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THE HOUSE OF DUST
A Symphony

BY
CONRAD AIKEN

To Jessie

NOTE

. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.


     This text comes from the source available at
     Project Gutenberg, originally prepared by Judy Boss
     of Omaha, NE.
    
THE HOUSE OF DUST


PART I.


I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night!  Good-night!  Good-night!  We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride.  We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for?  Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.

One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.

Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.

The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.


III.

One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand,
With wave upon slowly shattering wave,
Turned to the city of towers as evening fell;
And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it;
And saw how the towers darkened against the sky;
And across the distance heard the toll of a bell.

Along the darkening road he hurried alone,
With his eyes cast down,
And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people,
With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . .
And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown
Here in the quiet of evening air,
These empty and voiceless places . . .
And he hurried towards the city, to enter there.

Along the darkening road, between tall trees
That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked.
Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas.
Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked.
And death was observed with sudden cries,
And birth with laughter and pain.
And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies
And night came down again.


IV.

Up high black walls, up sombre terraces,
Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs,
The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky.
From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain,
Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye.

They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower,
Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew.
And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished,
And some strange shadows threw.

And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving,
Restlessly moving in each lamplit room,
From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire;
From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom:
From some, a dazzling desire.

And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought,
Combing with lifted arms her golden hair,
Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night;
And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death
As she blew out her light.

And there was one who turned from clamoring streets,
And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees,
And looked at the windy sky,
And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze
And birds in the dead boughs cry . . .

And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain,
To mingle among the crowds again,
To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street;
And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream,
With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet.

And one, from his high bright window looking down
On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town,
Hearing a sea-like murmur rise,
Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower,
And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries.


V.

The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.

The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.

One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.

Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . .  We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness.  The canyon fades . . .

And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.

We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.

And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.


VI.

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the city's feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves;
Rain thrills over the roofs again;
Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city;
The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain;
And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves,
And among whirled leaves
The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower,
From wall to remoter wall,
Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound
And close grey wings and fall . . .

. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember
A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes:
Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered.
Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . .
Voices about me rise . . .

Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-
'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down.
We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . '
A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound.  Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled,
Thinking your face so strangely young . . . '
'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.'
'I am the one you followed through crowded streets,
The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.'

'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell
Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell:
A bell that broke great memories in my brain.'
'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you,
Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.'

'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding
The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen.
They wrote me that he was dead.  It was long ago.
I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing,
And returned to see it again.  And it was so.'


Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain!
I am dissolved and woven again . . .
Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me.
Thousands of voices weave in the rain.

'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking
At a dazzle of golden lights.
Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking
Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights:
Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day,
Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way,
And turned, as she reached the door,
To smile once more . . .
Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water.
Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter,
Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon
On a night in June . . .
She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after;
She dances in dreams over white-waved water;
Her body is white and fragrant and cool,
Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . .
I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights
Of a broken music and golden lights,
Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling
Between my hands and their white desire:
And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance,
Dipping to screen a fire . . .
I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees,
But as I lean to kiss her face,
She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves,
And run in a moonless place;
And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down,
And shattering trees and cracking walls,
And a net of intense white flame roars over the town,
And someone cries; and darkness falls . . .
But now she has leaned and smiled at me,
My veins are afire with music,
Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light;
I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . '

He rises and moves away, he says no word,
He folds his evening paper and turns away;
I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces;
Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen,
And some sit motionless in their accustomed places.

Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts,
Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre;
The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange.
Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns.
One peers out in the night for the place to change.

Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain,
It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water,
Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street.
The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops.
Remote and hurried the great bells beat.

'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed,
Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down.
And to-day the woman I love lies dead.
I gave her roses, a ring with opals;
These hands have touched her head.

'I bound her to me in all soft ways,
I bound her to me in a net of days,
Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word.
How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you?
There is no use: we cry: and are not heard.

'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . .
Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city
Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . '
His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together.
Wheels hiss beneath us.  He yields us our desire.

'No, do not stare so-he is weak with grief,
He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside;
He is confused with pain.
I suffered this.  I know.  It was long ago . . .
He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.'

The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows,
The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls.
We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying;
And at last a silence falls.


VII.

Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.

'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died-you know the way.  Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'

He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent.  A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind.  Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.

Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and ****** of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .

And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,-
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.

I'll never forget.  He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun.  Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"

Kiev, 1911
Stanze smith Nov 2017
The boat I'm in
My boat is one that makes you feel small.
One that you can easily hide in:
Small windows, while lots of sun makes it to the deck,
It’s shiny, and white, with bronze banisters.
If you look close, it's all a shade of aged green.
Cedar deck planks shine,
But floorboards below are cracking.
The meals and entertainment never fail to impress;
But the boat staff are ready to walk the plank.
Its motor tries it’s best,
With white sails, wrapped up tight,
dusty from lack of use, unfold into grey billows for backup.
Their thin cotton gets tired easily,
They often rip when the storms blow.

The boat I'm on only passes the beautiful islands,
Close enough to see, but too afraid of the shallow waters.
The boat I'm on passes pirates daily,
Hearing their threats, shouts and banter.
The boat I'm on passes cruise liners,
wishing one day it too could hold so many happy, relaxed people.
The boat I'm on wonders why guests don't stay longer
and come more often.

The boat I’m in is sick of only serving me.
The one who is stuck here aboard,
The one who is so bored of this sad boat;
Although it could show me the world,
It commonly finds itself in little blue lagoons.
Dark waters with low hanging trees
and thick reeds to get caught up on.
Occasionally  guests will take me out,
Out to crystal clear, blue waters of the wild ocean,
We enjoy the sunshine and the sounds of the sea.
But me and my boat always seem to float away.
Away from the beautiful blue waters,
closer and closer to the murky banks,
Think mud wanting to swallow the white edges of my smile,
And the sides of my boat.
Jordon Jones Sep 2011
The darkness whispers
To me tonight
Of a tickling
In my ear
So light
Softly,
Softly
It goes
Chillingly
Up my spine
And down again
Darkness, be mine!


The light
Is creeping,
Crawling, sprawling
Away from shadow’s grip
So boldly it waxes the floor with gold
Polishing the banisters with pure filigree,
Polishing them with purest golden filigree
It makes the dawn more welcome here
Expanding thru empty hall
Revealing in stride
Most horribly
The end
This is an old one I wrote when I was about 14 or 15 or so. I was exploring the use of shape and contrast at the time, instead of solely focusing on words.

PLEASE don't just read this one! There are so many better ones (more recent) to check out. See those arrows to the right? Yeah, click 'em. You know you want to.
Perig3e Oct 2010
The rivers
          that oxbow
             slither
    down the Cumberland drain
        in May
                 SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
         hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
    cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
   through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
    feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
     on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
    and tears.
All rights reserved by the author
chewing each sound
like a dusty paint chip;
they don’t sit well, dark, wooden stairways
wrapped around my throat, banisters
sherry carpet running down the middle.
trial steps, you buy with each motion
swollen bones.
“sturdy windowsills,” that’s true.
we peel off raindrops,
closing the canister.
i sneer outside; that sun oscillates,
with its blistering pirouette.
costume design left it naked.
yet, this sallow creaking in my attic
is
a conscious decision.
possession, not ownership.
MMXI
Brent Kincaid Aug 2015
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
I stalked into the brothel with
a cinnamon tongue
hot and ready to pierce.

The room tasted like child’s play
smooth banisters and
bunk beds and
upstairs, the double doors
locked where mom and dad slept.

Its not a love you feel
for the lump beneath the quilt
you just arrange it with your soles
kick it into place
until it no longer aches
or impedes your peaceful dream
until it no longer aches
or impedes your selfish, peaceful dream

assuaged and self-contained
without faces
without names
you can learn to share yourself
like a cactus shares its spines
you can stare right into cries for help
and tell yourself
you’re not powerful enough to do harm

And **** to hell the belle
that comes above the lace
looking as beautiful as she felt
but this time, with a face

eyes like submarine lights
uncovering this corner of deep id-rich sea
without which, otherwise,
I might be perfectly happy
To follow my hunger and
the little bright star
of some angler fish’s mottled lure
hungry like the man
into the monster’s
hungrier jaws

But empathy’s enough
a knowing glance
to give any monster pause
and to keep me from leaving there
without her on my arms.

I took this quilt lump
this time with a face
and told her in due time
I could learn to speak her name.

She clawed not to be stolen,
she had been once before
but in these rank and sweaty halls
between these ***** sheets
she knew what end she could expect
a luxury she would not have with me

Those double doors lay dormant
but soon they would erupt
and fury would fly out to find
like some low cattle thief
I had run off with a head of his herd

We slipped like stench out of the brothel, new gods within ourselves
picked a furnace of a day to hide and run
the sun was a lantern
to young old tourist moths
whose dead dust wings flipped like flora
into the Spanish fountains

we moved,
we found a hill that  stood alone
crowned with plastic turrets, that
someday would be sails in a landfill
but now they stood like great vats
for the mass to leave the masses
uncover their bare *****
and hide the fact that every
human tube takes the world
the living beauty
and turns it into truth

“Waste Not, Want Not”
“Waste None, Live None”


   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    .   .   .   .


Resting on this hill of waste
under the gorgeous sun
the brothel coughed out another face
this one with a gun

I knew him for the fear
that he put into my prize’s eyes
and the goat’s head grimace
the same that once convinced
my hot and cinnamon tongue
now flicking to pierce
the back of my teeth

And he chased after me

I know the love was true for it came second to self-preservation
When violence came upon me
I let the ***** go free
I did not see her as we ran
hunter and prey
through Mission walls
and old stone alleys

I couldn’t wish for better aim
not a bullet found my feet
nor did fatigue, but I turned to met him
in some lone canyon of a city
some conquistador’s old drag

And there was no exchange of eyes
No quick game of words
No businessman charade
No Humanity deserved

I flew upon him like a coyote
and danced with tooth and claw
and pulled out little threads of red from
his eyes and nose and jaw

till finally the apple bruised
a little flattened spot
just pushed upon his brain enough

and then I saw his face
as if it had been laid
at the bottom of a box
where some red soaked marbles
were thrown in and
shook and rolled across
like finger paints from little hands
if I could push mine into his skull
I’d bet his brain
his thoughts and plans
would feel just like Play-Doh

Then I called the elected gods of judgment
and told them that in the historic district
some boy lay dead at my hands

As I walked to my awaking
I saw her once again
blank with the eyes of a beaten retriever
back into the brothel
where she decides to stay
inside, where no one dies in plain sight
M Nov 2013
Beds;
I imagine how you'd pin me to one and kiss my eyelids to my kneecaps, the length of my body as your hands hold mine in place.

Chairs;
You could sit on one, and I'd straddle you while pushing your hair back and nibbling on your earlobe, feeling your hands become firmer upon the small of my back.

Tables and desks;
I sit upon them and you scoop me up into your arms, my legs wrapping around you as your lips mold to my neck and I tilt my head back.

Dressers;
Press me up against one as you peel off your clothing that just won't make it back into the drawers because we're too busy folding our hands around waists and necks, too busy tasting lust and angst as your lips touch mine.

Couches;
Spoon me on one and draw circles along my hip bones and I'll roll my fingers down your inner thigh, pull me closer and bury your face into the crook of my neck.

Stairs;
Kiss me up them, tentatively feeling our way around the banisters and walls so we can continue interlocking lips as we climb towards the bedroom.
Ryan Seth Cole Sep 2022
I am surrounded by comforts and convenances as I pack the cub-bards, lining them with provisions. Some of which I will not get to before they perish. I pay no mind to the clouds that gather above my head because I will soon walk into the shelter of my luxurious home.

I close the door sealing out the pestilence. the last part of my home barricaded by all the elements. I seat myself in a climate controlled throne where I waste away watching the regurgitation of one talking head to another. I stand at once to pour my cup out into the sink.

I look out the window and see a horizon of red illuminated by the smoke and fires that grow beneath it. I close the blinds and I make my way to the master bedroom. I take off my custom made clothes and fold them neatly at the foot of my bed. I brush my teeth and put on my pajamas as I hear a thunder in the distance grow closer . I turn on my fan to drown out the noise. I then lay myself down and nestle the silk of my pillow.

I begin to fall asleep not quite past Rapid eye movement. I am then ripped from my bed. I am drug down the stairs pulling banisters back resisting my pursuer’s. They’re strength to much to my own they quickly over power me.
My finger nails dig into the decking of my lavish hardwood sprawl. There is no hope for me at this point. I then am hit with a blunt object and loose consciousness.

I awake with a bag over my head and my hands tied behind my back. The dry air and exhaustion from my screams make my mouth dry. I feel insects crawl on me not as an infestation but as a hindering concentration on my hands and feet. I don’t know what they are but they bite me like fire ants.

I cannot shake them loose. Once I do my hands and feet are  bound down by my captors. They shout at me slurs and demand I renounce. They beat me with they’re fist and feet. They grab me up and drag me down a long hall. I am pushed to the floor and then picked up. My head is shoved down as they submerge me in water. Over and over and over again. I begin blacking out because my body is entering a breaking point.

I am then drug back down the hall and cast back into my dark room.
This continues for days as I am being starved. I begin eating the ants that bite my hands and feet. I drink the water I can when I am being dunked over and over again. I begin to try and adapt to this tormented routine. I am far past depression I am numb and I am hopeless.

I am so lonely I try conversing with my captors. They don’t speak in my language so I try to make myself believe what they say back to me are kind and hopeful things.
They demand that I renounce in my language. It is the only thing I understand the entirety of my stay. I sense the desperation in they’re tone they almost seem sad that I am not responding to they’re abuse. I fear they will soon grow tired of trying and end me as a result.

The next morning I awake with a cold blade on my neck. I shout out “I renounce! I begin crying and shouting out; I renounce!” They pick me up and break my bonds and sit me in a chair. One officer removes the bag over my head and I see for the first time in I don’t know how long. Another officer hands me a glass of water and my face falls in shame and relief.
This is the real beginning of my torment.

After giving me instructions and sending me on my way. I …..

To be continued…
Small series. Part 1
One day this building will become old and shabby
with peeling wallpaper, ratty carpeting, and cracking plaster.
One day the only option besides the wrecking ball will be
to sit and wait to die.
To crumble and decay,
to rust and fall to pieces.
Termites will find homes in the banisters,
moths will eat at the books left behin
by the pillaging teenagers that steal the furniture.
Chesterfields and repaired ottomans
will show up in the neighbourhood,
refurbished and reupholstered, saved for mother’s day.
No one was going to use them otherwise.
Better they don’t go to waste.
The old piano with the cracked keys
will slouch alone in the empty sitting room,
savouring what little memories weren’t scraped from this carcass
like the last of the peanut butter from it’s jar.
One day this building will disappear,
making a grave of it’s foundations.
Inspired by photographs by Daniel Barter
Brent Kincaid May 2016
There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.
I wrote this in 1972 and consider it one of my best poems ever. I do hope some kind tunesmith puts music to it someday.
The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.

The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.

One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.

Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . .  We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness.  The canyon fades . . .

And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.

We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.

And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
Cruel intentions,
laid bare on the table,
dim the sparkle of the champagne,
and the happy smiles slide off,
to fall forgotten
underneath the plates;
your foolish words sneak;
crawling like a snake,
over the rich desserts
laden with sickly sweet toppings,
around the silver spoons-
despising its own marred reflection
and spitting cruel poison onto the very fork I eat from.
Your insensitive words cut me to ribbons,
that you stuff in your pocket
to comfort your dry handkerchief,
where no regret exists for your callousness
or your betrayal;
and the pocket-watch
tick
tick
ticks away-
breaking the silence
after your cast-iron declaration;
You sit so coolly, relaxed;
when the walls that supported this house
are falling down around us-
the banisters and chandeliers frozen solid
by a wave of my cold-hearted fury.
When my pained voice cracks
the glacier above your head,
will you still smile and laugh
as you meet your doom?
Will cool water calm your throbbing ego,
poured so effortlessly by my hand
on to that perfect smile?
The water will fly,
and smother that sour sting
of your pride undisturbed,
Sweeping you off your feet,
and down the river,
where the refuse naturally goes.
You are not the only one who knows how to fight-
and yet,
you find relief in arrogance,
in a momentary victory,
believing you have already won-
But I see the truth of your stupidity-
for, only a  fool wages a war
that no one wins.
jer Mar 2018
with our slick smiles and flashy bodies
now we’re impressing hell with gaudies

with our hearts thumping till they bleed
now we’re singing dirges while we scream

with our licked lips and shrilling laughter
now we’re loving  bones lying there after

with our tin flasks and empty canisters
now we’re swinging from the banisters
You know that stereotypical high school party?
NitaAnn Dec 2013
There is so much running through my head and it is preventing me from sleeping. Which I suppose is okay since we are 4 days from Christmas and I have yet to do any shopping. The therapist would tell me to stop “indulging” and live up to my responsibilities…(Like anyone ever “mirrored” that for me!) The therapist would probably tell me to stop listening to music that seems to make me feel even more depressed…but here I sit, anyway, head phones on, listening anyway.

But I feel so effing worthless and sad right now.  Here I sit in the midst of two Christmas trees, a mantle full of poinsettias and lights, garland strung on the banisters, frosty jingling behind me and I cannot FEEL any of it.  And I want to FEEL it right now!  I want to feel all the good things in my life…and I can't, which makes me even more frustrated.  And the only way to force it is to hit the liquor cabinet (which I have not yet ruled out).  

I don't think I intentionally planned it this way but the holidays are usually very busy here...which adds to my stress level as I deal with “family” events. Three birthdays to celebrate as well as the 26th being my 23rd anniversary. And I can't get caught up in it this year!  I want to and I can't.  

And here I sit thinking how I have been married to a man for 23 years and he does not even know me and I'm wondering how that happened.  But the reality is, no one really knows me... He loves who he "thinks" Nita is...but I am not really that person at all.  And it's really tiring for me to keep pretending to be her after 23 years.  

It's been a long long week…I got caught up in the suburban fantasy...it happens...I have fallen and the past can't be undone.

I messed up...I don't feel well at all tonight...not at all...

...I think it is time to go check out that liquor cabinet...
Mary Torrez Apr 2012
you don't mind the glass beneath your feet
or the bomb strapped to your chest
ticking second by second like your very own
metronome trying to harmonize the noise
inside your head

the gag inside your mouth feels real to you
but no one steps aside to help you untie
the purpled hands behind your back

and you wonder why no one can see
all the pretty girls strung to banisters
with their lipsticked mouths gaped with
muted screams and mascaraed eyes
bulged by Death's medusa-gaze

at the top of the staircase is a noose with
your name - Jane

and as you tiptoe up the steps, the faces
of the corpses blend and coalesce
into one generic image - a girl no one
remembers beyond her death - and you
realize once your neck snaps you're nothing
more than a statistic

the rope tightens and you join
the data set - the only place you've
ever felt you belonged
Rebecca Sherer Feb 2014
Vanilla mint chai
the taste attaches
to refracted light
from the gothic stained glass

Ornate banisters
mingle with the curves
of human perspective
human inspiration

Golden tunes
pulse my brain to desire
a crawl between literatures
into historical corridors

To escape the biting cold of the streets
to perch upon an easy wave
of knowledge and knowledge yet gained
that would be

living the dream
written at, what seems to be, a thrift store of books
Liz Devine Jan 2012
Why can’t we live the simple life?
You know,
Live in a house, a real house
With a picket fence
And cleanly pressed rose wallpaper,
Covering its innards
Which hug the smooth cherry wood banisters

It doesn’t have to always be glittery
We don’t have to be big all the time
Sometimes we can be little
Little people, living in a lovely little world
Made of candy and apple pie

We don’t have to walk a red carpet
Besides the one,
Which covers our staircase and leads the way to our bedroom
The world that we alone share
Until the kids come in,
You know,
The even littler people

Some people live in that world
That’s regular and suburban
Lucky and safe
So simple, it’s sweet to taste

I could do it,
I could give up all my big dreams
And shut my starry eyes
Because you are my end all
And all the other boys,
Were just the bodies that laid the path,
Which led me to you.
Grae Sales Jul 2013
tell me when to stop
looking at you from behind
waiting for you to find me there
watching you as you silently
go to your usual cradle of solitude
breathing in the bliss
of silence in one corner

tell me when to stop
adoring such quiet scene
the hopeful scheme that
I am the one you’re seeing
when you’re staring at nowhere
or when you’re feeling my spirit
from the banisters of the stairs

tell me when to stop
those bittersweet sighs
the greed of being with you
when you’re not even there
that chest-hammering pain I feel
that deprives me of air
whenever you’re away
whenever you forget about me
or whenever you dream
of somebody else

tell me when to stop
assuming that you think of me too
when I think of you
for this is just too hard to bear
you are someone I can never have
so if you must say that one word
look at me and be gentle
then graciously break my heart

I shall stop
at once
.

but if you must tell otherwise
then I shall stop asking this again
and I will never get tired
of thinking and sighing
of waiting and dreaming
and of stealing
some glances from you
*forever
(c) Grae Sales
Mark Lecuona Sep 2017
water falls burning; rivers
boiling; oceans churning;
it’s never love that is wrong
if we remember how we
walked next to hand-carved
banisters; we picked them out
together; the storm won’t care;
the angels said it doesn’t matter

but it does; rebuilding a house,
it’s not home until our memories
decide to join us; can our tears
carve a new path so they can
make their way to us; can they
give thanks to the prayer that
saved our souls because all we
prayed for was to smile again?

a sea song echoing inside of
conch shells; enough to risk
singing it again alone on a still
beach; shadowed by the surge
of seabirds fleeing; their wings
promising their return as does
the melody inside the fear that
knows what it has done

when I saw you wander in without
a thought of the future; it is our
humanity crossing borders and
oceans that transported the divide
we felt when the sky was blue and
the tide was tame; and now when
it is God that tests us I reach for the
love from you that we cannot invent
The staircase is steep and cold
my moist fingertips stick onto the banisters
I so don't want to go, not now
my Gods give me just a few more precious years
let me prove my worth to your's and all
let me rise from the ashes of defeat

I will be your sanctification on all that I light
in your name in the joy and abundance of us
I cast 20,000 temples to our name
claim myself the last in the name to glory
and as I rise to heights never attained
all that walk near me I will help in the name of Poetry

So now I tremble for the love of Poetic writes
and do claim to do all in my powers so weak
to gain my energy, to get back to you
so with the love of this wondrous art
I ask on bended knees, hands clasped
give me the power to delight in writes


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
matilda shaye Aug 2018
I look up to your ceiling and look at the banisters
if you count the ones on the edge there’s 7
I look to my left and my right
and imagine being anywhere else
feeling any other thing
my back is hurting so I sit up straight
there’s smoke in the air from the ****
you’re smoking out of the **** I got you
my best friend told me I should
take that back from you out of spite
I’m excited to see her this weekend
but I am sure you’ll be in the back of my mind
I accidentally gave my dealer a 50 instead
of a 20 and I gave you the majority of the drugs
the flowers I got you months ago are swaying
from the ceiling and I speak a lot of words
for someone who doesn’t really say much
I got through a bad day and
I just want to tell you all about it
I miss you, I miss you
come kiss me on the lips
I want to exist as somebody
who only feels what’s necessary
what do you think happens after we die?
do you think it just goes black?
I want to kiss you on the lips and fall asleep in your arms
The staircase is steep and cold
my moist fingertips stick onto the banisters
I so don't want to go, not now
my Gods give me just a few more precious years
let me prove my worth to your's and all
let me rise from the ashes of defeat

I will be your sanctification on all that I light
in your name in the joy and abundance of us
I cast 20,000 temples to our name
claim myself the last in the name to glory
and as I rise to heights never attained
all that walk near me I will help in the name of Poetry

So now I tremble for the love of Poetic writes
and do claim to do all in my powers so weak
to gain my energy, to get back to you
so with the love of this wondrous art
I ask on bended knees, hands clasped
give me the power to delight in writes


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Jamie F Nugent Apr 2016
Perfect and elegant, like some statuette,
Impossible to touch
She seems just like a silhouette.
Behind brown eyes,
Behind the looking glass,
She sees
All the men, who've fallen for her,
Their shattered knees.
Unbalanced, I'd become,
Upon passing her on the staircase,
As she'd walk, in her quick pace,
Hair, brown, curly at the ends,
Brushing the banisters top,
Sweet and addictive,
Like a narcotic lollipop.

-Jamie F. Nugent
Mary Kate Aug 2018
i can still hear the plane taking off.
i can still hear the busy people rushing around the airport.
i can still hear the doors to the shuttle closing.
i can still hear the friendly receptionists at the hotel.

i can still feel the air sweeping past me while waiting for the metro.
i can still feel the wooden banisters at the library of congress.
i can still feel the cool october breeze.
i can still feel the awe of seeing the washington monument.

i can still see my smile while watching bobby flay's cooking show.
i can still see the intricate floral pattern on the hallway floor.
i can still see my smile fade when you approach me in the hallway.
i can still see your black eyes as you force your hand down my pants.

i can still smell your cologne on my pajamas.
i can still smell my chai tea latte and cake pop.
i can still smell the old air in ford's theatre.
i can still smell the mini burgers i ate that night.

i can still taste the cold concrete in the stairwell.
i can still ******* dinner coming up as you choked me.
i can still taste the salty tears dripping onto my tongue.
i can still taste the bitter mucus that i vengefully spat at you.

i hate you.
avalon Jan 2020
im stupid and he is too!
we scale these banisters together.
together, we demoralize the
security guards
and convince them
they're cool. we are cool
like nonsensical rebellion
fueled
by curiosity.
the forbidden hallways
we make our own
beckon to
us. calling,
"we have waited years for you.
we have called,
and curiosity
has answered."
sliding down banisters,
living so fast, can't catch my breath
crying in the hallways,
blazing grey haze, popping pills left right
dark clouds and woozy faces
different phase, feeling buzzed and laced
intoxicated when i'm with you
running away wasted
fading into the music
shots till we're gone
standing on a roof, living on a wire
flashing lights set me on fire
losing my sanity, where's my touch of reality
same patterns and splattered emotions
smelling the fear in this house of tears
throwing up everything but memories
The way the light reflects off your glass
And fractures across all our palms
And the strike of every blade of grass
And how the hills seem to breathe so calm

I'm sick and tired of working for nothing
And I don't want to be searching for something
So won't you waste time with me
Queen Jane
Won't you count lines with me
Queen Jane

When your servants decline my requests
On the banisters I can see them hide
Then your mother starts talking about regrets
And I wonder why I'm sitting inside

I'm so bored of having something to do
And I'm exhausted by how little time I spend with you
So won't you count sheep with me
Queen Jane
Won't you fall alseep with me
Queen Jane

When you're talking to me it sounds abstract
When I hear your voices shouting in chorus
They all stick out and I'm tired of our contact
And I can't see the trees for the forest

I'm so distracted by too little to see
And too much, you know, would only bore me
So won't you watch paint dry with me
Queen Jane
Won't you laze and get high with me
Queen Jane

When the glass doors of the store slide open
And you're wishing you brought some kind of coat
And the manager is whispering go in
Is it too late to speculate we're on a boat

Won't you watch clocks tick with me
Queen Jane
Won't you feel sick with me
Queen Jane
Roadtripblues
On a drive to durban
December 30 2021
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2019
When we were wee lads
and lassies, my grandmother
had the chimney swept on
this day every December for
as long as I can remember.

It was a circa 17th century
house with an inglenook
fireplace and bellows where
peat was burned from the
local bog.

No television ariels back then
and a thatch roof without any
guttering. On Christmas Eve
the fire was doused out with
water long before midnight.

A three legged stool from the
milking parlour was placed
directly under the draught
opening, which was used by
Santa Claus to come and go.

One 25th A.M. before coming
down from our loft rooms, I
spied through the banisters,
my grandfather had a broken
stool leg in his hand and said:

"He's gone and broken our
only stool and it will be a full
year before we can order a
replacement, why can't that
fukin eejit use the front door".



2ist December 2019.

— The End —