"highrise" poems
Trickshotting on Highrise
On the Crane
Billed that ************
in the mane
Go on fazeclan
new recruit
holy **** man
FaZe Fruit
That's me!
How could that come to be
Im in faze now
******* trickshot me now
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Gonna move to Qatar
ride in a gold Beemer
playin' songs for the Emir
on a ruby studded guitar.
Live in a silver highrise
go skiing in the desert
eat caviar for desert
singin' about the disenfranchised
and ruby studded guitars.
I'll be an expat in Doha
drinkin' with the monarchy
speakin' absolute malarkey
playin' tunes for all my brohas
on my ruby studded guitar
in Qatar.
r ~ 6/14/14
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Spare me from suburbia.
I hate the chatter.
And the cookie cutter houses.
And people worrying about what shade of Estee Lauder they need to look 20 years younger.
The bigger the SUV ...the better.
Yeah that's my saying too.
Oh yes it's Doggy Spa day! yippee.
Freakin morons.
Put your Gucci shades back on quick before you get to the underpass and see the man who fought for your freedom so that you can enjoy your Sushi on the right side of town, begging for anything you can spare.
But thats right you have nothing to give, do you.
I mean you couldn't possibly dip into the college fund for little Jessica, who by the way is snorting blow as we speak, in the projects across the tracks, while you think she is attending the high school pep rally, as all good cheerleaders do.
And you might want to slow down just a little bit, because if you reach your hubby's highrise office even just one minute ahead of schedule, Candy won't have time to push her skirt back down, wipe her mouth, and re apply her reading glasses, before you enter...and that would be a bit uncomfortable , don't you think?
Maybe you just better turn around altogether and head back to suburbia baby!
There's a reason you are called a stay-at-home mom.
It's the safest place for you...trust me.
Reality causes varicose veins and then you would need emergency laser surgery to correct it, which would interefere with your PTA meeting this afternoon.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:01 PM UTC
*Freezing cold, a strange night of rain and thunder,
it got registred deep in his consciousness,
as a squiggling liquid presence;
an abstract painting, taken in, with layers of meaning,
a deluge, the result of injustices heaped against the female principle.
The rain lashed out, in the flashes of lightning
in between, through the window sills
when the curtains where swept aside
by a subversive wind, painful face
of a frightened girl was visible,
at the window of a highrise building,
shameful secrets kept concealed peeped out
yelling out "HELP"in the shocking words of silence.
That night was difficult for an exile from life like him to endure,
subconscious echoed terror filled cries;
sewer water flowed, towards oblivion,
carrying embryos, not fully formed from terminated pregnancies,
he heared tree toads speaking in strange tongues,
like jilted women seeking vengeance,
coyotes hunting in packs with blood thirst howled in delight.
In his nightmare, blood dripped from wet trees,
"who will rescue our bloodied orphaned planet?"
his heart with a collective guilt , beyond words wailed.
From denuded mountain slopes, muddy red water
copiously gushed downhill, nature's menstrual flow
out of cycle, devastated hillsides cleaving gashes,
like scorned woman's fury baring long sharp fangs-
landslides opened gaping wounds.
Liquid's rule took over the space of night,
lying awake on his bed,
he became conscious of the burden of women,
who moved around with invisible bridles
pretending free, nervously smiling.
Swimming in the amniotic fluid of the past
he is forced to recount the past sins,
nature and women have endured and ask
for forgiveness seeking salvation.*
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.
It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.
Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.
I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.
One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.
So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.
So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.
I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham
Nov 15, 2024
Nov 15, 2024 at 11:45 AM UTC
Old chair sitting broken in the corner
Dusty mirror hanging on the wall
Mamas in the kitchen making a cup of coffee
Daddy he’s just sleeping down the hall
Sisters in the back yard picking flowers
Brothers in the treehouse with a gun
I am watching all but they cant see me
And no one else around know what they’ve done
Old man shopping cart down by the river
Banker drives his Cadillac back home
His highrise overlooks a lifeless city
That which in his eyes does not seem lifeless at all
Twigs and sticks are gathered to build a heart of fire
Twigs and sticks or maybe sticks and stones
Give and take or crush and break the time that you fear after
You realize it was never there at all
Some of them will live and die without ever even knowing
And I have lived and died among them all
Bones will break and dust will make the pathways we walk after
And you will hear my voice after it all
(c) 2010 CJG
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
The urchin banging at the car
on rainy nights,
begging for a buy;
The old house down the road
making way for another
highrise where no one will live;
The cobbler at the corner store
smiling away toothless
awaiting his death;
The mausoleum of the hero
of the past - rebellion glorified
is the new tradition;
The aquarium where
water dried up
and the fish, all died;
I am the city that you
don't see dying,
obsessed with 'progress'.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
the charm of French Colonial style
with Cajun cooking promised -"genuine!" -
at every second door
jazz bands at every other
the flair of well-groomed wealth and savoir vivre
exuding from St. Charles´ porticos,
the restaurants on Calle du Roi,
the campuses of Tulane, UNO, and Loyola
the grandeur of the superdome
the open space of Audubon and City Park
oakes draped with Spanish Moss
alive with jogging, skating, biking, walking health
between the nights -
all this makes you almost forget
the city project housings
slumming beneath the highrise business shadows
crime ridden,
floating on neverending waves of dime-a-dozen tunes
from hi-fi stereos of cruising cars
the grand lake spoiled for generations
with the big city's waste,
the 'father of rivers' dwarfed beyond repair
by wharfs and cranes and fortified embankments
that line his banks as far as you can see
and far beyond
a shotgun wedding of the rich and poor,
the black and white,
torn by the struggle to ascend
from shotgun to colonial
to the soft sound of dixie
* * *
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
In the dead of night
What do you find
When you slip outside
Your regular mind
Instead of drifting
Off to sleep
Take a walk
On down the street
What you find
May be a surprise
A whole family huddled
Under the nearest highrise
People just like
You and me
Except with no home
Stuck on the street
The politicians pass over
The firefighters scream by
The business execs don’t see
But the child asks why
Why is the house empty
With a man outside
Why is he a ghost
If he is alive
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
It's difficult to say when the spring finally ended
The only thing for certain
is that it did end, as we slipped
blissfully unaware, into winter and darkness.
From the highrise apartments in Chicago
to the mud huts baking in the African Sun
From the smiling skulls in the Paris Catacombs
To the open deserts of the great Outback
The wind whispered in the silence
past our giant walls, our empty monuments
past piles of leatherbound books
their pages continually flapping
as if begging to be read, just once more
The hard lines of the cities softened
as the carefully manicured lawns
grew out of check,
turning the skyline green
The human race liked to think we were driving the car
That we were in control
In reality, we were the child in the backseat
with the toy steering wheel
We expected to go out
with an awe-inspiring bang
with a roar of thunder
befitting our importance
Instead (or rather, accurately),
the planet ended silently and without much fuss
a mere footnote in the universe
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
*december 10th 1982
1am*
sleepless in the the neurotic wastelands
she has fifty two cards
each has a face none of them are mine
but the jack of hearts is there and with her childbearing hips
they could pump out a couple of rug rats
start their own little civilization
here on the backwaters
she gives me a ride to the edge of the glades
and drops me off at a truckstop in the rain
december 10th 1982 4:22am
the salt of the earth diner on route 1
with the waitress chewing gum at the counter
staring off into the distant light of highrise miami
a sheen of sweat glistens on her deep tan
but its not as sticky or deep as her mind
thats wandering out in the Catskill mountains
looking for Johnny Appleseed
december 15th 1988 10:00am
doves take flight in the
soft white afterglow of day
with a stir of wings
and her tender lips let slip
of her longing for innermost peace
her eyes seeing nothing but
the golden glow of some distant day
some half remembered day
the time i wait for
summers sweet song
has been far too long
this is a winter world
december 15th 1993 1:00pm
leaning over the balcony rail
she shouts her smiles down
to the regular faces on the rows road
petticoats of fine linen
and her hair up
shes a sea of smiles
as they all shuffle in to see the show
Broken Bernie and his girl Christa
who snowbunnys down to the neon Florida sun
round this time of year
december 13th 1996 6:00pm
desperado's gather in the setting sun
hunger in their eyes
between the rock and hard place
and with a hard eyed thought they
move into the town
she pours him a cup of coffee
and lays a hand softly upon his shoulder
urging him to stay and leave such things
to lesser men
but he knows he must rise to the call
to do less would be treason to his nature
to do less would betray everything he has stood for
today, now
the words waiting on lips as i stumble out of sleep
make little sense at least to the waking mind
but the world makes little sense when fully awake
so this dream fragment hardy seems out of place
wearing a stove pipe hat chewing on a whales tail
and chatting with Abe Lincoln
my guess would be he wanted his hat back
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
I’m not sure which I prefer:
falling asleep next to
you,
or waking to the smell of coconut and vanilla,
your ear still pressed to my breast,
stray hairs and a fingertip tickling my
solar plexus as you stir,
convincing me, as you always must,
that last night’s visions were dreams
and not nightmares.
It’s always the same:
like careless parents, we lie atop those two twins
pushed together in the corner of your highrise
searching for things in each others faces
we may have missed. Or perhaps
comforting ourselves in finding what we knew we would.
You tell me my eyes are beautiful–
“that’s because they are mirrors, love”
I tell you your lips have control over my entire being–
“that’s because they have tasted you;
and things that have tasted power do not easily give it up”
We laugh at how old we sound, and I
pull you closer to kiss you above your brow.
You ask for another there, but instead I plant one
where your influence lies
And I wake…
to the smell of coconut and vanilla;
soft pressure on my chest–
a dream.
The morning the aroma of that tropical fruit refuses to greet me
it will have been a nightmare
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
the new dark age
heart goes out
world goes up
all due to a love of concrete
and iron indignities
buildings grown in the heartland
steel your future
wrap your face in a foreign flag
make it medieval
so fear and superstition
can live on each floor
from above the cityscape
blueprints of a pinball machine
a train to nowhere
like candles on a cake
that will burn someday
when least expected
ladies against the glass
of morning commutes
show too much cleavage
to people on Sunday
gentlemen with their death sticks
conjure the factory smoke
poisoning a life of leisure
these infinite vistas
continue to rise
elevation well in hand
stitched together
but growing apart
the biomechanical soul
a species out of control
mother solitude and her
modern failures
take the stairs to the roof of her mouth
progress leaves an echo
her final words are
empty, foreboding
and full of lead
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 12:20 PM UTC
A fog descends on our fair city.
Like crowns upon the heads of giants,
the clouds come to rest atop
the brows of buildings too tall.
Midnight diadems
glimmering in the beam
of headlights, homebound.
We consider our station
from the sidewalk,
daydreaming in the dead of night.
Absent thoughts for highrise kingdoms.
It passes,
and all that's left is fairy glamour.
And as we walk,
we look up
and up
and up.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Inhale.
Let the cold sweep through my system,
tracing its way
through veins and arteries,
the chill running down my spine
and staying there.
I embrace the tension
where the air meets skin
and welcome it through my pores.
They say the feet are the most porous
part of the body.
So if I stand here long enough,
bare feet on stone,
will the cold enter my body
and inhabit my veins?
Exhale.
Warm air rushes past,
relieving the tension,
and at once I miss it,
hurrying to
take
one more breath.
Arch my neck,
gazing upward.
Inhale.
The stars have slowly
disappeared, winking out
one
by
one
as we replaced them
with highrise towers and shiny automobiles and city street lights.
All that's left
(exhale)
is the moon,
fat and solitary
in the city night sky.
But even she
will be gone soon too
(inhale)
as we paint ourselves (and her)
with telephone poles and skyscrapers
into a corner
with no escape.
Exhale.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
across the grass, the highrise
becomes the horizon,
as i lie on my back in the park,
and the line that separated land from sky
runs now vertically on
through evening into the dark.
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 4:32 PM UTC
In the highrise apartments
Looking out over the city
seeing the university life sprawled below
all the hearts weak in the knees
everyone breaking each others hearts
two of my best friends hooked up
its going to be a long few years
I feel bad i wanted them to fail
I feel so bitter that I helped them get together
I'm a sack of **** for not wanting my friend to be happy
but it ******* kills me whenever ever I see them
I'm a ******* monster
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC