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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
Rose L Mar 2015
The storms have set in fast this year
The wet skies a little sticky to the ear
Chalk fizzing in the water but it doesn't affect us in town
and again the leaves have skipped amber to brown;
the ships dock faster every September that rolls around
and the captain keeps telling us he's found less, and less-
by now we've all been wearing the same stuff for years
- Bar sodden coats and lipstick smears
but the word with my friends is since that summer on the shore
We've never come this far inland before.
It's the last term now and the older years that are closest
tell us that the new kids catch on faster, they've noticed
but that's something we're not supposed to discuss
soaking up heavy sunlight like a dusty curtain letting its motes spin
And in the backrooms - new fashion is emerging
and again we're handling with faux grandiose -
the kids at the bottom of the class need this stuff most.
we're not likely to forget.
and that moment when the girl in the pink stood and told us
she wasn't convinced she needed us anymore
and lunch was silent.

All the men at school act like they care
But cold chairs and icy fingers forced their hand
and god knows I'm not quiet anymore -
but I don't think i'll miss the school gore.
Does this make sense to anyone except me? That feeling of being a team at school?
Saul Makabim Jun 2012
When you paint houses
bring your little brother
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
Mannlicher Carcano carbines
cleave off
the tops of skulls
Cosa Nostra prove
The idiocy of convertibles
Pretty boy politicians
sprayed across Jackie's face
Kennedy never should have rocked the boat
Bufalino brotherhood born for bloodshed
Irishman knows that
.32 goes in but doesn't come back out
Turning grey matter into brain sauce pudding
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
Got what he wanted
kept demanding more
Stupid Sicilian stooges get sliced up in pork store backrooms
limbs spread to the four corners of Michigan
Irishman painted his house
Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
Gabriel Jul 2021
Imagine you are in a house with so many doors that you can’t breathe
for hinges and creaks and splintered wood. Imagine you peel
back the threshold to find a bedroom, the bed is hotel-made and the stink
of industrial cleaner fills you with blisters. Imagine you are trapped
in an expanse of rooms and no matter how many times you rip
the mustard bed covers away from the mottled sheet, you can never find
a room any different to the rest. Imagine that this is eternity
and in this eternity, you are yourself alone. Imagine that it gets easier
because it doesn’t, and you’re trapped in the limits of your mind.
So do it, conjure up a door that leads to anywhere else,
and when you can’t, imagine that you’re in a corridor. More rooms, more
and more doorways for you to stumble thought-drunk into, squeezing
the hinges until the oil comes out like lemon juice and the beds are made.
There’s light coming from somewhere that you’ll never be able to reach
and the corridor ends only with another beginning, you’re right
back in the thick of it again. The aye aye is pointing from the rafters
and you are plunged into dark yellows.
Imagine you’re sick with it, you’re green and turning like Autumn
into furniture. Pick a room and stick with it, you’re going to be here for a long

time.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Insomnia'.
gone girl Oct 2015
you're probably the reason i wake up unable to breathe thinking there are snakes slithering around in my bed, because you did the exact same. i'll never find the words to tell you just the way you shattered my stained glass, i went to dozens of cathedrals to try and beg you to fix my mosaics and give me forgiveness, but not even the hierarchy could help me now. I went from Nortre Dame all the way to St. Paul's trying to find peace but no glass will ever be the same as mine maybe a pastiche but I will never feel as if I am as beautiful as the Troyes, so I walk around with ****** palms grasping to the remaining pieces I have from that night. I'm gasping for air now, in hysteria I'm flipping through the pages of a poor mans good book trying to find the terms for repentance or contrition or whatever it could be named, I'm not sure because I've never pleaded like this before and I'll scream to the all the gods that might listen, I'll be ****** if Im going to go down like this. I found another chapel he's got mosaics like no other has ever seen, I'm looking into angelic hues of browns and blues and greens. I'm running through the backrooms trying to find an exit, I'm in a rut to get to a comforting haven. don't waste your time on me I scream. Ive been cast out of heaven for my sins and I'm paying for my crimes -my rosary has fallen to the ground. it's just us two now; I want to run, the apocalypse inside of me is tearing me apart. I've had a martyr in my bed and I remember the taste of his lips, now I recall how your mouth resembled that of a serpent and how it tasted -of venom. you lied while your head was between my thighs, oh the stigmata of a dismal life. I've found a new savior and I am more than what you've dictated to everyone else. I've undergone apostasy and devouted myself to a new God, I might even wear white with him.
{the poem that i am going to preform at a slam competition}
Shannon Jun 2014
Seven times I told you,
Seventy pins in seventy dolls on seventy dusty shelves in New Orleans backrooms.
Seven times I warned you
Seven hundred aches, seven hundred acres
I run across.
I outrun the burn and I outrun the grief
The witch in me, I race with her too.
Seven miles to run, seven miles behind.
And I pass that playful laugh of yours, grab at it
and stick it in my pocket, shove it deep, deep in my pocket.
And I pass that twinkle in your eyes
and I grab that too,
send it on a paper rocket flying the speed of light into seven universes far away.
I grab that last promise
the one that was slippery and hard to hold onto.
I grab it and hold it tight
And I run.
I told you I would
(you looked so surprised).
I run and my bones hit the ground with the rhythm and pulse of a tribal drummer
He drums out in my head
Run, Run, henny Run.  
He drinks my optimism from a cup, then beats his drum. Run, chickadee, run run.
He vomits my clarity at my feet all the while his brown weathered hands drum a ceaseless beat. Run, baby. He loves you not, run.
On the seventh day I run from you and
I find that I am made now from the down of your hair
so I run until I am bald.
I find that I am made now from  stalactites dripping from your tongue.
Celtic knot of assurances and reassurances.
I am made up of moments that I didn't make.
I am made up of your indecision. They bounce gleefully "I don't know, I don't know..."
they insist as they hit walls and corners.
They are lazy, I outrun them with ease.
Seven times I told you,
Itchy souls need to find a branch for stratching.
Seven miles between me and you
Seven hundred to go.

Sahn
6/12/14
thank you as always for reading my work.
Tyler Sep 2018
Let us leave for foreign places
Away from this city of boringly beautiful faces

For ash filled cobbled stone streets
Fields of blooded roses and golden wheat

Castles cemented in antiquity
Crumbling walls of barren cities

Abandoned cathedrals of a bygone era
Smoke filled bordello backrooms with mirrors smudged by mascara

Let us leave before the hours turn late
And I have wasted my life awaiting fate

But I grow old
And warm dreams turn cold

How stunning you look tonight
How badly I want to tell you these words I write
Frisk Jan 2022
when did the green shrubs
clustered haphazardly in the earth
the flora and fauna
patched in the dirt
the gray croncrete slabs
right beneath my feet
cumulate into violent crimson
tints right before my eyes. when
did i start seeing the bloodshed?
when did the violence of earth
familiarize itself with me?

- k.a.
JJ Hutton Mar 2011
When my mother weeps at my books of poetry,
when my father denies ever having a claim on me --
that's when you'll know I was a black sheep.

The rooms -- grey, filter-feeding off my teetering sanity--
shrivel with my crippled ambition,
I've seen the backrooms, full of aching flesh;
I've seen the bathrooms, full of ***** and proud boys,
I've been the "self-proclaimed ******* of my generation";
I've driven women to the same ***,
but all my memories burn madly --
their lessons
turn to smoke,
kiss my nostrils--
leave me alone just long enough
for a therapeutic winter --
full of wine and an earnest-eyed love.

When my lioness needs to roam,
When my best friends turn runner-up --
that's when you'll tell me, "you've done this to yourself".

The fields -- flattened by snarling winds and preying beasts --
provide a place to lay my head,
I've wailed at the wall;
I've murdered the crying crow,
I've been Delilah'd;
I've driven to the dark corners -- hiding from illuminating eyes --
but time reoccurs like a small town parade --
the old men become cartoons in tiny cars,
the beauty queens never age,
the horses always **** the pavement,
and we ignorantly track in it --
bringing it to the heirloom rugs and beige carpet,
only to spend the rest of our lives cleaning.
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton- From Anna and the Symphony
Marti Feb 2014
Lost song so long
In between walls and over top mountains
Happy when you're free
Happy but not me
Courage that tempts you to reach out and take her
hand by the tips of fingers which
could play the piano and curve about saxophones
if only you let
them
touch
Pretty words from the annexes of the libraries
stand up at attention in the main hallways of mind
when you see her face and you wander
through the rooms where you paint her naked on the
floor
holding the pages of the dreams you wrote for her
Speak a sentence and you feel your lips move
make the words of the sound but
there's no touching the ground
And images unbidden of the stories you tell yourself don't flicker but flare
the licks of the campfire redder than rose on her skin
the piano in the main room of your seaside apartment
the echoes of the music that hold my soul like the hands of a lover
better than any lover could
The grey sky is noticed and rain falls above us
stalled still in the headlights of cars  like they don't know
And time doesn't know us
But oh, the places it shows us
And in and out of time in the backrooms of my mind
Never shall I live the thousand dreams I dream
But if I could have just one..
Terry Collett Feb 2012
Father died that year. So did
Bob Kennedy, although that
Was a different death, planned
Right down to the last dark detail.
But your father’s was more personal,
More hurtful, getting right into your
Bones and heart. You were sitting
In the doctor’s surgery with your
Father where he’d come about pains
In the chest and back, when some guy
Came in and said, Bob Kennedy’s dead,
Some ******’s shot him (excuse my French,
He added, there women being present).
There was muttering amongst the throng,
Whispers, coughs, splutters, then a silence
Deeper than awaiting death by your father’s
Elbow, seemingly deeper than Nietzsche’s
Haunting eyes. Your father said nothing
That you recall, but no doubt he felt the
Same sadness that most felt that day,
The waste of a life, a fine brain blown out
Like some candle in a dark room, another
Organized ***** out by some rogue element
Of government backrooms. Father died
That year unbeknown by the world at large
(As if it cared), but death was just as certain
And thorough when it came, sweeping him
Silently from the hospital ward, his link to
Life cut like a bloodied umbilical cord.
Keith W Fletcher Jan 2016
I been livin-- upside down
For so long I've just been hangin around
I don't even know what keeps me bound
To these places -- where just traces
Of her....linger -- before time
Reaches up and erases
Her
From my mind
I need some kind of
Emotional remote control
That I can use anytime I choose
To push the button
And to myself Be kind
Never forgetting to rewind
But I can't seem to find rewind
Can't seem to stop  losing all the traces
My memories of  her that
Just keep slipping away
Faces places smells and sounds
Like they come by just to tease me
Then suddenly
We're off to the races
Where I run so hard
Through the backrooms of my mind
Losing ground with each and every go round
Please ...can't you help me somebody
To help my mind and memory rewind
I'm begging you ...please
Please please please
Please rewind
Please rewind
Please rewind
Bows N' Arrows Aug 2016
Falling
Kaleidoscopic and feathery
The seasons brief stay
Feeling faith between
my ribs
pulsating like a lightbulb
hanging from a chain
Every time it changes the
foliage and the sky
If time stopped in stillness
then I'd have no quarrel with
the possibility of going insane
For an hour out of a day
when waves crashed my name
I'd make myself a palace from
the silence and the decay
Rapid fire in and out the door
There he goes
wayward traveler
Starving body and
content spirit under moonlight
catching colds to shake off
Because I really don't see what
other people do when I look
at me
Tired sighs
Green eyes
Mesmerized by pictures
of angels
Tethered skin
Weather beaten
Holding in a vision
I've been in mansions
with swimming pools
I've been in dingy
alley backrooms
And I still couldn't recognize
what I was reading
Oscillating around street lamps
and speaking in whistles
A fleeting sensation and
I can't trust the transition
I wish life was quite and
I could have met him
after the storm
Where does this start
In my head or in my heart
When does this grow from
something soft to something
sharp?
Verses resting on the wall
Prophecy
Clentched wrist
Crosses
Do I make the right decisions
Trembling jaw
All this theory in a blooming flower
Watching cars drive by
There's a mistress on the floor
Behind the locked screen door
And there's a picture on the
shelf of you with someone else
Coveted dreams of romance
without a promise of courtship
Lexie Oct 2022
If this is a dream
Truly, why are there so many hallways
I am forever wandering
In between the inbetween
It seems I will never reach the end
If there is an end to reach
Nicholle Justine May 2014
I hear them talk about me.
****.
This wasn't my first rendez-vous
on the rumor mill.
Because boys and alcohol
make a problematic equation
especially when you add
booming music and dancing.
I've made the same mistakes before
with lips and backrooms.
But I know better,
I tell myself.
I knew better
than to kiss necks on dance floors.
But I fell for it,
I fell for the liquor in my veins,
for the music thrusting in my ears
and other places too...
I've done this all before
with the same
"what the ****"
on my tongue
and regret in my eyes.

I hear them talk about me:
The girl who can't control herself,
her urges.
****.
Maybe if we locked the door,
I wouldn't have to walk around
avoiding eye contact with everyone
wondering whether or not they saw me
and which half they saw.
I knew better but,
it's simple math
boys plus
alcohol plus
me equals
what keeps the rumor mills alive.
The
Soul is
Not even
Real. A man-made
Convention from fear.
Just as religion and divinity,
Are works of fiction. For god is already dead.

The acrid smell of aged *****, lingers
As I stare drearily out my bedroom window.
I contemplate antiquated men in Smokey backrooms,
Spinning and weaving the most brilliant lie,
Which has ever been conceived.
I wrote this when I had lost my faith, though it is starting to retake hold in my life, I thought I would still share.
They asked me
What do you see?

I answered

poverty,

shut in the backrooms
sold to the groomers,
I see
Poverty
chalked like a signature
walked over
talked over
ok'd and
then laughed over
lunch,
left over
leftovers,
I
See
do gooders who can't see the wood for the trees,
charities
screaming, another please
I see
disease
Men
on their knees
Girls
selling their souls to
fill in the gaps,
making new roles to play.

Ask me again what I see.

Psychiatry, rude on the streets, why is it me?

Look to the future and what will you be?

You'll be the question unanswered
the thing we don't see,
the orphan we look to
and expect clarity.

****** me Baldrick
don't ya think this a bit sick?

Maybe, says he, but he's not the brightest of buttons on the cutting room floor,
Bollix I can't take
it no more,
I see **** all in the grand scheme except poverty and a *******
now and again.
Alexander Coy Oct 2016
she's
got a tattoo
of the alkaline
trio logo;
the heart
and skull
by the crease
opposite of her
elbow

she does acoustic
renditions of
90's punks songs
in the backrooms
of cafes around
the shady parts
of town

i'm not a fan
but an innocent
bystander

pierced by
bullet
and blade

hands cupped
over my ears
pleading
for the sound
to finally fade away

i just work here
and can't
handle it anymore

i get called
an *******

but i can live with that
The day before it
happens ,
everything feels the
same ,
everything looks the
same .

No other-worldly signs
will save memory
of those splintered realities .

The surface of
a mountain lake ,
now cold and
emotionless ,

Like a mind
untramelled by thought ,
not the slightest breath of wind

To move one tiny drop
transfixed on the surface
of that mirror for the sky .

But in backrooms of reality ,
misplaced moments
swell like maggots .

They feed on forgotten
dreams and dance on
tables like a dervish .

Now a second , then
a minute , finally
an hour disappeared by stealth .

When the King of
Chances ,
entering the great hall ,
with eighty cupids , all fall silent ,

As thunderous , the
chime of Destiny
brings all time screaming
            to meet

             Your present moment

                                  Now .
Lxvi Sep 2022
Nightly they fought featured ferocious
splitting the hedge, persona mitosis
sit on the edge, Arizona atrocious  
basking it baked in the asphalt's steam
tasking in takes no faults it seems
tightly wound taught in fortified seams
consumed with backrooms they live in their dreams
closer to closure without words being said
exposure mediocre as they burn up the bed
Paul Glottaman Nov 2019
Liars sit on gilded thrones barking orders into intangible every-*******-where and we plug our ears and we hum our throats hoarse but we still hear it.
We still hear it.
We hear everything.
You ran away and for office and I know what it meant and where it ends but I don't recall the lines of revolt forming like ants in formation against you. Neither do you, you *******. Doesn't matter. Never did.
We know everything.
I know late night talk radio vocabulary and I weild it like armor to protect me from the ******* conspiracy and the wild denials of things we've always known and I'm left cold and run-on.
I saw everything.
Inside the backrooms where the ******* deals get made there are secrets passed like currency and this gets exchanged for that and we're all smaller and less and our souls are laid bare before hungry jowls and damp fingers.
Everything is negotiable.
You want to stand, sycophantic, before me and prattle on about values? You value nothing. This is nothing. You cut up and sell the American dream to the highest bidder and sleep sound as houses while we burn with impotent rage and the gnawing feeling failure provides to giving up.
Everything is for sale.
And maybe, just maybe, we deserve you.
glass May 2023
nearly noon oclock at night
phone screen poetry on a shared queen bed
the kitty woke me up this morning
his sweet little paws so gently said hello
a fistful of minutes and my toes touch the floor

i never understand the fridges of anothers home
but eggs are in the pan and pancake battered bowl
red room breakfast, black tea in the car
water on the ground sleeping soundly
cash back in the pocket
it was perfect pacin walkin
upstairs adventure with a basket of snacks
you called at just the right time for that strawberry milk pack

dorm couch poetry next to different angled conversations my world in rotation everything falling into place i dont know how to convey to you the magnitude but holy ******* **** i love my friends *******!

driving down the [] trail to ikea
cs backup in the backseat lackin sleep stacked up
parkin lot food keepin stats up
as the five hour campaign begins as it seems itll last us

why the ***** was it so hot in there

two weeks later and ive finally found a bathroom
(now i understand the scps and backrooms)
cleaning closed to women so its great that im a man or at least enough to take the handle still on brand but -
ive come to see things so unlike the way i have before a total norm to have the room with another human being it doesnt bother me at all in fact it feels natural sharing walls ive never been there on my own like that before -
such exhilaration from a stall inside a store and everything has changed,

Everything has Changed.

(fading bruises blue i never thought id heal in truth)
but actually outside of me every little thing has stayed the same -
and it is my lungs that have been shifted since the air that i am breathing is not different its just never like i used to

weird *** food court and a homework champ
bluetooth music with your mandatory lamp
hurtling down the aisles in a flatbed cart/
clambering the scaffolding
hampering the staff it seems
i say this dearly but you three quite sincerely
have a chokehold on my heart

ive never tried konjak jelly and ive never heard cherry wine but boy i cannot wait for these to be the first of a long string of things, immerse me in your lives submerged and intertwined i want to love you guys for a long long long ******* time
041623

— The End —