"coney" poems
ladies and gentlemen this little girl
with the good teeth and small important *******
(is it the Frolic or the Century whirl?
ones memory indignantly protests)
this little dancer with the tightened eyes
crisp ogling shoulders and the ripe quite too
large lips always clenched faintly,wishes you
with all her fragile might to not surmise
she dreamed one afternoon
….or maybe read?
of time a when the beautiful most of her
(this here and This, do you get me?)
will maybe dance and maybe sing and be
absitively posolutely dead,
like Coney Island in winter
15k
Ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
You to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
Play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid
nap you
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge
I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to
** ** **
Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more
We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles
The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown
** ** **
Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******** to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic ! You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
i.
O'
Timely
Apricity;
ii.
Mayest thou
Warm, and blanketeth
Me; as a neonate, as
Thou shalt gorgonize
Me, from within the space,
Ourn embracing is a cataract,
Of heavied chime-together laced.
iii.
Thine speak is comely, Concord
To mine earshot; the copse is
Surrounding, none manor
Needed, just the coney's,
With the delightful tree's,
veneering ourn cot.
iv.
Exhaling all ourn woes
And sorrow's, as if none
Tommorrow; None haste,
And none distaste, house-
Leeks groweth whilst the
Flaxen colored roses follow.
v.
O' oriental Apricity
I'm cold mine lass,
I'm freezing fast;
This winter day
Hath chilled mine
Soul, I needeth thine
Fire-place, to heateth these bones.
Though far-flung, away on stretched water's.
I'm awaiting for thee, mine queen, O' Apricity,
I'm awaiting O' queen, mine swart of the sea, thou holdeth the lock, tis I hath the key, here thou goeth amour', open it up, flyeth on through-setteth me free.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
It comes to you in your darkest days,
disguised in a familiar face,
It whispers words you've waited for,
uttered with eloquence & grace.
It touches your skin, holds your face,
Then consumes your self worth without care.
It hides behind a mask, planning & scheming,
leaving you unaware.
It hugs you as you dry your eyes,
it fills your head & heart with lies.
It utters hollow apologies with no intention of change,
It shouts vulgarities in a crowded coney island,
Filling you with embarrassment & shame.
It fakes compassion as you wait to hear,
whether you may indeed have cancer,
You question why it chose you?
but you never get an answer.
It prays at every meal,
mocking God without fear,
It attacks your reputation, your humanity,
and all that you hold dear.
It hides behinds friends, half truths,
and a sea of endless lies,
It marinates in every excess,
so it never has to open its' eyes.
You cannot give it love, expect empathy, or regret,
It is never satisfied because its true needs are not being met.
I'll never understand the cruelty,
the why or even how,
But some things have no answer,
and it no longer matters now.
Despite what has been DONE TO ME,
This I will always implore,
Evil may destroy this world,
But FAITH, HOPE, & LOVE
WILL win the war.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
This is Detroit
and we ignore
what the rest of the world
has to say about us,
we wear our stink
like a badge of honor
and we laugh
at the fear on your face
knowing where you are
and what youve heard.
This is Detroit
the motor-city
which means
you better own one
because our public transportation *****
our roads aren't much better
and our gas prices are high
which means
the speed limit is unacceptable in the fast lane
in fact,
anything thats not 10-15 over
is not acceptable
treat our highways like the autobahn
This is Detroit
and any Coney Island you go to
you shouldn't see any fries
underneath the chili and cheese
regardless how small It may be
This is Detroit
and its a city that refuses to die
because of its artistic output
from Motown
to Eminem
and our failures
that catch the eye of the world
yet we live on
through the hardship
that builds our character
as they scoff
This is Detroit
and every pothole
every decaying building
every makeshift
into a new business
is a character trait
where banks become pizza shops
and theaters parking lots
This is Detroit
where we still show up and party
for a football team that has never
won a Superbowl
This is Detroit
we are dangerous
we are lawless
we know our own
and we wouldn't want it any other way
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Satan's school for girls
White short dress and false eyelashes
Bubblegum ice cream and Coney Island
Oh say that, honey!
No class just ***
Can I be your pretty baby?
Take me to the New York city
Motels,hotels,anywhere
I want to see you again,my handsome devil
And I am your little mermaid
Oh baby, how sad...
You don't like my fakeness
Old fashioned vanilla
Don't you think that karma is playing with me?
They always sai "Don't be shy,little girl"
But I am still trying to ****** myself
No class just ***
Can I be your pretty baby?
Take me to the New York city
The Palms motel
All I want to do is to love you
All I want to do is to love you
Do you love me?
He said "Yes, baby, I do"
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.
she eyed our cones
yours, lemon
mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.
i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.
a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
a nickel is the larger coin
the size of a ten pence piece.
i know that now.
the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
star-spangled,
like everything here,
the airborne flag
above a wide pavilion
a fanatic wedding cake topper
against the blood-blue sky.
i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.
the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
looking east
looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.
the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
but certainly perfected it:
hot dogs
amusements
ice creams (we’ve covered that)
fridge magnets
baseball caps
i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
a public toilet.
later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
with the lust
of a 14 year old ***** boy
playing hooky
eyes blink orbs
riding the bumpy
**** grind yields
a mental representation
*her ***
a Coney Island ride
reciprocity of tongue and groove
a big dipper
and a hot dog
in a bun eating contest
i eye the shape of her legs
brahmana of form
**** cake butter scallops
with a prune skin ****
***** dark little sister
going along for the ride
with hidden talents
*om shakti om
holy donut with a zit*
rubbing myself
a peripatetic command
like I had the junkies itch
in a bearded clam sea
of black nail claws
like musical notes
that tear flesh
hegemony of *** art
*make me bleed *****
Tangula The Exotic Shake Dancer
moves infallible hips
and dancing hands like octopi
tickling bloated *****
ta-ting go the finger cymbals
smiling she called pip squeak
colossus of her dreams
flick tongues the meringue
licking the
shimmering tantra pistol
finger up the **** hole
brings a prostate exclamation point
and a throat gag lyric
for a wagon train
of wrap around lips
zooming spit and spray
wet like scungelli
her *******
like cloud cookies
****** my mouth
gasper boy
chokes on
a marshmallow fire
i kiss her feet
and work my way up
the slippery slope
a starved dog
…
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 8:54 PM UTC
Why did you bring me here?
The sand is white with snow,
Over the wooden domes
The winter sea-winds blow—
There is no shelter near,
Come, let us go.
With foam of icy lace
The sea creeps up the sand,
The wind is like a hand
That strikes us in the face.
Doors that June set a-swing
Are bolted long ago;
We try them uselessly—
Alas, there cannot be
For us a second spring;
Come, let us go.
1.7k
Unsticking our young dimpled thighs from the leather seats
We swirl sodas, lemon bitter, in the back of your moma's old car with the fresh smell
Banging our shins into the metal girding of Coney Island's landmark Ferris wheel,
We were landmarks ourselves, clutching each other hard, squeals high in our throats
Caught there with the lemon soda and honey grains of covered peanuts
Salt Wind ruffled our hair and his name was Billy, he was ours for the summer
We danced with him sharp and gentle on our legs covered in girl fuzz
Isn't it just grand to have our taunts and jeers still rough in our bodies,
Still young and sweet enough to draw lines across each other's palms, and promise We are Sisters;
'Cause you know tomorrow, we'll forget it all.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Funny, how sometimes butterflies
skip over your skin without ever landing,
how basketballs spin
around the rim without swishing,
or how things never seem to work out.
I’ve been wishing
for moments of high tide, gravitational
moons that would draw me to you,
in the middle of May on Coney Island.
I want you to pull my pigtails like it’s preschool.
I want to bleed neon, shout pop tunes
to accompany my words that sound like
a poem we all had to learn
to recite from memory.
Funny, how we store meat behind our popsicles
in the freezer, how we tear up things
before we throw them away,
or how defeated we feel when we wake up
to zero new messages.
I’ve been reaching
for the plug in the drain,
sipping champagne,
hearing your name,
when all I really want is lunchboxes,
the kind your mom leaves notes in.
I want to beat you in four square,
color on my Converse, catch crayfish
in the creek behind your house.
Funny, how we tone down our souls
to fit the mold, or interview each other
based on pieces of paper when we are
alive, and breathing, and it’s funny
how we save money for next time,
plan for tomorrow before we’re done with today,
count our accomplishments before our scars.
Funny, how all we ever wanted
was to finally be exactly where we are.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I knew that it was always there, only about a block away
The Ocean
I could see the Single Ferry sailing with piles of wooden boxes
my colleague whisper to me
“Those are cadavers inside those crates: heading toward
Hart Island Potter’s field project
to the unknown graves.
The seagulls and the wild birds enjoy the ***** sandy
While taking in the early sunshine here in Coney Island
I remember a long time ago, when I had the sea fever
I would walk bare feet in the sand, and tossed small pebbles in the ocean
Rex my dog, would chase the seagulls and wild birds away
As he enjoy his morning walk with me
The cool breeze would massages my face and the hot sun
Would quickly dry up the salty vapors,
which made my soul rejoice each time we took that stroll
along the white sandy beaches on the Island of Bim
Seeing with the eyes of a poet’s is a gift
my thoughts, and my unusual language,
The world sees us poet and author as liabilities
A true emotional poet has a way of making you believe that the
“Sky is falling,
so he or she may suggests that you prop up sky with the clouds
What’s in a word, besides noun and verbs and adjectives?
A poet’s heart, and they emotional torrent
So once again the sky is falling
While the rain turn to sleet ice pellets
A poet ways of seeing the beauty of it all
Through her work
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
With nothing much else to do,
We would grab a couple of purple prickly pear margaritas
And I remember how delicious they were
And how the bartender didn't hold back
Yes, they were strong.
And I would giggle, I would act ditzy.
Just because it was fun, and it got your attention.
You would roll your eyes at me sometimes
But not really in a mean way.
And we would grab some coney dogs, devour them like they were nothing.
Then we would fight about something.
We would drive all the way to the city
Stroll through the casinos aimlessly,
Because we were financially irresponsible,
But not that financially irresponsible.
Afterwards, you would buy me a delicious ice cream.
Then you would tell me all the places you wanted to take me, and all the events you wanted me to experience.
We really did give it our all.
But life is cruel, and our best wasn't good enough.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.
in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.
one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.
in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.
but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Come down,
come down,
come down from your rain cloud.
You're always rainin' on me
babe.
It isn't practical
up there,
what's the use?
And if you're in the sky
where am I,
save, you gotta save it for me now.
Rock me rock me rock me rock me
Rockaway, rock me to Brighton!,
Coney Island dead give away, hey!
I feel like there is more-
there is more and, and I'm not
fully sure,
not from New York.
everybody moves their body fast
they wanna do this city fast,
rock me rock me rock me,
rock me, you know I'm slow.
Get wise, get wise
rest sore eyes
on petals blue.
The waves
and the flat lands are too high now.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
Reports are that New York City
Has washed out with the tide
Give my regards to Broadway
The starless Manhattan skyline
The coffee shop patrons are oblivious
To what is going on outside
With latte in hand they don't realize
They'll soon be swimming for their yuppie lives
All the business men on Wall Street
Are stuffing money in suitcases
Hoping that they'll double as
Life saving flotation
All those spotless high fashion models
Are in heels trying to run-away
It's far too late for that now
Shouldn't have gone to work today
With Central Park underwater
It's now New Yorks finest fishing spot
Tossing fishing lines out of every high-rise
Using what ever bait they've got
From Escargot to caviar
Along with diamond rings for shine
To attract the fish for that special dish
On which the rich can dine
Once a place of so much fun
The island became it's own ride
When Coney Island washed away
As New York was pulled out with the tide
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,-
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
1.2k
It was a cold day,
overcast with a few rain showers here and there,
I picked you up from Penn Station,
dragged you to the subway steps,
led you down the tunnel, onto the train.
You asked me where we were going,
I wouldn't let you in on the secret.
One train. Another train...
You saw the last stop and knew
right where I was taking you.
Coney Island.
You looked from the sign,
then back at me,
your eyes lit up right then,
a smile crossing your face,
you knew i'd been trying to get you there.
We took the long train ride,
Manhattan to Brooklyn,
a quiet ride,
we enjoyed each others silence,
only feelings left to feel.
Finally pulled into the station,
'Mermaid Ave.' read the sign,
our kinda place, this was our time.
The boardwalk was practically empty,
on this cold and windy day,
everyone taking shelter from the rain.
I led you to the beach,
the sand hollowed from the drops that fell,
you looked at me doubtingly,
asking with your eyes,
'how will this help?'
I pulled off my green sweater,
you looked at me in shock,
threw you a smile,
off with my boots,
you stood there,
watching me undress,
not knowing what to do,
not knowing my next move.
I was down to my bra and *******
goosebumps covered my flesh,
you laughed at my pale skin and it's contrast to the sand.
I ran over to you,
lifted you up,
you started to scream when you realized,
every intention of mine was to get you into the water,
the salt that is so addicting,
just like your name on my lips,
you made me set you down,
and so that's just what I did.
I ran into the water,
screeching the whole way in,
you laughed at me,
stopped abruptly,
knew that I was reminding you
of who you used to be.
I watched from the water as you stripped down,
you came running after me,
tears streaming,
not a sound.
You waded right to me,
stopped face to face,
I pulled you in my arms telling you everything'd be ok.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
Running naked through the ruins of Detroit,
deep embrace against a graffitied wall.
The clink of spent bottles chime with passion's song,
and echoed down a forgotten hall.
Bombed out, Nagasakieque, sur-reality,
a strange and desolate aphrodisiac.
Ghosts watch our post-apocalyptic tryst,
through every wrecking ball crack.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown,
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Paradise, hidden among the rubble.
But only for the discerning eye.
Her pen painted poetic justice here,
and tried to reveal the reasons why.
Street coney's and cold bottles of Stroh's
could not be scuttled in the wake.
Its someone's hometown, no matter what,
though it looks like hell for heaven's sake.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Like some lost and lonely stray, she takes it in,
dusts it off, and holds it to her heart.
Sees promise in every burnt out factory,
and hope in every unattended park.
Empty crack houses sleep down the darkened alleyways,
like effigies awaiting to be burned.
The clock tower is stuck on borrowed time,
with hands waiting to be turned.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
And on our cardboard mattress
and the last few sips of wine,
the stars never looked so good to me,
her body never so fine.
Perfection amid controlled chaos,
eloquent profanities.
She dances naked in the moonlight,
and quelled our insanities.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Inspired by "Ghost Gardens" a poem by Rebecca Askew
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.
But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.
She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.
You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.
You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,--
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
999
Round and Round we go
This story might be a bus you know
It involves an amusement park
But let me narrate to give you the start
It was when I was young visiting Coney Island
There were rides galore
But what caught my attention was a bus for sure
There were many vehicles, but it was that one Volkswagen Bus
It was that bus I wanted to ride being an absolute must
Since I am bus lover
I had to ride that multi Vehicle Merry Go Round
As I stepped in, for me it was an adventure to begin
So I was at the steering wheel
I had to get that driver feel
Yet, every time some kid wanted to control
I had firm and was plain bold
That bus was my sheer delight
In fact, it was total excite
I was smiling like a bright light
Buses have always been my passion
But that specific vehicles go round I was never forget
I am thinking with no regret
However, it was the bus that captured my heart
The vision being a bus
My enjoyment having no fuss
It was simply that Volkswagen bus
It’s a passion I said, and the bus wheeling being remembered
A bus a bus, but there are many bus fans, and this is the illustration of us.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC