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Pétra Hexter Feb 2018
She commandeers my attention with a modest sleight of hand
The boys in the band all write ballads just for her
I ignore their tune as she slips out of the room
A creature lithe and limber has no reason to linger with a man like me
She's carving sin on the back of a bedpost
She'll show you eternity
Her eyes advise against this ill-requited course of action
As the ghost of tomorrow falters in the doorway
Pensive thoughts of uncertainty: her duplicity is second only to catastrophe
Fairylights cause retention of the shape of her thighs, too lewd to mention
Though branded in my mind is the fluttering of her linen dress that night
In her wake, she left the air charged with esoteric energy
My fingers far too clumsy, fumbled to bottle it for my own
Foolish fantasies rose to life in my mind as her hand brushed mine, and she suggested we go anywhere but home
Of crackling records in Exeter, over-watered succulents, and fresh ink on vellum; I averted my sight
Opting to stare instead at the passing streetlights, trying to hide my  blushing thoughts, though from her face it became obvious that she saw
And the secret in her smile, knew unlike I, that tonight would survive only a short while
Carla Jul 2023
A little twinkle on my wall
A little sparkle in the night
What could that possible be
Except for a fairylight

When we talked about home
There were two things you required
A room for all your plants
And all the fairylights you desired

They're quaint and cute
And I couldn't agree more
A house is so much better
With lights framing the door

They're not the brightest,
Nor are they the best
But they bring us both some joy
And we can forget the rest

When a house becomes a home
You think about it and smile
Because now home seems far away
When it's only really a mile

I know something our house needs
And yes, it'll stop all the fights
Because how can you ever be mad
When you're surrounded by fairylights?
Lysander Gray May 2013
The silent street erupted around me the moment I sat down,
a thunder rumbles in the distance
but only reveals a passing truck.

The white swan drifts past
without elegance.

I watch the youths drive by on fish lane
as the silent score of stoplights
play to an impersonal audience-
tonight the pizzicato is on time.

----

The air is dense with quiet conversation
of nighthawks
and the splash  of luck
on a steel  tray.

Elegant servants of style remove the unwanted things.

12:30
The air has cleared,
alone again
with two fat asians.

When did boring become stylish?

GET ME OUT  OF HERE!!

"It is truly a free nation that offers pancakes 24/7"

----

Normally, the solitude of wandering a sleeping city would elicit poetry.
Tonight only nothing comes out.

Not the people nor the smells or secret music. Only the flicker  of a dying neon sun assuring me,
that the parking is open.

----

1:00 am.

A woman in a pink burkha enters a white car, only to be driven off into the night, followed by two taxis.

There are ancient trees twisting their tops through the modern facade. For eras, much like fashion are discarded by finicky time.

They have stood as silent sentinels for longer than I have breathed, and with any hope, they will stand as soldiers long after I  come to pass. These reminders of the ravages of time.

I loved a girl who lived  here once.
She lived in an apartment that overlooked the city
and had  ******* like two soft moons
that tasted like honey.

1:40 am.

Other nighthawks wander as wastrels through the quiet Autumn night,
with a slow, soft  gait one never see's in the rush of day.
If all evenings carried a beat, it would be thus:
a slow jazz drum.

"...psssssh-bop! pssssh-bop! pssssh-bop!...."
would sound the echo of every evening heart
throbbing slow with power.
"...psssssh-bop! pssssh-bop!..."

The car's carry  white  blood cells to  the  suburban arteries.
Taxi's are cancer.

I walk
northbound.

----

Cold beer at 2am.

Faintly lit menagerie
an open cage containing
nighthawks.

Well spoken Eastern girls
corporate white boys
two old tradesmen,
one on a smartphone with a rosary around his soft large neck.
The antique street curves away toward the river,
sloping up
then down
I follow it with my eyes.


And run them back
to the fairylights.
They hang like glowworms
or constellations.

Glowworms hang like constellations, the inside of their cave  is the same fleeting feeling of being alone with the universe, it being caressed by your eyes.
For you are its lover and its mirror.
Inside the glowworm cave, I felt like the universe and everything reflected  itself in miniature. That to look upon their hanging, blue stars you saw everything else.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 2: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-2/
Part 3: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-3/
Part 4: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-4/
Part 5: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-5/
A Mareship Sep 2013
(Give me a London girl every time…)

- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -

(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)

So she got her phone out and

Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,

Fine lines floundering

Like speech marks

Either side of her mouth.

So romantic!

A girl with a face of

Punctuation!

***** pennies,

she said,

Your eyes are

*****

*******

Pennies


She would finger the holes

In my tatterdemalion

Charity coats,

And my shop-bought medals.

She would jab her fingers

Against each point

Of the Burma Star,

Spookily,

As though it were a

Pentagram.

She’s a washboard,

Her ******* are  thumb-tacks

In a cosmetic shade of

Gold,

With a crucifix stamped

Like a dagger glyph

Right between them,

like a silver sneer,

on her precious metal chest.

- I want to take your photo -

I want you in Pippi Longstockings

And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -


I’ll never forgot when she told me

She owned a leopard-skin

Pill-box hat ,

And I said

* “You’d have to be dead

Not to fancy that…”*

I’m not sure how aware she is though,

Of how many people

Tongue- to- the -floor want her.

She plays bored on purpose!

I’ve watched beautiful boys

Go to pieces

Trying to entertain her

With a curly straw.

She’s a real cheekbone feline,

And around her pupils

Rages a ring of jagged orange,

Like a jester’s ruff.

And I think of all this,

Whilst she stands there,

Moving from toe to toe

In her zig-zag heels,

And wooden bracelets,

And her little lycra

Landmine that

Shop assistants sell

To girls like her.

And then she clocks me.

and she doesn’t say a thing -

she just swims smilingly  over

Through a parted gaggle,

Letting me grab her

Like I mean it,

Spanning her waist with my

Hands like

A corset -

And the fairylights

Are  just smudges

Across her sequins,

And her mottled shoulders are

Ten shades

Of mostly white.
DomtheCurlyful Aug 2014
I dreamt of smashed
fairylights.
Trying to weave through the shards
sparkling
piercing, it was night

but light outside.
The sheets tangled my limbs,

hot mind,
in little bits

Scrape it up.
Scrape me up.
Skye Marshmallow Sep 2017
Stare up,
I see escape,
A universe,
Overflowing with,
A million curiosities,
Waiting to be found.

Stare up,
I see beauty,
A whirlpool,
Of pretty fairylights,
Dotted on the ink,
Soaked sky.

Stare up,
I see wishes,
The eyes of,
A hopeful child,
Who believes in,
The night time magic.

Stare up,
I see home,
A place I belong,
Even if I,
Am an alien to,
Them.
Josh Mitchell Jun 2018
I
Always remember things.
That way, you know: It’s moments.

II
Ness Boy walked back through that forest,
with the walk of someone who was lost,
and shared glances with the ghosts of him,
walking the other way.

They were crowned with browning leaves,
from when winter turned to summer.
Like the trees outside my window,
they went and changed their colour.

So Ness Boy had remembered that little pond,
where storm had left him all alone.
He remembered that path through trees, where we
went when we din’t want to go home.

And that bench, that view of the mountains,
and how beautiful it is to climb,
From that bench, that view of the mountains,
he remembered all that wasted time.

And as he walked back through his years,
he felt just a little bit sad.
But there was a part of him which felt like smiling,
because now he understood.

III
At the edge of the forest,
my father’s car is waiting to take me home:

Home, where I’m no longer tired,
and the world is swept away,
your little garden getting brighter,
my life it’s brighter too.
Home where I can’t stop writing,
and the writer in me’s a spy.
Home where I need to revise,
but revising ain’t on my mind.
Home where mum ain’t here,
but that’s how it’s s’pose to be.
Home where she never were,
but that’s how it would always be.
Home where I got the best education.
Home where I came back late.
Home where I introduced you to my father.
Home where we played in the bath.
Home where I learned how to iron.
Home where you made the fire.
Home where you always were.
Home where you aren’t anymore.
Home where I swore I’d never leave,
when I laid in bed that night.
Home where you swore you’d never leave,
then you switched off your fairylights.
Home was where I ran from,
because I didn’t know who I was s’pose to be.
But home is where I am now,
because this exactly who I’m s’pose to be.

But now there’s water on the sunroof,
and the trees are rippling.

IV
I used to dream and cry a bit,
wishing all these things,
wishing I could hear from you just one more time,
wishing I didn’t just walk away when you invited me in.

And now it’s time to sleep,
and your skin’n breath ain’t there no more.
Those Dollhouse Mountains are smaller now.
I’m talking to myself again.

But even when the bad things happened,
and we fought our way around each-other,
and you were frightened of conflict,
and I broke our door, and almost my glasses,
when we ordered Chinese food and I never finished it,
and we wasted money in London and Liverpool,
and never ****** in that hotel in Blackpool,
even though now we’re just memories to each-other,
and that night may have really been the last time we ever gonna see each-other,
even though soon I’m leaving this city behind,
and even though our world is now just an old view,
there were stars.
Dear Ghostly Boy. 8

— The End —