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ottaross Aug 2015
When a rain-storm surprised the city
Passers-by looked down with pity
At a large group of nutters
Inspecting the gutters
An unfortunate planning committee.

They decided today was good timing
Below-streets they soon were climbing
Where the gutters connect
To the sewers they checked
And all got a very good sliming.
Who can resist a little limerick action?
zebra Mar 2018
I'm a black dog
with a torn heart

are carved out of light
heavier then rocks

my bowels
a crumbling fortress

in my emptiness
make my blood run down dark gutters
to the city of your legs
pooling at your soft pink feet

i strain in prayer
for your love
a black dog in panic

i run seven miles a day
to **** you
my body lean and wire muscle wet
women look on dreaming
as i search for you in their faces

i run killing myself
till your dead
all curving sadness
and broken creel

a hallowed
crypt of desolation

a sword through me

haley Oct 2017
when she was eight years old
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes  like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
(self proclaiming)
for she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot.
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Stephan Jul 2016

Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Allowing the beasties free reign in the village
Bellowing out o’er the wickedest sound

Pacing the streets, seeking out bits of garbage
Leaving their stains on the innocent few
Leering in windows where children are hiding
Tender young things and so easy to chew

Thieves in the night lurk about come the morning
Stealing the sun at the break of the dawn
Drinking of sewage a’ flow in the gutters
Checking off names as the many are gone

Peering ‘round corners, down alleys, in shadows
Seeking the favor of all who do grieve
Laughing in spite of the torment now growing
Licking their lips in the hope you believe

Roaming in groups so the followed outnumber
Say what you will for the king does not hear
Lost in his throne made of mirrors that flatter
Shivering, cowering, caving to fear

Deaf to the villagers asking for reason
Blind to the pillage befalling this land
Dumb, well I guess that just goes without saying
Nary a care what the people demand

Feasting on turkey, potatoes and gravy
Raising a glass to the enemy proud
Taking a stand against those who support him
Locking the front doors while yelling aloud

“Carry your torches, your pitchforks, your honor
It matters not for this evil shall win
Even when gone there are echoes of anger
Lingering on till they come back again

Give them your all, what you’ve poured your heart into
Down on your knees, bow to them one and all
Step over rock and the piles of rubble
This castle will stand even when the walls fall

Shout all you like as no change is forthcoming
Accept it or flee, you think I give a ****
When you are gone many more will replace you
Now pass those peas and a slice of that ham”

So roam the beasties, their teeth ever sharpened
Fanning the flames as so many are burned
Tearing apart what the people envisioned
Silly to think that they somehow had learned

Nothing so happy with no ever after
Always the same, it will happen again
But unlike some other long winded stories
Sadly in this I can not say “the end”

Watching the rise and the fall of a kingdom
Walls once rebuilt again tumble the ground
Thankfully I can peruse from a distance
Witnessing all without hanging around
Bella Apr 2018
Tears sting
like salt water in cuts
or jellyfish tentacles,
like Indian Burns
and peroxide in day old wounds

Tears sting
as they rolled down tender skin
like Marbles in gutters
they’ve stung their way down before
they've eroded the skin away like drops of acid
like sand spurs rolling down my face
Annelise Camille Jul 2017
I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as ***** souls bearing no heavy shells.
Sonia Ettyang Dec 2018
Cloudy skies
Heavy downpour
Cold breeze
Swaying trees
Misty window panes
Traffic lights
Hooting cars
Gushing gutters
Drenched trench coats
Soggy feet
Colourful umbrellas
Crowded shelters
Empty side walks

The city skips a few hearbeats
And comes to a stand still
Soon as the pounding rain stops
Everything returns to normalcy

But rainy days call for
Steaming cups
Slouchy sweaters
Fluffy blankets
Gramophone tunes in the background
Enjoying a little piece of heaven
While the day is washed off
Setting stage for a clean fresh start
©Sonia Ettyang
Lover of rain
JaxSpade Oct 2018
The black little letters
Fall off the black block of a word grater
Inbetween the holes
Are the slices of the ink splattered
They pile on a plates platter
And a story forms the matter
Food for a face fatter
A paragraph buffet scattered
Have a seat and flll with laughter
It's a recipe for actors
Each scene a new chapter
Stirring in the plots factors
Little black letters
Walk across a books chedder
And you'll remember not to forget her
All her words rendered
Cooking in warmths splendor
Each page read was a new ember
Igniting the next pages paper
Fire in an authors blender
A purree of black letters
Drinks a tall glass of readers
Mouth breathers fill theaters
And spend millions to see her
Little black letters
Falling of the scripts
And entering gutters
They drain into alphabet ocean
And wait for a new arranged stoich
He dont know it but these
Words will find their way into the poet
And on this page I show it

  My French peccadilloes  brought me home
  to New Orleans. A city without conscience.
  Guilt avoids the gutters like the plague.
  I live in them and hope to die in them.
Guilt lives in pews and AA folding chairs.
People afraid  to die but terrified to live.
Travis Green Dec 2018
The love between was escaping into
clogged gutters, each drilling sound
a shattered sound crumbling in fallen
syllables, a dangerous wave of
accelerations gone astray.  

The stark sun that used to shine
inside our bedroom window was
slowly backing away into closed
infinities, gridlocked gates, a chamber
of backdrop kingdoms.  

The scattered dishes overcrowding
the sink were filled with pain, lingering
in abandoned dreams, as I stared at
their smeared appearance, damaging
reflections driven stone cold grey.  

Burnt picture frames hung in a cell of
confined chains, drenched dungeons,
crouched corners, an empty existence
wrinkled and strained.  My heart was
frozen underground and shoveled,
stripped and scraped, a dragging
depiction like an old man, like
a slow ticking clock, like weather-beaten

I could see the blackened trees beating
against the windowsill, a smashed
soul growing numb in dull hours,
hopeless innocence, ghostly planes
of hazy boulevards, rusted bitten
leaves turning pale, as I stepped
towards the kitchen sink, my hands
pressed against the surface of the glass,
embracing the rotating rhythms of
bone breaking beats.
Jordan Oct 2018

the rain
streaming into the
gutters that led below

running down the rivets of
dancing umbrellas like
sprinters in a
race, each drop competing to be
the first to hit the ground

droplets fall and
from leaves and
onto the wet earth
slowly the
next drop falls and the

small creatures hide in
their cozy hollows of
trees they call
watching the tears of the sky

umbrellas that were just
weaving through crowds of
others just
moments ago
are set to dry on porches
and the umbrellas are
and their tears start to

My second poem. Thought it deserved to be on here.
Medusa Jun 2018
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.

Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto  heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.

One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"

First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?

This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.


Not a perfume ad.
Zenia Is a result of reading the excellent work of Margaret Atwood, all of it, for decades, but in particular: The Robber Bridegroom. In which she is the villain.
Travis Green Jan 16
After I dumped the filthy pain inside
the dank gutters, slimy and dry
double negatives, flat and hard
vowels breaking at the core.  I thought
the loneliness inside of me would
vanish away into sore and drowning
corridors.  But I could still feel the
dripping paint running down my
stained skin, joyless diction rolling
around and upturned.  I heard the
breaking of bones and browning
nouns, whiskey flamed adjectives
pouring out scraped and abandoned
metaphors.  The thoughts were
destroying my beauty, the mugshot
memories stuck in jagged alleyways,
ragged mazes, craggy chambers,
smashed maggots, a darkened dwelling
drumming inside my depiction in the
cloudy drained sky.
Lauren M Sep 2018
My eyes, python-like, swallow the sky,
greedy for the wrongs in me to go right
at the sight of your gleeful greenery
spilling over creek beds and hills.
The wind, combing out my worries,
blowing away the blockage built
by the fumes and filth collected in city gutters.
I want to be
let wild, made free.
But one wrong turn in your winding maze and I am gone,
a place like this will chew you up and spit you out.
You should leave, something tells me.
No one ever leaves fully intact,
the longer you stay, the more you will fall apart.
“On the contrary” I scoff.
“I am becoming more myself, not less.”
But this is what everyone says
just before they leap in joyful pursuit
to tumble headlong down hidden gullies.
But I am more careful, I assure myself.
I hunt the way crocodiles do,
watching patterns with keen intention,
offering my hands and eyes.
But what should I do if, when the time comes,
You resist?
Disregard me, like an unworthy suitor?
And what if that is what I am?
I see, I take note of
the way the wind blows and the shadows fall,
the way the trees twist clockwise
or counter-clockwise.
The way animals flee when I approach and
the way they keep perfectly still
hoping they are invisible.
And there are times when I see all this, and more.
Like heat distortions above a fire,
something peripheral or liminal,
almost outside the spectrum of what can be perceived
or communicated or defined.
All these trails, the ones seen and unseen
and the ones somewhat seen
lead me to a terrible suspicion:
that the likes of me lacks to tools
to understand the likes of you.
that in harmony with one another
we would both cease to be what we are.
that you will never regard me with love and worse—
you will never regard me at all.
Then I, in frustration, stop going with you.
Start to go against you.
And keep going, finally on my own.
Still myself, but less.
Roses79 Jan 17
Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green.

Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own.

I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street.

When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
tabitha Jul 2018
always take your shoes off before you cross a threshold
         if you do this, the monsters under your bed will be
            no more.
              you've been carrying your dirt around with you
                leave it at the door
                  or else all the tiny microbes that live in the gutters
                    and trash-smudged curbs will fall off
                       like snowflakes down to the floor

wear your face mask
wash your face
don't eat too much sugar

hold yourself center                        
        losing your balance has dramatic repercussions
           your mother and her motorbike depend on it
             getting around depends on it

be grateful for the sun and getting to be outside
       buildings do not satiate the wild within
         when the sun kisses your face, feel loved

don't drink the tap
try to keep your bones intact
keep your eyes open

find the fancy expat-owned markets
      dig through their trash late at night
        they are wasteful
          their trash could be your treasure

speak and laugh as loudly as you want
      set the bar high, so that growing up doesn't make you silent
        the world should know that you are here
          you're so beautiful

wash your dishes
sweep your floors
always lock the door             

don't forget that there is more splendor outside these cityscapes
      don't forget that there is suffering all around this place

translate earnestly and graciously for your elders
       for some ****** reason my native tongue is the lingua franca
         and your parents hired me to help you bridge the gap
           i am here because you are the future
             and not because of anything you did
               so be polite about it
                 and don't forget where you started
i am an english teacher in hanoi, vietnam. i teach children. not only is teaching an enriching and fascinating experience, but teaching (and subsequently learning about) the children of another culture is.... doubly interesting. they're darling and sweet and bright. anyways, i fell into teaching this one class halfway through their term. it's a science class, and i am not a science teacher. so it's been humorous, to say the least. the last lesson in the course is "survival skills", and i'm supposed to teach them how to pitch a tent, and forage for food. but this is hanoi, a massive city. there is no way to forage for food unless you're digging through the trash or stealing from a farm, and no recreational camping grounds. when are these city kids ever gonna use that? a lot of these kids never even leave. i'm not doubting its useful to know, it's just ironic. and it got me thinking. so, since i'm a procrastinator, i wrote this poem instead of working on the actual lesson plan. a list of survival tips i think to be more useful and fitting for their situation. i'm gonna go do the actual lesson plan now.
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