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·Cut out large sections of a magazine that sells prom favors
·Find a website that contains samples of love letters and love poetry
·Print one page of that website out and cut out large sections of the page
·Put all cut out contents into a mixing bowl
·Dump the contents onto the floor
·Transcribe what you see as you see it
Sara Kellie Dec 2017
A subtle panic like a slow death creeps, the anxiety within me, for here's where it sleeps.
Quietly loud enough to cover the sound, of the glassware you've thrown, now strewn all around.
Rocking all positive lullaby's to sleep, ensuring all menacing thoughts I'm to keep.
It's adept like the teen who's stayed out beyond curfew, sneaks in armed with oceans with which it will drown you.
All because of the lies that were said, went in through your ears and lived in your head.
The life you once had held aloft like a prize, you breathe your last breath and then close your eyes.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Just feelings but I feel them.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Are we all here
Or elsewhere
Treetops Robin birds
What!! Is it only words?
The sky she wore the
blue velvet cry
Whats still here what
will life bring
Afterlife sing before I die?


Headless horseman goodbye
Breadwinner Sportsman
Your worst enemy
The closer he gets knowing
your drama/ Cowboy-comedy

"Whats Here"

The Emmy meeting
another writer
The Dude Ranch
Meet the "Ghostwriter"
The computer
early bird
Specially rude

The Medieval time of the
"Fable" sword fight
In a fork road, he was
born *English Sterling
The Silver anniversary
Dude piece boring
Whats here setting Ms.Dahla
Sweet Magnolia flowers
He's aiming for Azelia
What dudes grow
in her family
I'm here and he said
I'm the Dude

We are here Paul Revere rides
Breaks our glassware
Mr. Bigfoot needs to decide

Those Philly steaks "Heinz Ketchup"
Pittsburg tip of the iceberg here-up
Feeling sorry for the "Dude"

I'm right beside you here
Racers mouth racetrack win
More supernatural forces of sin
Rayban Mr. Sun-Ray glare
This was all I could take
in one day
It's important so let's stay
in one place
Where we can see one another
All dudes what eludes in character's

The false eyelashes her
prediction Alice madly
Tea party detention

Dancing in the
spiritual rain
She is the biggest pain

What cheeks swear
with her pinky
The blow dryer the
Big Lebowski stayer
Russian Roulette
Crystal fighter Swarovski
Homewrecker traveler
The dude investigation
*Risky business Dudes in the mansions

Rome cannot be built in one day
What's here your *Mom
baking noodle pudding today
You are laughing and both got
Brooklyn fever
Divine hour telling her how
much you love her
Familiar eyes hot dudes
The best flight activity
Getting you up
Your NativityI'm the dude cup

Always wondering you drift
Whose coming to dinner
*Mystery is it really here
        The Dude of a gift
Happy tears New Years

White Polar Bears

Days of daydreams dude stamps
All tolls and Polls
Twitter and Trumps
Or coming closer to
your darkest night
Forever wherever you are
It's the dark velvet satin

Night in White Satin
The other side of midnight
Humans animals always
the mating watcher's delight

Paper cuts of a paperweight
Feeling like a deadweight dude
The lightheaded most amazing night sky
The bright future warm you up
passionate guy

Whats here names
Don't use me usernames
Such con names, married names
Where each other's equal
Whats here love the sequel
The proud mother
My Bald Eagle

Hairy fluffy so cute beagle
He's the Quarter she backs up his note
The pushover Politician we deserve the vote

Writers believers lovers
and givers
Strangers are friends whats here
all depends
Getting mugged in Central Park
Grainy sugar you spark
Enjoying what I have today

The softer Rainy Lover
Whats here we are all here
Not elsewhere or over there
My Godly switch I'm here
Whats here you or me or who we believe to see let it be let it be
There are so many answers and those questions are here so reach don't start to preach show your love its whats here
Wide Eyes Feb 2015
She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil.

Through seventeen (and a half) years of clumsiness
The universe, it's always whispered to her
"However careful you might try to be
Sometimes things, they'll fall out of your clumsy hands
Never on purpose, no satisfactory reason
Leaving you with melancholy ruins.

Sometimes things, they can be fixed
With a little glue and a lot of patience
So fix them before they're lost and
Be ever more careful thereon.
But sometimes things, they can't be fixed
Not with glue nor with patience
And broken they will forever be
So sweep up the pieces gently and
Cast them away sans regret."

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil,
Trust, hearts and friendships.
Poemasabi Jul 2013
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.

But I was talking about the picture.

The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean,  came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,  
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.

Right, the picture....

It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
"had" to take the fruit.

But, the picture....

It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.

The picture...

It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?

I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.

Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.

Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.

The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.

The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.

Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.

Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.

People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.

They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.

And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.

That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.

Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.

Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
**And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?

Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.

Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.

Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.
Valsa George Dec 2016
In dazzled astonishment
She looked up from her reverie
As she heard the flap of wings overhead
And saw the flash of laser beams in her dim lit room
Before her, stood a winged seraph
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness and grace
As never beholden on any human face
With its hands raised in benediction,
It saluted Mary and said
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to comprehend what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee
And a son shall be born of thee
Whom you shall call Jesus”

In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware
Or did her ****** womb thrill with new life
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves

For the girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
This is Christmas time. This poem is an exploration of Annunciation by Gabriel to Mary from an average man's perspective.
rita powell Feb 2019
It is the soaring
The arched back

You must have chaos inside you
To give birth to a dancing star

Alive reaching
To speak to guide

The chaos inside
Everything all at once

The arched back
Sound of heels on a marble floor in a big quiet room
Filled with art

Huge external sound of the *****
A ticket

To get lost
All at once
   The table
     The glassware
         The cocktail
The landscape
   The love
       The company
The clothes
    The beautiful shape
        The taught and soft skin
The text

Can’t contain

Everything all at once
The arched back

The flight is worth the fall.
Elise Jul 2013
You came to see me
on a unplanned visit
so I took you to the only
interesting place I could
think of.

I dragged you through subways,
and crowds of interesting people,
to get to our destination,
our final stop in the Brooklyn station.

You doubted my directions,
as I had only gone once before,
but you trusted me enough
to get you to the right store.

You looked at me as we walked in,
doubting me once more,
it was a place full of junk,
you must've thought that I was drunk.

You stepped in through the door,
and right on the floor,
you found an old typewriter
that you wanted forevermore.

Your eyes, they lit up
like none I had ever seen,
as you began to press each key,
and your smile, it gleamed.

At that moment in time,
I knew I had done well,
as you took right off
like you were under a spell.

You ran though the aisles,
taking in each thing,
seeing the beauty behind
the dust and water rings.

You picked up the glassware,
each little piece,
you told me you loved them,
your excitement didn't cease.

We looked through the art,
and the old records too,
you pulled out a few,
and I had out some Motown for you.

It was the perfect day,
that one random trip,
the day that changed it,
the day I made the slip.

I let myself fall
so hard and so fast,
I forgot that china dolls,
are made of such fragile glass.
Josh Buller May 2011
When everything's bad
The world's got you down
Don't look so sad
It was never your fault

Those dates come creeping
The stress level rises
Your mind keeps leaping
From this to that on repeat

The system fried
Still not your fault
The project has died
Again, not your fault

Please cheer up
Don't shed a tear
It's like one broken cup
On a shelf of glassware

I promise you this
This mess will get better
It is a beat I'll never miss
It's one that makes you happy
We were so young
In the kitchen looking at Grandma’s glassware
Pristine like us
Next year we were bold I opened the lid and saw flour
But you saw ******.

What a ******* name.
You were missing an (e), I wanted to give it to you, be superhero(e)s
But you’re too high for me now. I don’t have a cape, I can’t talk to you anymore.

Have you read this book?
Can you stay with us?
Can the baby stay? I’ll make him a cape
And we’ll just talk about it
After the glass falls and breaks,
No matter how much you try to fit the pieces back together,
The cracks are still there,,,,
The glass is weaker in its form ..
It is no longer the same strong, firm glass….
I can no longer withstand as much pressure as it did the first time around..
It is much easier broken...

The soul can compare to the mythical glassware…
It might have been strong once upon a time,
But every time things come undone that break apart the soul,
It gets harder and harder to put it back together…
It shatters easier and easier with each time…..

Eventually one gets tired of repairing and pulling it together…
Eventually one decides to give up and throw it all away…
Maybe it will not get to the point of no return….
And if it does….
Then I hope I am remembered for who I was instead for who I became!!!
Sammie D Nov 2014
Please be careful with my heart

Please be careful of my fragile heart-
it is something one must bear with.
Like any other glassware package,
It is must be handled with care.

Please be careful of my fragile heart-
it has gone through thick and thin,
and ups and downs of a giant mountain range
as it always felt like a lonely wanderer

There is a tremendous and mighty force,
that pushes it to go on.
It runs and runs forever
but never finds that lost someone.

And when it does, he goes away
Avoids the girl who he called to stay.
He has brought it to a cliff
where it could jump off or live.

And so this is where its story ends,
if it did fall of the cliff.
please be careful of my fragile heart-
for as long as I shall live.
3 - made last April 2014
betterdays Mar 2014
gem scones
and ginger loaf bread,
slathered with farmfresh butter.

washed down with
oh so **** cold home made
lemonade ices.

little pots of salmon rillettes
and tiny potted prawns
eaten on crisp potato wafers.
crustless finger sandwiches
of cucumber and tomato,
grown twenty feet to the left
of where we sit.

in the shade of the radiata pine tree.
minted gingerale punch.
sunshine dappled light,
playing on fine glassware.

the aromas of ovenlove
mint, pine, ginger, citrus
and salt,
mingle with old spice and
lavender water, of the grands, dozing,
as they sit baking, basking,
in the afternoon heat.

high tea,
at the homestead farm.
on the windswept coastal

once every couple of months,
awaited with much, anticipation.
remembered with much
a feast of food, family
and  much love.
a memory of family gatherings
Adam Sep 2014
As a child, it was not I, but my mother
Who loved mud
Every morning of my adolescence
I observed my mother in her rituals
She kept a special red tin
Full of her desired delicacy
She would toss the tin cap aside
Eyes weary and hands slow
She would scoop a few cups into a machine
Without thought, or hesitation
She would fill up the mud *** with water
Glancing toward the pre-measured dashes
And pour it into the contraception
As she closed the top she would often say
"Good morning son, how did you sleep?"
My reply was always the same, "good"
Not in disrespect, but because served me to be short
Plus I had further examinations
A few minutes would pass and the mud
Would be begin to boil
And drip into the largest compartment
Once it's bubbling and popping subsided
She would find a ceramic cup
Pouring it herself up to the brim
Hovering over its steam
Clasping the dish close to her
When she was done and I was feeling daring
I'd sneak to her dismissed glassware
Wipe my finger against the bottom
Stick it in my mouth
Without fail my face would pucker
And my mother, as if to add to the dream
Would say something like
"You should have added sugar and cream"
I could use a cup of caffeination
AprilDawn Oct 2014
with screen pulled  down
only  breezes not bugs
find refuge
in our stuffy bedroom
church bells chime
at the full hour
just before the train
cuts main street in half
sweet pup howls
in protest
of the conductor's
shrill whistle
crystal glassware shakes
in the cabinets
yet this old place
still stands.
Feeling safe as houses tonight.
CE Green Oct 2018
Mostly these days I enter a room, polka dot populated by folks with too much perfume, or none at all and presuppositions and a cold drink lingering near them.
I carry a shadowy painting with me, but it’s unfinished. It’s meticulously cared for and not yet ready to receive merit, let alone garner attention or criticism of ubiquity.

Mostly these days I find myself troubled walking into these galleries laden with baby boomer critical gazes, though some understand in a competent comparative fashion and look forward to seeing the end result. The saturation, and the color spectrum.

Mostly these days I wander into a tavern with a short story in my arms. It’s falsehood glaring, but with truth inside the lie. It is also unfinished. And yes it’s five years in the making, and everyone gawks, and watches carefully over glassware beaded with condensation, fury during October, the lights come down a bit, and I feel better. Mostly.
Megan H Nov 2015
Reminded me of the beautiful china
In my grandmother's house
Strong, shiny, beautiful
Worth a lot
But even the best observer
Couldn't see the chips in the glassware
The many times the china had been dropped
No one could actually tell that it was broken
But I could tell.
Because even though sometimes I looked
Strong, shiny, and beautiful,
I was broken as well.
JC Lucas Jun 2014
I'm feeling
And all this stupid
Pretentious hippy
Is just getting old
Or maybe I'm just getting
And I'm seeing how all these
Burnouts in tie-dye
Appear friendly
But they're not talking to you,
Just your girlfriend.

"Free love, man."

They're scumbags just like the
Scumbags in suits they hate so much
Or the rocker scumbags who are
Just like them.

Is getting old and I'm getting sick of
Being lied to,
By them and by me.

the truth is nobody knows
What's going on in the universe,
No matter how much of a
They claim to be or how much
They smoke.
And anybody who claims to
Be it glassware pendants
Or ****
Or their throbbing

This hippy ******* is a bastardization
Of an image
Of a faded picture
Of a set of ideals
Thought up fifty years ago
That only ever really worked on paper
S E L Oct 2013
are some dreams real?
dogs in the alleyways
stopped at the robot by a slavic cop lady
but she lets others pass

dragged to a restaurant
interrogated by a mafia owner demanding money I don't owe
they say I've eaten there with a pregnant lady last week
dunno what they mean
Alan smiles but conspiratorially with them
how can he be a friend?
I sob that I don't get their drift
too late..

I need to a safe room to tell a story
whisper your name in the night
dream you lodge nearby
I jump up to do midnight chores
i pack out glassware from closets and you're there
ostensibly to help
the helpful lodger gesticulated that he's leaving
while I make the right noises of working

so, after upturning the table to work on its insides
you leave it on the floor
upside down
it will stand that way till you return
you get so irked at my queries
I'm half afraid to talk
I get a quick kiss pressed onto me face
I didn't brush my teeth
my tongue feels thick and gritty
you rush off into the night

I'm in an alley with a tape-recorder
hearing a deal go down
I call to the fat son of the owner
they're all slobs
with underwear down their knees
and *** on their shoes
I drive down the highway with half attention
and think how we could have met
yet that thought drifts far away now
as my story waits in line
on a conveyer belt the public never sees

stepping out this time line
to lance ahead single entity
for when the other catches up
there just ain't enough temporal cloth
to be clad in unity cloaks

some dreams are maybe then just dreams
kodi Feb 9
will I keep my secrets?
shave my legs on the shower floor
imagine how things can be
cool **** by chastity belt playing on my apple tv
check back soon, check in with me

a vegan soup diet
black coffee
diet coke from the bottle
one potato cake
and savoys: an australian classic

poems, poems, poems
words that rhyme
off rhymes — no rhymes
forced a non sequitur
confess, confess
confide and abort

remake dating app profiles over and over
pictures of me: two years old
women - women - women - women
a cup *******
not even a cup *******

***** mirror — bathroom sink
want a cortado? — past memories
mediterranean wholesalers — sydney road
buying glassware in south melbourne

i dream of mozzarella
dairy — unethical
and oysters — the cruelty

be cruel to me, be my bully
kiss me on the lips softly
your tongue in my mouth
you taste like campari
my americano
negroni lesbians

discuss films
you'll mention jim jarmusch
coffee and cigarettes
winona ryder — taxi cab
in los angeles

and i was once an actress
consider me retired
break down the barriers
scream inside yourself
let everyone in until you can't take it
be left alone
I wonder how many bottles of beeu
I could stand and open, drink one after another
Slugging '. em down and ***** in' 'em back up when there weren't no room for ani more, not one more little drip yessiree bob and tell Katie Mae to bring some cleaning supplies
I done my time
Drinking cheap mad dog 20-20 wine and Schaeffers quarts
I  a rot gut mamA by nature and choice

Where are the bottles?
Where are the silverwar and glassware
Could it be a dry county we've stopped in ?
What were we thinking
Every man woman and child amongst us
Written not under the influence of alcohol , but Ambien.

Good night d
Fellow travelers
Akemi Jun 2016
Black bones. The pages twist. Oxygen runs down the furrows, split the spines. It hurts to look at. White phosphor. Teeth breaking.
I reached my hand in once. Jar of words. Symbols running like a river into the sea. They lose all meaning. Skin wet with breath.
Morning cold or an empty grip. Doesn’t matter.
They used to dance. Shadows running into the heart. Veins tangled. Feet kicking dust.
I’ve been trying to get the words out for awhile now. It hurts the more I try.
Backwards or forwards. Everyone smiles, but the gap grows and grows. We’re progressing, they say; heads rotting hollow. I try to fish them out, but pierce their flesh.
It’s dead now, so they leave.
I used to stare at the stars until they’d burned into my dreams. Ouroboros shaped like a maw. Infinity.
Progress. Human beings. Fingers, throats, airways. Seams of tissue, fibrous joints. I’m sick of humanitarians. Conscious flesh rising into godhood, breaching sanity. Hubris. Stupid words, talking themselves out of existence. Circles in circles. Black crows pecking at mirrors until they break. The animal runs its legs to the ground. Biology. Cells. DNA synthesis. Ligase, unwinding. Atomic emptiness. Split the human. Hiroshima. The enlightenment, a success. Clink of glassware. The president eats burnt flesh.
But none of that matters.
I press the ash between my tips. It feels like fur, collapsing skies. A junction that once was, and now will never be. There is time here. A broken, sad thing. Prisoner of its own flesh, sand in glass. I am lost in this moment. I am disappearing. Breaking like light through a prism.
Why do we even try?
3:02pm, June 8th 2016

Touch is the repulsion of atomic charges. Emptiness addressing emptiness.
Connor Nov 2018
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******* clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.

Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----

Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.

Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.

I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Russell Slater Jan 2013
More than I could ever drink
Less than I'd ever want to

The lines blur on the bottom
Of a two bit council pool

Unaffected by the glassware
So more I pour
we belong to the starving places, the broken places,
the screaming, shattered, hallucinated alleys
of blood and smoke and demons of shuddering righteousness.
floating lovers running high and poison-drunk
into doorways and neonic windows crying out
for absinthe and holy, holy benzedrine
in glazed teacups of library cafés.
demonic siren-songs,
shrieking car alarms in afternoon machineries,
when all the righteous are sleeping
and the chosen come out to scream
in front of shutters closed down to the ******.

vibrations from the drilling drilling drilling
into the pavements of greying rain-tears and rainbowed gasoline
spilled carelessly from engines
releasing rotten and evil from the deepness of the earth.
those righteous-shutters blow half open
in the madness of waxing moon-winds.

beautiful, beautiful darkness,
beautiful, beautiful damnation,
golden deception,
golden lucifer,
golden hell,
golden lights straying off pathways of dark-deep forests,
golden souls in eager rivers of underworlds,
golden addiction,
golden smiles of torture,
golden wheels of death and birth
and dying, dying, dying for the darkness,
dying with blood running purple
into the indigo road- drains of night,
reflecting golden constellations and golden lamp-posts
and the golden windows of empire state and the l-train.

scream, scream, scream into your indigo death.
fearful, ground-sleeping, six feet forgotten,
fires below, regret above, redemption and tears from the righteous
with their closed windows far above the bodies now.

those starving places belong to us.
the dumpster-fainted concussions,
the vomited acids of last night’s drunken affairs in amber side-streets,
the hollow-eyed babies born out of terror and war
and atomic demises of love and perforated money,
those flawlessly created youths with their drugged immortality
shining broken-skinned from out of their eyes and mouths
those nothing-brained men of poetry and heavenly visions,
those meilleurs esprits,
those wanton dreamers of scotch and rosé
and pure ethanol gulped from glassware,
burning throats and minds and talent
and running genius into drains
with the purple blood of the dying.
the starving places belong to the starving,
and the starving belong to their indigo deaths.
LJ Jun 2016
The sun has escaped from skies above
afloat in the knotted clouded waves
The fire glows the amber summer flows
sticks blaze in beaded mazes
as the flowers pots remain emitted and rearranged

My soul and body is bathed inside the glassware
the visible tattoos on the mesh of transparency
As the residues settle on the heats and beats of the base
torn apart and bricked on concrete grounds
the pavement of yesterday sketched inside cobblestones

Take all these books with printed rhythmic vegan lyrics
the fleets and flutters on the wandering beaches and shores
Blossoms of twigs and darkened patterned wings
all sunk in a plastic paper bag and crowned with outbursts
lost in a dream, that cream that pastes the narrowing masks

Float high above as the sun warms inside the boiling soup,
as the clocks ticks and the birds whistles of a wayward destiny
Caving inside the aisles of the never ending lengths and depth
where reality itself serves as a mirror of fortified intentions  
a crucification and maturation of destitution in demise
To lose, my use and reuse the attention of the days gone by
wrote in a hippy party..... live free.... be all of life..... feel the spirit.

— The End —