"hostels" poems
Not too distant beach tree sways in distance
Mandala Rorschach blot patterns dance like celebrating Salish drum circle
There's a hallow college sound of crime show to my left
Bickering with the occasional crush of,
**** my job is stressful."
A sleeping armadillo composed of quarks reflective within a drop of water
Fallen from the bottom-bulged North 49 canteen
A foot and 3/4ths away the snow-white generic of a ***** coffee mug formerly host to a Tetley green stands silent
Reminiscent of the eternal stillness of a mountain range
Fibonacci's name rings inexplicably from tilting branches
And I can't help but wonder if I would be grasping his hand in grasping a branch.
19 years alive and I can't help asking if I've grown-up too fast
Or simply grown into myself.
I feel old
young
and somewhere indescribable most of the time
and it's funny I cannot even fathom the length of 22 years.
A deflated balloon yellow like trend pants or sunrise sits like dejected missile
No longer screaming towards Gaza
No longer screaming.
A Holiday Inn Express pen sits with a ready-call number
Part of its mustang flame
If its quality of penmanship has any parallel to hotel service
Perhaps I'll stick with hostels.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
He board the train at Newkirk
that was his train; that’s his life
a backpackers hostels retreat
to hell with the rest of us...
**** all the haters
**** all the on- lookers;
that seems to be his street attitudes
he slowly force his way between the passengers
they scattered like crows: the stench was so nauseating
we all held our noses:
but he kept on smiling
to hell with the world
they run the city subway cars
No 2, 3, 4, 5, Q, B
was he half a man for being homeless
I felt empathy,
I felt uneasy
But he kept on smiling;
As he sang love and happiness
One of Al Green famous songs
You be good to me
And he is good to you.
I got off that train with a sense
Of happiness being able to go home
life can be so bittersweet
for the poor unfortunate souls
the love and happiness,
he once shared.
Fade many moons ago
so he kept on singing
“Everybody needs an inspiration
Especially when the nights are so cold
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqqAnjY2Rmo
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
Behold bright symphonic Blast!
Halt the snail bite damage of youth.
There is none to resist the place and time of one who missed the equal avenue.
Dropping before your phantom, dispirited dew, before shadow portrait drops.
Swine with silver throats!
Corpse of embers preamble multi-various multi-vacuous semi-forte polar rhythms.
Sequencing selves in wood and wire. Pinions at drifted tempo, quavering for poly-syllabic idioms,
In sectioned hostels for their sense and glory restrung.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
The writings on white sheets,
of paper, meander into corners of peoples troubles,
hopefully they taunt correct hemorrhages that will impulse something.
I hope that when I write some person is confused.
Or else I've created no symbolism.
Ive created nothing of worth
or
of
more than it is.
This sallow fickle body I traipse in.
It's got bones filled with osteocytic stones to shape it.
They are calcium degraded, then traded for rigid text.
This body is hard and hollow.
Like bird bones.
Like the bonds between atoms.
This sick cadaver is nothing less.
Our cells become separate selfish entities,
incapable of helping themselves.
Indigent children with no child hostels.
With no help for the homeless youth of our own corporeal phantoms.
When the Aids takes us all,
The cancer takes its toll.
When the whooping cough kills our hopes.
When we die to our dreams of home.
We die all on our own.
The skin becomes parchment.
Some day these bones can be the frame to a poem of worth.
Hung in a rich mans house.
On his wall awkward awards adorned.
Creating what I never could by a poet who was as perfect as the others.
Now the calcium lies in me,
as I lie between sheets of this meat,
of human humus before it disintegrates,
to make plants much more beautiful;
but that calcium, that carbon will make a page.
That bone will make a frame,
and my frame will stand tall like the last building left in the earth.
As there are no more humans alive to see it.
The last iris of the universe will be. A sun.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
I have a friend in north Wales
She's a scouser but lives in Rhyl
Her job is taking care of young adults
Who have learning dificulties
They live in hostels where they are overseen
By my friend and her colleagues
So, another friend of our's rang her at work
And asked if she was busy
She said that she wasn't as they were all out
So and so had gone shopping with so and so
Someone else had gone here
Another had gone there
And one had gone to the harpoonist
As usual, for lessons
From a harpoonist?
Yeah, you know
Someone who plays harp
By Phil Roberts
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
Once felt in the lonely, identical corridors
of hotels, hostels, hallways of homeless flatblocks;
The urge,
The urge to move the moment,
Move the momentum of the meandering life
From work to shop to sleep to work to shop to sleep,
Supplanted by the unattainable mental utopia,
Supplanted by delusions in the colour of dreams,
Supplanted by 10,000 madman notes on the nature of daylight,
Tender sounds accelerated into screams,
Lost in the pylon forest,
Trapped by Tendonitis, Tinnitus, and terrestrial TV,
Stifling the electoral laugh,
Deafened by D-beat, Dubstep, and Democratic conventions,
Bled to death in Bosnia,
Died in Damascus,
Executed in Entebbe,
Murdered in Mogadishu,
Born in Berlin,
Lived in London,
Carried in Copenhagen,
And again in Amsterdam,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Forecast nothing of their waves,
Until tomorrow’s endless oceans
Safely say their real names.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
I walked with the lion
through smoke filled hostels
rolled up my sleeves
and left my shoes on
as she shook me to my knees
oh Julia,
I've been waiting for a girl like you
to light up the hallways of my addictions
to believe me when no one else believes
and you shocked me
right up my skinny veins
stapled conversations
to the inside of my scattered brain
left me stuttering rhymes
about sleepless nights spent waiting for
her
one white horse
without a saviour
find me, find me
shivering and painted with the teeth marks
of a predator
whose name I scream
as I am sat alone in my car
in the empty parking lots of London
and if it is this time
that my engine won't start
oh, Julia
find me
and let me show you the calculations of my heart
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
I tell her
about my first time smoking *** in a stranger’s rundown apartment, somewhere between Paris and Amsterdam
about growing up in the Whiskey Flats next to strip clubs, gun shops, liquor stores, and lots of cows
about swimming naked in the south of France, speaking to strangers in a tongue with which I was not familiar.
about using a Japanese toilet; drunk at a karaoke bar
about getting my hair cut by random French men in random French hostels
I tell her my experiences,
but I cannot remember the giggles of intoxication,
the smell of the cows, the chill of the water,
or the words that fell from my lips.
She may envy my life,
but I envy the way she lives
So tell me, Emily
how you smile in the morning and say words like “sunshine”
tell me what the salt water tasted like on a beach in South Africa
tell me about the beauty of forgiveness, the bitterness of your tears, the curls in your hair, the music in your soul
tell me about love
tell me what it’s like to live.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
The Poems Hunter who left long back
has yet not been returned.
May be straying in front of
the closed street shops, temples, steps of ponds,
bars, mujara dancing halls…
To fall on a big game, little ones ignored
or the hunted one pierced out cleverly while retuning,
or the prey which was at the gun point long back
hiding slowly behind the bushes, has stuck on the eyes.
‘’No No’’ the revelation eclipses
nothing is greater than today’s
horn of hare shot down.
while searching in darkness
which lost in light
the marrow ****** bone
thrown out by somebody hindered him
Or hesitant to come home empty handed,
putting back the loaded gun,
he may be roaming around at
riverside, bus stop, ladies hostels,
psychiatric wards……..
Having been not seen back home
even after the ghastly night fed up of
given birth to fumes of lava clotted darkness,
Keeping the gruel in that
smallpox clad aluminium bowl,
on the tiny corner
where poetry and light would never creep in,
spreading the raw jute sack,
unable to shut the mind and eyes
while closing the doors… slowly couched.
Yet, out to search the poet in the woods and
was fallen prey to the tiger,
that is what to the seekers from time immemorial.
now, time has given punishment
to the poet
To lie on the furnaced fever,
on the burning sack of the friend
scribbling elegy on the death of the friend.
====
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Can artist's be beautiful, Frida Kahlo?
Can we be glorified not for our duty
as angelos, but for our
physicality?
Our fierce thighs
and not our mood swings, Lou Reed?
Painted canvas', strumming guitar strings
Prettified under the neon fixtures
We are more like the trench-coat souls
slipping away with tobacco pipes into
the night,
not golden, but starry-eyed off of laudanum potions
Is that simplistic Jack Kerouac?
To be dignified in wine stained ramblings
too large for one to comprehend alone
In snapshots or albums of Led Zeppelin
Did we curse the false idols while lacking sincerity?
Because we are only human beings and can't reach that state
No Buddha's have I gazed the face of in
hostels or busy streets,
neither in dens or marble coves
Saturated in meaning but an image
that dies in the dark
Is it ugly to find the fountain of immortality?
To have lived as a martyr
No one celebrated Van Gogh or
understood mania
It's in our nature to breathe meaning
into something spectral
some nothing you cant kiss on the mouth
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
You treat me too kindly
Like a guest that you know
But watch out with kindness
Or I'll not want to go
You talk and you listen
On topics I care
Not like in hostels
Where same words we share
Your flat is just awesome
The views are a dream
And with no complaint
You keep it so clean
And even folded my clothes
Seriously, ease off with kindness
Or I'll not want to go
And now for the food
Best not forget that
Spoilt with flavour so good
I'd eat till I'm fat
You've made me feel wellcome
Your house is my home
You've taken me places
Otherwise I'd not know
I'm not quite sure now
How best to thank
But I've only got words
Not much left in my bank
I hope my words
In some way can show
You've been great and I'm thankful
Much more than you'd know
But now it's my turn to be kind to you
So I think the time's come
That I actually go!
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
.
Come
The Open Road awaits
•
The nighttime prepares
Little hostels
(Tiny dreams !)
Visions of a mother and father
Who care
• •
Cold cold the winds
Blowing thru our solitude
The prison of lies
The false love we are
So inclined to worship
•
•
•
Only you and the god of light !
May survive a day round here
'
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
The long and winding road. (3)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The long and winding road.
Hostels are few and far between out here
Except for those beat up Winnerbagos.
Like as not those are all crack cook shops
Oh yes I can see the steam from their chimney
Narcotisation of a whole generation my my.
Gods grace always kept me clear of all that.
And a good thing too. This Life is hard ‘nough
Now I really must find a place to sleep.
Dusk is falling and I have a modern map
We just need a couple o’clicks to get to a place
I can see it in the distance neon lights flashing
Now I needed a little luck and this I guess it is.
Diesel and leaded gas. Three $ a litre. Oh God
I have never had to pay that much ever before
No well. Beggars can’t be choosers can they?
Goodness not on this long and winding road
Ribs gravy , maple syrup , and fresh pancakes
Only room available is an extortionate $200
Anyway. I must rest still five hundred miles ...
Daddy hears you Baby. I’m still on my way. !!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
November 8th 2018.
Episode (3)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
As the day
closes, and the
night slides in.
The big fish hunt
in shallow water.
The old dog
leaves home to
die alone.
Orphans cry for
love
and the arrogant
choke on
rotten meat.
The libraries
become hostels
and owls
break the backs
of tom-cats on
the prowl.
The ***** is gone
and the cigarettes too.
And somewhere
in this silly
world, a father kisses
his daughter good night.
Jun 16, 2024
Jun 16, 2024 at 9:03 PM UTC
As i woke that morning, i just didn't know
This morning god brought me an angel, although i'm not sure what for
I'd say she was in her mid forties maybe about five foot four
She seemed rush but spoke with elegance and poise
The type of person who always seems to have something to say
To this day, ill remember you like an angel
Her spirit moved me, and blessed my day
she spoke of Spain, France, Ireland and rome
Hostels she stayed and friends she made
a traveler with dreams and stories from so far away
these stories she told me brightened my day
and everyone there after felt kinder in every way
my self included i spoke with kindness in the words i say
to you my dear thank you
My angel you shed light on my day with a spirit bolder than her appearance.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC