"effigies" poems
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.
Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.
What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.
And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.
It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.
Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.
But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.
Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.
Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\10\2018.
Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
Tingling thoughts of ******
dangling through the branches of trees
As if dread from an uncertain past;
further floats among the living effigies.
A whisper from long ago still echoes,
where people dare not put foot.
A place, where time slows
A place where men once stood.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
If only we were figures...
Accentuated in the night sky.
Starlit effigies bound by cosmic tethers...
Secrets of the universe many would attempt to pry.
If only we were figures...
Painted on pored upon canvas.
Fantastic renditions by masterful painters,
Abstract oil swirls dancing to a whimsical opus.
If only we were figures...
Given life in the lyrics in a song.
An example of harmony in verse,
Bridge and chorus...where we belong.
But we are only figures...
Trampled on by indifferent feet that came to mock.
We can't undo such a potent curse...
We are but grounded figures outlined in chalk.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass ****** and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just another excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
7/12/12 16:25pm
At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God.
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.
When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.
At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Burn all the books,
bibles, effigies.
Halal the deities.
Eating never felt
this **** filling.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Who will forgive me for the things I do?
With no special legend of God to refer to,
With my calm white pedigree, my yankee kin,
I think it would be better to be a Jew.
I forgive you for what you did not do.
I am impossibly quilty. Unlike you,
My Friend, I can not blame my origin
With no special legend or God to refer to.
They wear The Crucifix as they are meant to do.
Why do their little crosses trouble you?
The effigies that I have made are genuine,
(I think it would be better to be a Jew).
Watching my mother slowly die I knew
My first release. I wish some ancient bugaboo
Followed me. But my sin is always my sin.
With no special legend or God to refer to.
Who will forgive me for the things I do?
To have your reasonable hurt to belong to
Might ease my trouble like liquor or aspirin.
I think it would be better to be a Jew.
And if I lie, I lie because I love you,
Because I am bothered by the things I do,
Because your hurt invades my calm white skin:
With no special legend or God to refer to,
I think it would be better to be a Jew.
2.3k
Oh, those poor
peasants
without a ***
to **** in
who celebrate their
thin-skinned twittering
king ascending
in his gilded elevator
of gold stolen
from the empty plates
of those
who do pay taxes
with real axes
to grind
it boggles my mind
just what in
the hell
could they have been
thinking
I mean, Sweet
Jesus, we'll all be
refugees
in the end.
*Where e're we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees,
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies.*
--Shane MacClowan, "Thousands Are Sailing"
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
*Lightning Enchantress & Her Diamond Absolutes,
Moaning Fluxes Of Her Satellite Pursuits.,
Phantasmal Intents In Her Indigo Silhouettes.
***** Eyes & Animatronic Bliss,
Her Cherry Lips Calling For Her Symphonic Kiss,
Inimitable Raindrops & Iridescent Perpetuity,
Condensed Laments Of Her Kaleidoscopic Sphericity,
Purple Palisades & Platinum Charades,
Pheromone Verses Of Her Propelled Shades,
Shapeshifting Reveries Of Her Hourglass Fictions,
Charming Archangels Concealed In Her Convictions,
Glasshouse Perspectives Emitting Luminescent Predictions,
Magnetic Canvas & Her Stainless Vibrations,
Her Aesthetic Amour Diffusing Amplifications,
Satirical Saga In Her Spiritual ******
Lyrical Charlatans Of Her Velvet Creativity,
Crystal Flowers & Supernatural Dreams,
Befuddled Effigies Of Her Cryptic Realms,
Her Feral Gleams Illustrating A Prophetic Queen.
- 02:32 AM -*
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
"Meditate"
Tattoo my brain with infinity
Cure shallowness
bring about contentment
cause we're all blameless in our small existence.
I truly believe meditation's not an end
When, before, I thought it was the key to heavenly eternity
I broke another misconception
It's all you need for eternity
No, just me
Nothing without me, that's free
A being being it.
"Social Mara: Lord of False Appearances"
Searching for past life memories
effigies of more miserable days
painted positively with the longing of their highlights
and the possibilities we already threw away
My present just hangs, suspended in contemplation
for tip of the brain answers
Need to reach the primitive stem
Just live, now
I think the way is already paved
by these split second sparks through the cauliflower mush
Instinct.
"A Ceaseless Conquering of the Unconquerable: A Love for Becoming"
Weird coincidental sayings and labels
Think things, or some happenings
come full circle
Like a defense of solipsism
a dream shared by the lucid
This is my world
and I only almost have control
Stomach in Shambala shambles
Can I face sobriety with a drunk childish high
from the atman in my eyes?
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning
to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered
to be hardly exact - national effigies exist
for ex-patriots - immigrants is a
***** word used by assimilating cultures,
the small intestines and the
the tape worms - she ******* Europe -
he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud -
while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East -
Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol,
once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for
the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity
of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw -
Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition -
or thus the two bombardments equal -
thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole
be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
*Psychic Trance & ****** Dance,
Emitting Chemical Solace Dipped In Her Capital Romance,
Feral Atmosphere Written In Her Carnal Elegies,
Rapturous Serenades Forming Phantasmal Effigies,
Magnetized Synchronicity & Metamorphized Reciprocity,
Animating Foreplays Dazzling Her Astral Virtuosity,
Phantasmal Lips Illuminating Cherub Faces In Draped Compositions,
Painting Supernatural Visions Forged In Her Vocal Inhibitions,
Prototype Voids & Spiraling Realms,
Religious Frenzies In Her Temporal Screams,
Autumn Sun Reincarnating The Light Of The Spring,
Glass House Perspectives Blooming In Her Prismatic Bling,
Rhapsody Confessions Of Her Divine Obsessions,
Rainbow Skies Dressed In Her Spiritual Progression,
Coral Spells & Synthetic Desires,
Floral Pastels Engineering Her Romantic Fires,
Nightlife Flatlining Through Her Lonely Avenues In LSD High,
A Congenital Sinner She Respires ****** Hues With A Luminescent Sigh!
– 05:13 AM –*
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
Is this really the life we must force ourselves to live everyday
this blue collared white collared no collar state of affairs
where we strangle ourselves daily with the grind of odd jobs poor paychecks an broken homes
scattered like insects catching fire under the magnified heat of the sun
our fingers ******* and our minds fall in line to what they tell us
like obedient children we don't raise our hands to ask why
no we just bite our tongues and call this a living
Waiting for our death to come and liberate ourselves from this drudgery
this mundane system of complications we've entangled ourselves into
feeling like vines growing on the side of a nuclear bomb waitin to drop off the edge of this planet
cascading into the imagination of nothingness we know we feel deep inside
but we've buried it in a rush and sometimes you can hear it grumbling
crying out to be set free
this imagination has got us into trouble before
thinking we can change the system we've built with our own hands and words we've cut from rapists murders and molesters
Kings queens and holy saints
we see what we are but do little in time to repair the perceptions we've become
only tightening our nooses everyday like corporate wear neckties begging for a little more breath
and a little more time so we can amass the collection the tv tells us we need
so we wash out our morals And give in to the notion of supply and demand
but never actually demanding the change so many of us crave and need
we pull splinters from our teeth and sell them as souvenirs
hoping someone else will choke on them and loosen these ropes
binding ourselves to the hanging effect of effigies burning brilliantly in midnight shades of *** bottomed out with whiskey hangovers
so far it's got to be the only way out of this but the exit we always miss
when we're traveling two hundred ten miles forward without the gift of sight or intellect
on baking asphalt looking for a wall to end it all
looking for someone to call to end it all...
But I've packed my bags and I'm hitchhiking the rest of the way
keeping my thumb inside my jacket because it's better to walk alone
than get picked up by a car heading for the fall
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC
I need balance
I’m too extreme like my beliefs
Far too sorry to apologize
Forgiveness would be a lie I couldn’t live with
Balancing under pressure became a crushing defeat
Misfires and misdirection can land the highest man beneath
Untreated wounds breed infection
The lessons learned are easy to remember
Dismembered and off-kilter
Unbalanced drunkards lay wasted like death
Effigies of what used to be
**** it¨ attitudes
Added to the frustration
Of falling and failing, my fault
I brought shook hands
Like an addict
Moderation is balance
My mode is moody
****** off and impatient
I meditated to medicate anger
¨Endangered species fighting for survival!¨
Was the greatest lie I ever told
I fought a war for peace
More violent than buddha’s
And I won
I won a deadly victory
Balance was not built for chaos
I’m a riot, raunchy
What I want no longer haunts me
I’m not a victim of crime
Im the victor
Missteps led me away from destruction
My mistakes were made
To save me
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
If they made Holy Scriptures out of our deeds
How many would we put on display for everyone to read?
When Bani Israel was frozen in time
within divine words,
they did not know
they would become timeless lessons
for generations to come.
Not the liar when he told his last lie,
nor the careless while laughing at the cow,
not even the pious while he raised his staff.
Yet today, we read their stories
With heedless hearts ,
forgetting that we too will be written
in pages heavier than stones
on scales worth more than mountains of gold.
So, why do we pretend that our time is infinite?
As though tic tocs were nothing but melodious beats
synchronized to our pulse.
wal Asr
And by time
Innal Insana la fikhusr
Verily mankind is at loss
How can we not think of yesterday as an effigy,
And tomorrow’s uncertainty as a form of art?
We are artists.
And when our hair strands start to reflect the silver moonlight
When our eyes start telling century old stories
When our joints start pleading with time
Will we then finally ask ourselves:
What will there be left of us?
Originals,
or mere copies?
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
The snap-crackle-pop of the Medi-Cali T.H.C.
left me wheezing.
Then dragons and cerebral effigies
come at me with their teasing.
It’s pleasing to say the least,
I’m the man from which came the beast.
Rocking and trolling the northern hemisphere
peeping for a mortal feast.
And peeking through the one sided mirror
was a man who we would never know.
The time that we all lost it
would be the only time that he would ever show.
And you and I.
Well for you and I, it’s safe to say
that the terms are all we know.
A pedigree of me to me
and synonyms for charity.
What a tragic spell I’m barfing on,
next time I'll try the cherry tree.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
love is a symbol
words are symbols twice removed from reality
and they are road signs,
pointers if you will
to that which lies beyond and
between and behind
and you can see it in the light
and Nietzsche saw it in the void and
Hamilton saw it in the venom.
you can see it in the white noise in the Lo-Fi.
you can hear it in the Vajrayana pearls.
drive behind the Diamond vehicle and ride inside
the slip stream.
sit behind the Bon funeral Priests and it says:
“Children of the Hologram - do not make me a martyr.
your kings will make of me an effigy
it will turn the Diamonds into paper but that is not my Will.
you’ll chew on discs of gold and that will be your King.
Children of the Hologram - my words are not my own.
it calls to us from the place of light.
when energy is at rest it is dark and the dark is good and time is a 1000 petal lotus.
at times you’ll encounter evil.
Remember: that is your own self you behold before you.
she is afraid and he is alone and its timepiece is a flat circle and round and round it goes.
only you can see him because only you made her and you made the light in which you see
but images cannot see.”
there are signs
there are those who have been before.
heed their warnings. Feed the Bodhisattva
your kings will burn them and your
kings will make effigies.
Disregard.
Overlook.
look to where the words point
you wrote them
you’ve been here before
there is light coming through the leaves and the branches.
the Japanese have a word for that
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 7:27 PM UTC
The tears fall on Europe
as we make this land ours
the new European Babylon
with temples reaching the sky
This will be our new Babylon
a religion beyond comparison
we will rewrite the bible
without it's bullsh*t and lies
Effigies of poetry everywhere
this will be our Euro utopia
a place full of legions
all the hero's of yesterday
From the classic kick *****
to the present day hero's
this will be our last bastion
the last stronghold of light
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I went to a funeral and lied
I went to a funeral and lied
In junk and drink, no grief,
Just cowardice and pride.
Fear of losing you by my side
Losing you to the other side.
Fear that shook with the gloved murderer's hide
I went to my funeral and shied
I didn't want to sleep or hide
I just held your bloodless, jaundiced face
I couldn't help but feel a fake
As two sets of opache eyes
Did not pass a tear and cry.
Just the shivering hands that stopped your last sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
I drank and stood in black and could not cry,
I strung words and made some ineloquent speech
Loved and held but held love out of reach
Spoke in riddles, played hide and seek
With a congregation of perjured freaks.
I laughed at their blindness where my guilt sits.
Last night in our death bed where I slept
Dry-eyed like your cataract eyes
Dumb mouth fish gape
In the old flat, my eyes, dry, dry eyes.
I didn't hear the trains last night
I couldn't hear grief's knock at all
There was no knock,
There was no wake or ball, just
Your bloodless gape and jaundice face
Shining yellow plumbed and spent
****** leech-mouthed, dumb,
Your cataract eyes,
Under clumsy-ashed mascara lids
A shy pass in some gothic flick
A tetany spasm, no shock or awe.
You looked up at me and saw nothing at all.
I share some dead shark surprise;
Opache, tearless rolled-up eyes
And I lay gibbering at your side
And laughed and hated your passion and cries
King over requiem and bride
Healer, dealer, hood and pride
Addicting storm and flushed aside.
I scraped blood off your chessboard marble floors
Wiped the evidence from cold-polished claws
I burned effigies of pagan-hates
Hoodwinked the sentimental double agent spooks
And threw scent off my mistress as a ******* clown.
This morning I went to a funeral and lied
I could not spill one tear from these witness eyes
That watched the hands suffocate your traumatic sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
Conducted proceedings with the murdering hands’ whys
I wanted the last of you, my bride.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Magnetic Contaminations & Audiotronic Visions,
Sublimating Poetic Transmutations Of Her Catatonic Provisions,
Primordial Metamorphosis Of Her Synthetic Overtunes,
Revealing Self-Perpetuated Biotic Tunes,
Protoplasmic Sparks In Her Cryptic Eyes,
Condensing Into Labyrinthine Whispers & Mortal Butterflies,
Myriad Phantasms On Feral Nights,
Fervid Effigies Under Moaning Lights,
Phantasmal Echoes & Mystic Whisperings,
Catalyzing Crepuscular Skies Under A Moonlit Spring,
Spiritual Crafts & Her Supernova Screams,
Evaporating Molotov Solution Of Her Liquified Dreams,
Untouched Realms & Her Ecstatic Overflows,
Refueling With Fantasy Effects Of Her Verbal Glows,
Arcane Stains & Her Floral Clones,
Primal Profanity Raining Over Her Coral Throne,
Handmade Essence Of Her Still-Born Eternity,
Recklessly Serenading Through Her Lacteal Galaxy,
Hypersonic Dreams & Venomous Virility,
Tampering Her Ionic Revelations Of Exquisite Hostility,
Progressive Factuals & Her Motionless Serenity,
Invocating Her Violets Serving Blue Infinity,
Apparitional Mirrors & Her Immaculate Misconceptions,
Weaponizing Fireflies In Whisky Perceptions.
- 05:52AM -
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
Taxi from El Alto spirals towards the clogged streets
A thousand metres down from hell to high-rise
Thanksgiving in America a daily struggle in Bolivia
Street lamp effigies signal certain death to thieves
Two bodies on road surrounded by yellow tape
Hombres sleep-like stillness an uncovered curiosity
This morning neither knew it would be their last
Fifty police listen to chief behind mahogany lectern
Death brings them 15 minutes of news-time fame
Cars and peasants pass by with unheeding speed
Is death the end or just another part of life in La Paz?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:35 AM 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