by machinery of thought
and festering gall
he, the bully
got bullied back
by me and old age
as we in tandem set fire
to his sadistic golden age of disillusionment
and here we are now the living and the dead
still locked in a grudge
a recurring spirit of revenge
in a valley of tears
before i myself join the ephemeral legions
in a pile of stones and ashed corpses
are we not
a procession of long struggles and short pleasures
a history of terrors and creatureness
stooges bound by the wheel creation
crucified by desire
and the apathy of obliterations aftermath
an archeology of death
ruin upon ruins
has God
sinned against man
or bestowed his grace
mystified
perfect and beautiful
beyond measure
yet to be discovered
in an alternate reality?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
I woke up one day
And I rode far away
And when I came back
A few weeks late
i decided to shape
up
or else, its a long ride
down
How often do you walk home?
Or should I say struggle
Distances are more attainable
In mixed up situations
I am too deeply rooted in thought
on the topic of meditation
To help this patient
I am inhabiting
Enter: ************* bicycles
I used to find
Walking uphill
And walking downhill
Equally awful
The climb to the top
Is worth the fast ride down
The topic of how many hills
are around
And how often we choose to climb them
Will not play in this ballgame
Because cycling is a sport
blood doping is dope
breaking news:
Livestrong sponsors the pope
Without a helment
You would tell me I look ****
As I ride with no hands
Don’t worry darlin’
I knew my hair looked good too
Drinking whiskey at home you can make art
I made that without you
It all came out of my mouth
And nostrils
Without you
I will puke again
Without you
Its true
Rough mornings aren’t new
their usually rough
without you
Only because my will is strong
And if I didn’t livestrong
My will - still will included you
Only if I died on someone else’s terms
(spoiler no such thing)
In an alternate universe
You could be on my bike
And I’d be ****** cold sober
And when that bus hit me
My mom wanted to give you
what belonged to me - the one thing
That survived the accident
Ask a few old friends I survived a few
Whether you knew
Or not
were on it or off
Always on the bottom
Jake
Was a snake
Before I met him
That’s Kona bike history
Living on
Without me
As I age I am learning
To be loyal
To all sorts of objects
like bikes
And women
that own them.
Withholding
without me
I can't see what it would be
like without me -
But lets be honest
Its not so as much about the bikes
As it is about bliss
i've seen what its like without you
It true
If a bus ran over my *** tomorrow
The first thing it would break is my heart
You could start
The day I stopped
Riding my bike
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
*Differentiate impression
to understand the question
that guarantees concession
of alternate force of will.*
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back?
But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being.
But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways.
And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made.
What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me?
Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'"
Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store.
Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels.
It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words.
Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about.
They believe in it, they worship it.
As if it actually exists in an alternate universe.
The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more.
It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it.
And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept.
It's so fake, it's almost real.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
I have no idea
What brought me here
To this place,
This mystical temple
Of a sacred space
But here I stand
And my arms
My heart
are wide open
Raised to the heavens
As I pray
Open to receiving miracles
Open to the wonders
Of this love
And I wonder
What an alternate universe
May have brought
But it is pointless
For I am thankful
And happy with what I have
I am happy
To have been created as me
To have created and still
To create
And I am elated
To a heavenly sort of place
As my heart I do consecrate
Raise my eyes to the stellar fires
Bless each and one of my earthly
And unearthly desires
I pour the sacred water
Upon my head
Feel its coolness
In the sparkling night
I feel the divine essence
from above
Bless my spirit, Bless my soul
I thank the Universe
For keeping me whole
For making me a woman,
A mother
A friend devoted
For staying real,
not sugar-coated
For being blessed
A sensual creature
****** delight
a powerful feature)
I am thankful for my strength
And intellectual liberty
And for my constant fight
To keep myself
Free
And, most of all --
I am ever grateful
For this divine opportunity…
Ever humbled, as it is
Bestowed upon me:
To experience
the profound inner light
of my own emotions
to give myself a gift
of utter devotion
to allow myself
without inhibition
the freedom of expression
I was meant for
To come into
Fruition.
Yes, in joy
Yes, in wonder
I raise my head to the heavens
And take in the thunder
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
All day,
My mind plays;
fast-forward
on the hour,
our foreplay,
at four today.
Me inside you;
hard pressed;
soaking wet;
hands: round neck.
Talking *****
making a mess.
Wet lips; stolen breathe.
The future coming; past tense.
moans and groans.
Blood rushing; lost of breathe.
your face flush and,
we aren’t even touching.
Daydreaming; In real-time:
Bodies dripping wet,
Everybody copaset.
Change of tune.
Tone alternate.
On your marks;
I’m getting set.
Your legs ajar,
My hands upset.
Teasing my ****
left you sticky-wet.
Between your lines,
I’m tracing it.
I won’t forget;
Her-rising; so fortunate
Constantly; awakening me
the forecast is set.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Agape.
To love unconditionally.
Attributed to the greats:
Gandhi,
Mandella,
Teresa,
God?
And me.
I offer an alternate:
Agape.
To crawl back repeatedly,
Ignoring a history and future of pain.
Agape noun
Unconditional love. A weakness, not a strength.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Thy velvety pink lining has revolted against thy most honorable wishes.
'tis now an angry, burning red!
Much like the doomy pits of hell!
And hell is how one should describe thee.
But why? Why doth thy choose such a path?
could one have followed an alternate?
will thy destiny have changed?
Explosions as mighty as all the worlds volcanoes
oozing pain, thy knees tremble like an earthquake
One can no longer enjoy the purity of ones skin
One can no longer live carefree
If kept a secret, thy shall be no different than a murderer!
A soothing touch.
Although, the rain hath left no moisture.
The grounds crack and ache for a new rain to fall.
Thou shalt not ponder such occurrences...for will it come?
One has high hopes.
As high as the heavens.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 4:06 PM UTC
I wish I wish he'd
stop with the hitting'.
Whenever he's
present new
bruises start burning'.
I wish I wish she'd
know of my burden.
With monsters their
presence I
locked in a cavern.
I wish I wish they'd
hear me sighing.
Judgmental minds
present that
keeps me from trying.
And
I wish I wish you'd
see through this poem.
Acknowledge my
presence and
tell me I'm mistaken.
Because it's not.
_______________________________________________________*
Alternate ending: just for a laugh
I wish I wish you'd read through my poems.
Acknowledge my
presence and
perhaps,
leave me a comment.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
**The allure of everything bad
The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad
The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal ****
All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death?
We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines
If only for a second
When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is'
'I am not a quitter'
You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon
The bartender to pour you a second
Social trend like a hot topic on twitter
So now you want more
You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for
In a sense you don't, for you choose not to
Addiction entraps... but who?
Not you
And the moment you decide to go cold turkey
It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie
Impossible to reject
Relapse... rubber band effect
Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious
One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved
He's furious
He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves
By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves
In an alternate reality
Where 'it's all good'
It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood'
A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces
Floating around in temporary elation
These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation'
The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad
Or it could very well be you or me
Seduced by the allure of everything bad
I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many...
For a judgement between bad and good
I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many
Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
The question regarding the question relies on what the question really is.
If the question implied is a question directed outwardly, then it may be misinterpreted as a question to oneself internally.
Otherwise, a question explicitly directed inwardly is critical to deciphering the question that one will address outwardly.
If an indirect question is questioned through the user, then the question itself becomes a metaphysical question to choose from.
In the event a question is said through alternate means, consider the quantitative/qualitative state of the question at the time being; as it may be resolved by asking the question in a subconscious level indeed.
Superficial means tends to seek fundamental questions to the reality of the state one naturally possesses.
In the case where the unconscious decides the opportune event to question the conscious reality, one must interpret the means in examination of the intrapersonal mentality.
If the question is imposed through correlative thought and subliminal expression, then the question itself is related to a parallel conscious state intertwined with the unconscious state of mind of progression.
If the question is relative in combination to the solutions mentioned above becoming apparent, then one has means to ask the question without questioning the question itself in disparate.
Otherwise, the question continues to perplex the question through the continuation of irrelevant questions that one will have thought; creating a treacherous belief so concurrent one could not have fought.
Therefore, is the reality of the question portrayed to the reality you live in or the reality of others? As this poem was conclusive to subtly evoke thought in the questions we construct.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
"but where is my tomorrow," said the ticking of the time
this alternate reality is slipping through my mind
I cannot seem to focus and I never want to sleep
instead I lie awake beside the loneliness I keep
there's only so much human any person can embrace
before the roots of truth begin to spread across your face
I have not measured hours long enough to see them through
I'm changing at a pace I cannot possibly undo
wherever I am going and wherever I have been
create the kind of future I could never settle in
these feet have walked the deserts and the mire all the same
I would not even be without the dryness and the rain
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
First we build bridges
With Lego bricks
In primary colours
And we move on
To build bridges
From words
With tought
In many languages
Because we have to
And we build bridges
In steel and concrete
Between islands and peninsulas
Between us and them
We prioritise bridges
With our money
On our money
To showcase magnificence
And to replace expired glories
And we cross bridges
In real life and cyberspace
To seek community
In alternate relations
Outside the confines
Of Hans Christian Andersen’s quiet pond.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC