"backstreets" poems
the day is at its end
the towers and domes in the city
are a lonely sight...abandoned,
all closed.........all hushed up
the gnomes of the day are mostly gone...
beware...the gnomes of the night
have just woken and are now energized...
raring to prowl the dark halls and corridors
out to the unlit alleys, backstreets and corners
cloaked by towering shadows
all set to play havoc to unknowing passers-by...
in the dark where all restraints are set free
where unconquered demons
take center stage...
in the dark,
where the dead gets to live again...
in the dark, where anything goes, unnoticed...
in the shadows, where
the dark sky is the limit....
until the first shafts of light come in...
when once again, all secrets
seek refuge in their hiding places
---------the dark takes a rest---------
---------as a new day unfolds--------
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
Edinburgh, oh lovely Edinburgh
I visited you during a Scottish storm
But, it did not deter my fascination with your beautiful rich land,
which I had set out to soak up during my short welcoming stay
I saw castles and monuments
galleries and eateries
even little pubs and alleyways
that tickled my fascination
I took midnight strolls into the backstreets
and met lovely people who equally shared gratitude towards your wondrous land
And so, I leave temporarily at least
with a little something to say
"Thanks for the memories, I'll be back indefinitely,
with more love and awe to share than ever before!"
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
You sit in busy subway cars
and start tabs at the ****** bars
in search of girls with wider hips
to trace in the air with your fingertips
You look for love in silhouettes
but find it in your cigarettes
and when you think your love life's back on track
you're reaching for another pack
Your denim sofa is a shrine
for sequins and for cheap red wine
which stains the fabric every night
but won't clean off, try as you might
You stroll down backstreets and alleys on end
hoping you will find a friend
in a girl who sells herself to you
because you know she needs friendship too
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
dented but not broken
in the demon dark
the deep chasms
of the wilderness
and the forgotten recess
silence from tender slumber
has awoken
the synergy of temptations
on their merry dance
sip divines peach nectar
the naked flesh and heaving chest
unleash thy sporadic vital spark
the impressed intent
of thy chosen scent
fuels the interactive nodes
neon infused electronic spasms
that echo in the dark
a subtle jowl in latent jest
as twilights nimble fingers
unbutton what remains of carefree days
and the fallen angels
with such sweet caress
to touch the mystic
unfurl the arc of your rainbow
and shine your rays
on cobbled memories
of Paris in the rain
and Tokyo Blue
hustles in the backstreets aroma
blow the cobwebs a gentle kiss
on days like this
left unchecked and laid to rest
gathered in momentums voice
and uttered as a sensual breath
the nakedness of emotion
the arcane interventions
should not be left to fade
to fill the empty space
they call the void
these technicolour moments
we've made
stumble on the waves
the fragrances of youth etched
in unedited stop motion
the contours of discovery
sparkle in the ether
the azure eyes
and the open arms
of the ocean
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Straight outta Ex Dee,
Crazy mother f@cker named Blatchy
Dropping sick beats, rolling hard in the backstreets,
Watch him roll dough as he hailin' a taxi,
Fancy f@cken suit, he's livin' in luxury
Fedora tipped-top on the tippy-top head
Gunning bad gangstas, better red than dead
Shooting spree, smilin' with glee
Don't wanna f@ck with a guy straight outta Ex Dee!
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
we kissed once in the backseat
of a dull yellow taxi with
love in our suitcases and mouths
then, another in the backstreets of brooklyn
as the boys hooted at us and whistled
hollering under their hoops
**** y'all lookin' fine"
and we raised our middle fingers
like it was a salute to the gods
i know this is overused
it feels like just yesterday but
years have passed in a blink
perhaps i am just selfish
but i have yet to move on
i still cannot ride a taxi alone
hope sits silently and oh, how it watches
silently from the seat across from me
clinging to what is left of me
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 9:40 PM UTC
You were an architect to my fears
Knew the walls that would cave in on me
the corners I sought shelter in
Built cathedrals out of my vices
Monuments for my shortcomings
Raised cities, lined the streets with my body
Named the neighborhoods after the parts of me
I wished to forget
All the good in me is timber inside a burning building
Making ashes of the man I once took pride in being,
You hold all the blueprints,
Know my alleyways and sewers,
The backstreets and corners that make my chest,
I have no more steel to make this foundation stable again.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
1
Ginhoko is a slob
he ***** up to the boss
and he squeals on his mates
May his family starve and
may his wife find him always flaccid
2
You loser! You loser! You loser!
3
the woman who walks past our store
everyday when I have my tea
she is lovely and a fairy -
O will she not look at me?
4
The boss is a donkey
He eats pig ****
and his wife drugs his food
and his wife fornicates with the servant
while her husband lies drugged,
and everyday she winks at me
5
May the world go jump
in the ditch!
May I alone survive and enjoy the earth!
6
What do you eat? You smell of the backstreets
of the red light district
where the men go to ease themselves
7
who scribble here
is nincompoop
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
Moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly,
she says she only likes black men,
and they say “Once you go black you never go back.”,
but I’m white and when she came she came with me,
and since she arrived she hasn’t left,
sometimes,
truth really is stranger than fiction,
quit drugs got clean,
so now she is my only addition,
on a rooftop in a cool spot sipping champagne,
in the pool got a true shot at some real fame,
feeling like the hero and the villian,
half Joker have Bruce Wayne,
the truth is I feel like a mix of all the Bruces,
Bruce Jenner Bruce Banner Bruce Lee,
Bruce Willis all in it no limits or gimmicks,
Born in the USA raised on Backstreets of Philly,
an American Dreamer living The Dream,
Born To Run call me Bruce Springsteen,
found the Fountain of Youth this girl with this tattoo’s the proof,
so now I bath in the rainbows of this spring,
life so exciting sometimes I just want to scream,
like I do right now as we dance ecstatically,
unconditionally above the world on this rooftop under this star light,
which makes sense since she is a dancer by trade,
we dance and sweat and let out everything that’s inside,
we spread our arms we extend our tongue,
we seize the moment this moment of life,
because we know everything goes in an instant,
life passes by in the blink of an eye,
but without the bitter the sweet ain’t as sweet,
trying to wake up from this dream Vanilla Sky,
and sure these waters are rough,
but hey at least we’re enjoying the ride,
as we find moments of bliss in the pain and truth in the fables,
All I need is some honesty honestly,
“Stormy seas make the most skilled sailors..”,
or so her tattoo reads so sinful it feels Godly…
∆ LaLux ∆
Free Book: https://www.scribd.com/document/388173677/The-Holy-Trilogy-Volume-2-Mandalas
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 5:16 AM UTC
Walk in familiar slippers
Walk when walking’s spent
Walk on hollow highway
Walk in a birthday dress
Walk under frigid stars
Walk with ancestral song
Walk with right
Walk with wrong
Walk in spite
Walk in pity
Walk in the backstreets
Walk in the news
Walk in borrowed city
Home is leaving
Home is a journey
Home is coloured pencils
For a distant classroom
Home is a wilderness
Home is an army
Home is inquisition
Home is another way
Home is a haven
Home is a promise
Home is a rose bed
Home is tomorrow
Home is hard
Home is good
Simon Piesse
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 5:11 PM UTC
Crowds gathered and the noise of disobedience shook the neighbourhood whole. I was in the southern part of the city, where sinners sinned and the practitioners groomed the bars and off licenses solely to quench their thirst for liquor. It was almost midnight and hordes of young and old alike chanted and sung merry making song that rang through city; and what a noise it was. And it was on this night I met a lad who dressed as if the night belonged to him. A tall, slender fellow who hadn’t a care in the world. His Caribbean afro would bob up and down as we giggled to anecdotal stories of the past. We were rebels of the night, breaking away from the fragile unity that was the friendship circle.
A few stragglers in the form of Chavs had joined. Many of them formed bonds with the pretty girls, rivalling us out in the end. Deciding momentarily on what our next plan was, we split away from the group and continued midnight drinking into the Holy Lands. We could hear the barking of neighbourhood dogs tangle with the distant explosions of fireworks in the sky. It was beautifully chaotic. But as midnight sinners it was like music to our ears.
“I’m off mate, take care of yourself.” The fellow said as he guzzled his last remainder of his bottled Budweiser.
“You heading home, aye?” I smirked, clearly egging him on to stay out just a tad longer. But, this was to be it. With a hug and a good luck, he was off, towards the mystic backstreets and towards the Ormeau Road. I never caught the young lad’s name, nor did I ever catch his age. It was a strange meeting between the two of us. As if, for one singular night we knew everything about each other yet knew nothing at all. I recall sitting back down on the sidewalk and smiling, before looking up towards the decorative sparkly night sky. And, what turned out to be a spontaneous and random night ended up as a completed final chapter, to a superb little story.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 8:06 AM UTC
Warning: This may not be for some people who have been through ****** assault and/or get triggered easily by such content.
I'll tell you a story,
But first you need to do something for me.
Fall for someone quickly.
Make sure the relationship moves quickly.
Never think steadily,
Offer your body readily.
Just to satisfy the one you love,
Before they leave you with a push and shove.
Keep yourself available to them,
Even though your morals wouldn't even agree to this on a whim.
Make sure they're happy at all times,
With your body of course for he doesn't want you for your loving rhymes.
Now you need to imagine this.
The relationship has fallen deep into the abyss.
They begin growing distant and you wonder why.
Maybe they've found another being sly.
All of a sudden a day comes,
Where for once in a long while they make you feel loved.
You fall into their sticky trap,
You're head over heels again upon their snap.
They tell you that they want to walk you home.
You comply but God you wish you would have known.
They tell you the backstreets are a safer bet because of your overprotective dad,
You agree that he's protective but what a good reason he had.
They lead you down one lonely road,
And pins you against an apartment building that's abandoned and old.
They cover your mouth to muffle your cries,
And their other hand slips into places the sun never shines.
It hurts so bad and your tears could fill a cup,
But they just continue and tell you to shut the f*ck up.
You try to fight because you're a strong person,
But they were so much stronger with a grip that only seemed to worsen.
They finally let you go once they're done,
But God, you feel nothing, for they had won.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Caught in the spell of my Vampire Girl
Totally smitten with this one
dangerous kitten
Calls me again to the shadows
Down these familiar backstreets to her
lair
Like some strange compelling music I
must follow
I have no choice but to obey.
Zombie slave to her voodoo woman
Can't escape, can't extricate myself
From this tangled web she's woven,
Her voice in my head, it tolls like a bell
imperious, commanding!
That face in my mind, its dark visage
Her outstretched cup, her sweet sweet
poison.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
I've seen more beer cans on the ground of the backstreets of my town than kids playing outside
I hear the background music of apps like temple run more often than I hear book pages being flipped on a train
While hearing the explanation to why my friend is in a fight with her boyfriend key words like "opened my snapchat" "read my text" "ignored my dm" are brought up more than you can ever imagine
I stand up for millennials, I am a millennial but in light of the good we cannot ignore the bad
we have made technological advances that once were unfathomable
We have made scientific discoveries that were once unimaginable
We are the future
But we can not ignore how we might lead to our own downfall
We are the future
But do we want our kids to live in an even more intense version of this technological blur
This addiction, this technological addiction will lead to our own demise
The youth will never see another playground again because they can visit one in their screen for points
Children today are addicted to phones before they can even project their own sentences
Adults use it as an escape to quiet their kids for a little, "to distract them" "keep them occupied"
A few years later they ask them why they never leave their room, why they are glued to their laptop
You cannot punish the robot you created
You cannot revoke the escape key you once gave them
There is a problem in today's generation
And we need it to change
One day iWish to walk the streets of my town and see more children than empty bud lights
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
It can't happen.
No, it just won't.
Will not, Should not.
This love will lead you nowhere,
Down dark alleyways and
Filthy backstreets.
The only solace you will find
Is by retracing your steps,
And walking back to where you started.
It can't happen.
Will not, Should not.
Because
I am already in love with
someone else
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
i met a man upon the road
who carried his mind in a thicket of thorns
bluejays nesting in his thoughts had built it
one thorny troubled thought at a time
untill he staggered as he walked from the weight
of this contraption of the mind
like a drunkard in the backstreets of seaside town
he would sit by the small cafe or coffee house
and sing for young lovers such songs as ballads of old
or ones from folk singers and childhoods fancy
bright songs of good cheer
at the end of the long summer day
as the cafe and coffee shop would shutter their doors
he would gather his coin
and bid the day fare thee well
would climb slowly the flower strewn hill
sit under the great oak tree
and prune his thicket of a mind
with pinking shears and a hacksaw
with a farmer's plow and the beekeepers glove
a thousand fold bluebirds moving as one
with a terrible sound of wings upon the air
a soft beating of wings like a hearts dry thunder
each carrying a twig to add to his thorny thicket
which was now larger than the man himself
he would wrestle with it all the long night
till sleep overtook him there under the great oak tree
so he lingered here by the sea for years
at the whims of romance by lovers in the coffee house by daylight
and the light of the moon that lead him to dance
in a maiden hayfield at night
he would sing ballads to the star light
and to the wisps of clouds flying the night sky
they buried him with his thicket of thorns
at the top of the hill
below the stars that weep even now
he asked me why once
why none helped him be free of his thicket of thorns
why not one took pity and took his hand to at least comfort
and i told him that the world had
in bluebirds that kept him company
in coffee houses that loved his songs
in me that came to know him at long last
not as a man with a thicket of thorns
but as an empire of bluebirds playing in the skies
just at dawns first light
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Stories about people aren’t really about people
this tale is a separate reality
full of opinions and perception based senses
I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast
the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know
She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets
flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph
through our quiet suburban town
she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution
you see, she was in love with blinding pain
out of control burning rubber scented pain
and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt
I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat
because her words are precious diamonds
Her mind is a museum built upon three floors
the first floor is tragedy
concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions
of what feeling safe is like
shadows with shark like teeth
she can never escape their threat of gnawing
it even reaches her on the roof
the second floor is forest green
in-between escape and peaceful freedom
she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities
an explorer of broken wide eyed hope
she could smile at a mosquito and every spider
would willingly starve to death
the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire
a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean
everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras
of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country
dependent on chemicals
she will never get the shooting star she deserves
because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears
a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
We are the refused...
Barefoot in the marketplace
Born in the backseat
With minds erased
To hide dirt in the backstreets
And mud on the school steps
The fool in the textbook
Paints us inept
Tainted
******
Illicit natives
Miserable Misfits
Nothing the magistrates can't handle
OH!!!
They wish!
Suppress our melodies
But never break our lips
We are the misused...
Our eyes do penetrate
Every false-flag they perpetuate
Even though barbiturates
Are placed beneath our pillows
The shame billows
The shame follows
Rodents to the edge of the borough
Where men create addicts
There
Publicans turn
Badges burn
Magistrates press their shirts and hatch their eagles
Discernment is not taught
Nor is it learned
We are the obtuse...
Blacked out and abused!
Sold for pulpits and ocean views
Magistrates hate us
Their eagles circle to berate us
"Intolerant"
"Outdated"
"Unpatriotic"
"Ill-fated"
But by grace we persevere
By faith we adhere
To a higher truth
A purer view
Our strongholds are not stick
and stone
Chrome nor drone
But
Christ alone
Our strength and hope
Out hope for home
NOT polls and popes
NOT guns and votes
NOT Magistrates and lazy legislations
NOT eagles which feed on
Desensitized demonstrations
Police brutality and assassinations
Nomadic nations
Sporadic speculations
We
The Refused
We
The Misused
We
The Obtuse
Will NOT cosign evil
Will NOT massage magistrates
Will NOT elevate eagles
We will NOT
We must NOT
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
your monkey mouth spits wise, putrid- like delicious and suffocating, sugar-acid soaked cotton. drying me out and crumbling the stones. kicked the back of your chair. burned holes in it. anything to get you to shutthefuckup with the unrelenting rambling. i would set fire to your ego --- if i didn't think the flames might fuel an unqualified hubris; nourishing it like flames would lick it's lips at dry rot drapes and discarded wicker patio furniture. your white teeth gnashing in passion over your own thoughts in the dark. your face shrouded in perspiration, agony, devotion, ecstasy and anger catches lights off flickering streetlamps careening down the backstreets of your self involved sincerity and the suburb we grow older in-- each home they built there uglier than the last and yet... tantamount to one another. a symmetrical cemetery. pursed, chapped lips and noxious smoke. i could die here. nodding and satisfied.
sliding sideways into a more intense disgust, i catch your gaze in the rear view--- a moment of terror-laden, dark lager stare as if your eyes might know my predilection for pain. charming me back into your misery. passing it back and forth like a wet, sticky pipe- i could breathe you in all over again. blackening my lungs. scratching a line down my insides. rendered me flimsy and clouded again. when i crawl in next to you it's those slender spider leg fingers digging in. i love you. i hate you. all over again.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC
They say home is where the heart is and they couldn't be more correct.
You see, I ripped my heart out and handed it to you whilst it layed beating in your open palm, and that is where it remained - in your clutch for eternity, and that's why you will always be where I belong.
You will always be my destination.
You will always be my journey, my route. My souls compass and GPS system will always direct me to you - through backstreets and alley ways and sidewalks, across continents and oceans - my path will always lead back to you. My mind will always have your existence mentally stored as my address. Your name will always be my street, my road. I don't remember any prior location before you. You will always be the place I go to rest, you will always be the place I lay my head. and for that, you are home.
Home is not made of plaster and paint, or bricks and mortar. Home is the look you give me when our souls communicate via the emotion in the dilated pupils of our eyes, like portals to another realm where it's only us that exist; without having to exchange a single word, without having to part our mouth even a centimetre, without having to exhale or breathe.
Home is feeling our fingertips draw together in perfect unison as though they are polar opposites, possessing a magnetic force after being apart for so long.
Home is the way your body slides effortlessly into the shape of mine so perfectly like fate intended us to complete the other half of another like the universes favourite jigsaw puzzle and we knew we were missing pieces before we met but we had no idea we were pieces.
Home is the warm feeling of fulfilment and content that fills my fragile heart entirely at 6am when we are climbing upstairs to bed together with sleepy slanted eyes, greeted by the light of the world waking and the birds tweeting, as we are only now just laying to rest. Because that's how it works doesn't it? you and me. it's us and our world, on different terms to the rest. the sun and the moon dancing around the planet of our love.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
Do you ever just pine for someone?
The way they smile while talking to a loved one
That bright and easy laugh, the gleam in their eye, the knowing...the realization that you're watching them enjoy themselves from across the room
Or maybe you're just a spectral spectator
Flipping through photo albums, looking through photos that are a permanent snapshot
A moment in time
A second
A few minutes
Of them smiling among a gathering of friends
They're so happy, they're so brightened and unassuming in their youthful zeal
You can hear the bursts of laughter
The peals of it
Disjointed conversations among friends
Maybe one or two have passed on
Maybe they just lost touch with them
But you look at them now
All the same
You really look at them
You realize that they've changed so much from the person they were in those pictures
No more bright laughter
No more infectious smiles
No more disjointed conversations with gatherings of friends
No more college bar hopping
No more wandering the backstreets of Venice at night
Or Rome
Or Britain
Or Germany
No more spontaneous traveling
The light is dim now in their eyes
It's like the bulb inside of them has burned out
So...
You pine for them, for the person that they were yesterday, & days before, & years before you
entered their life
After your arrival, came a burial
Somewhere along the way
With the unspoken hurt
& unprocessed trauma
They died
And so ...
You grieve
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 10:47 PM UTC
If Leonardo Da Vinci were still alive
He would have been put in the psych ward back in 1965
If MichaelAngelo were still around
instead of soaring on the ceiling
he'd be trampled on the ground
If Bach came back
he'd come under attack
for being too radical and extreme
just because he followed his dreams
society today
pushes artists away
using it's dark manipulative hand
to make graffiti artists into outlaws
and satanists out of rock bands
so if you find yourself asking where is the Da Vinci of today
just look in the backstreets, corners, and the alleyways
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
backstreets at dusk radiate a soft charm
thoughts trickle down like nightfall on the glass
beneath the urban blue we're out of harm
you tap an aimless rhythm on my arm
laugh at graffiti on the overpass
backstreets at dusk radiate a soft charm
a ****** of words breeze through the evening calm
they pirouette away from conscious clasp
beneath the urban blue we're out of harm
catch a falling leaf in your open palm
we wander slow though the road glimmers fast
backstreets at dusk radiate a soft charm
your eyes blur mellow and lose the alarm
aureate dream dust just beyond our grasp
beneath the urban blue we're out of harm
we fade our wounds within this twilight balm
forget your feet and leave them in the grass
backstreets at dusk radiate a soft charm
beneath the urban blue we're out of harm
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 4:00 PM UTC