"lampposts" poems
I was once a boy who believed in words dipped in magic
Carefully coated with sugar
From a distance, they shimmered
whispered fog in its wake
surgically dipped into your heart at hummingbird speed
these sweet tender words were easy to swallow
however leaves a burning hole in your chest once it finds shelter in your body.
Even though your lips produced sweet words
I could never get the sour taste out of my mouth
The most you could have done was give me something to wash it down with:
the leftover tears in Samantha Thompson’s eyes
above Wedgefield’s polluted night sky
somewhere in the middle of an empty field inside his pickup truck
between the words I’m and Sorry
the cleanest and most deceitful of them all
I doubted every word.
I never cared much for the empty spaces between the lines of college-ruled paper
They are only meant to be filled with even emptier phrases
If I could, I wouldn’t fill in any spaces in the time we were together
It would only make our story much more incredulous
Adding more would make us less real.
Two hearts in love need no words
but in reality, you did most of the talking
The ***** blanket of faith
is a cocoon of words shared only between you and him.
We, however, were alien to this Earth
We dissolved amongst the shadows of light
produced from lampposts, only to be thrown back into the light
whether or not you wanted to show me who you really were
You always fancied yourself in artificial lighting compared to natural lighting
Fearing the natural light would show the colors you only kept to yourself.
Lovebug ran to each light as quickly as he could
for these lampposts can only cover so much of the unknown
We’ll be together forever
He ran to each one until he was alone
Until he couldn’t find himself
Each shadow that was passed before can be seen, traced
however his new reflection is indiscernible
You can try your hardest to look into dry puddles
only to find something that is not so concrete.
The only words worth believing in are the ones that are burnt slowly afterward
Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.
But no matter how much the lampposts grow taller,
or how the spaces between ruled-paper continue to dance, the word
love will always be the easiest word to swallow
but the hardest to digest once it rots in the thick of your stomach.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Turn, camera, follow the sound of footsteps, nervous in the dark, echoing away down the fogsoaked street. The night begins to cool and it starts to rain beneath the lampposts. Glance, only briefly, at the clerk who pulled the graveyard shift, curled on the floor under the register, clutching at the bullet in his belly. There is a gentle kindness in seeing the world how you want to. Show me the money. You watch the fog.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
Walking into my room
I see a lonely primrose
Looking to the sun
Dying while it goes...
Slowly
Tears fall gently down its petals
It glistens in the sunshine
It does this constantly
Time after time
I have watched her for hours
As she wept away the day
I fell into my dreams
Every time the moon came my way
But tonight I will see this primrose
When the moon rests in the clouds
When lampposts become the sun
When the cities lose their crowds
Oh I will see whats behind my vail of dreams
I will see why I don't hear her weep
I will witness that precious moment
When the primrose and the moon will meet
Time passes me
My eyes can feel it go by
Dropping into my dreams
Reality is saying goodbye
But then
As the moon gently arrives
The primrose looks up
Her quiet sobs slowly subside
I have seen the beauty of golden rivers
The sunshine over the mountain top
Snow on the green pine trees
I have seen the orange in the sun rise pop
But I have never
Or I ever
Seen this divine beauty
That will live with me forever
This primrose bloomed
In my once room of gloom
In the silver bright light
Of the wide eyed moon
It was quiet at that moment
Silence was its gorgeous view
The primrose looked at its only love
And said...
"I cannot live without you"
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
There is a city inside my body
With cars making their way through my veins
People are on rush like they’re insane
My organs make up the industries
And the people are the workers
They work twenty-four/seven, tirelessly
Waiting for the food
Which they make into goods
And supply to all the smaller towns
But in my body,
The day never comes
So they’re accustomed to night-time
And all the routes and all the buildings,
And all the cars with their honking
Even lampposts and payphones
All the houses’ windows
Maybe even TVs and radios
Together, they make their own city lights
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
do you remember when
all that mattered was
holding his hand
and smelling the sun
on his sunburnt skin
laid on sun-set sand
do you remember when
the only song you knew
was his second name
and now the only dance
your feet understand
is a stance with his toes
can you take me back
the night i cried
like how lampposts died
asking myself why
your moon only shines
when you speak of his smiles
could you take me back to sun-screened streets
where all that mattered were
our touching feet
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 4:50 PM UTC
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust.
Make Plans, Or Make Cookies.
There Is Living To Do Here.
There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch.
There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste.
There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held.
There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath.
There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon.
There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open.
There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”.
There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets.
There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families.
There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted.
There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins.
There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls.
There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos.
There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays.
There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands.
There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life.
There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick.
We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune.
There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart.
There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away.
There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills.
There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills.
There Is Living To Be Done Here.
There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
There's the mosh...sordid details that thing...
creeping of sort...retelling...to stay in focus.
A silent film whose black borders encapsulate
a slab of skyward white.
Visages...opening...opened...to interpretation.
"The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."....ashen...
daguerreotype of a Zen Garden.
All of nature's pretties cast in an occult brew...
stirred, and stirring...composite sketches posted
and burned upon lampposts.
At large...ritualistic making-of-face...illusion
trafficking the ever present primes of lives...
"the center of which is everywhere, the
circumference nowhere."...attestation o' mugs.
Visages...plucked from a year of our lord,
to be...rendezous of all light's putting to...
years thereof.
Alien unto thyself...oogly boogly, yet mirror-imaging...
behold/beheld/beholden.
By sleight of Hand...visages, who'd otherwise
be as soon pruned and leathery, inanimate under the
sun.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
it's the twenty-fourth and every one's out
the streets are dead like the laughter that died out
lampposts light blotches of the road
and Christmas this year feels like a fraud
we hung out at the old bar on the curb
and we drank til the night was nothing but a blur
cruelly reminisced the days with bittersweet smiles
can you be jealous of your own past, you the child?
cheating husbands and bachelor loons
they're all wasted and it's all too soon
for a family to split and spend Christmas eve
with a friend for a while before they get up and leave
and it's such a shame that a time has come
when you can only hear the roars of a gun
hell, do you want to hear what's worse?
tonight a couple million drunks will break down and curse
when their hangover sets before the northern star
and the ***** of words that follow isn't that far
for all we know we are slaves of a tradition
that seems so far from its own meaning in religion
but can you do anything, and hear over the masses
chanting rebellion against every traitor that passes?
can you really hear the chiming of church bells
when the world of humans is nothing but a living hell?
it's the twenty-fourth and everyone's out
to feast on a Christmas of pain and doubt
p.t.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
Cotton is everywhere,
it's on the ground;
in the ditches,
all brown and soggy like
wet hairballs; in the wheel wells,
the rotor tiller;
the SNAPPER'
the squash;
your wife's ********
tingling her constantly;
the speedometer,
the pulled pork,
collards,
mashed potatoes
and most definitely
the gravy;
it's in the eyes,
makes them red
and explosive,
it's in the dark loam
and gloam; the unwashed streetlights,
the blue dark
and even bluer
lampposts in the middle
of fields black as oil;
the pink sun,
white clapboards
and redwood siding
of that burned-out homestead;
the cotton is everywhere;
thrown up by the slaves;
a ceiling made just for
February lovelessness
as I pull on my Marlboro
and crook my arm
like the cornices of a power station.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend
My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled
This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane
The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above
The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt
To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones
Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?
Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart
Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?
But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away
Away
Away
Away
From you
From:
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay
Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?
Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars
Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.
Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond
And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more
Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.
And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
at the time a polaroid was a mark of friendship
so we decided to go raid a photobooth
but the pictures never captured
they didn't get the time to
because across the street was a fancy new camera shop
with a fancy new cashier
who had pretty, pretty hair
and could actually fit into a polaroid with you
and i was surrounded by the walls of a madhouse
from inside the photobooth
because you entangled the curtain entrance
so i was locked in
i wanted to see nothing
so i stared directly into the camera lenses
hoping the flash would blind me
because apparently you're blinded and happy
but i hit the wrong button
and the flash never came
but there were pictures printed
just of your hands around her waist
i took about 50 copies
and taped them to the lampposts lining abandoned cemeteries
i tossed the receipt into the lake,
i scattered the letters of your name into the rain
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
Before I sleep or when everyone around me is asleep,
I go to an empty street. I wear a coat to protect myself from the cold.
It's a nice cold.
The type that kisses your cheek makes you shiver a little and fills you with giddy.
In the middle of this street is a lamp post; I like to weave words and art from this lamp post.
But I need to go back to slumber
But I need to go back and play with numbers
And when I don't have these things to worry about
The light goes out
I wait for it to turn back on
Most of the time, it doesn't
I play with the wires
Or maybe perhaps I should go looking for other lampposts and fires
I try to call friends
But it all leads to dead ends
The light of the lamppost will not come back
So I try to make in the dark
And it is excruciatingly hard
All that comes out is a horrible chord
Outside the street, everyone tells me the song is beautiful
But I what I still hear is bad and inexcusable
I'd wish that what happens on that street
Stays on that street
Because the darkness of that lamppost seems to follow me wherever I walk
So, I decided to pause and stop on the sidewalk
Maybe the solution to this darkness is simply changing a wire
Or moving on to find another flare of light
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His emotion....
His failure...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
In the dark of the night
a stranger appears from the shadows,
in his hand
a golden chalice.
The stranger approaches.
I sit alone
under the only lamppost in the park.
I gather my wits.
The stranger draws nearer,
cold breath smoking from his black hood.
He stops in front of me.
I tremble.
The stranger reaches out his bony hand
grasping the golden chalice
and whispers,
"Choose the chalice for life.
Choose not and wish you had."
My mind becomes chaotic.
Thoughts of triumph and regret
flood my consciousness.
My legs are numb.
My feet seem to mold to the ground.
I feel my very existence
begin to slowly fade.
The stranger,
who is he?
From whence does he come?
Why does he choose me?
The lamppost above me begins to flicker.
It casts a shadow over the silhouette of his face.
His face?
My face?
Can it be?
I lift my arm
to reach for the chalice.
My arm is heavy,
my breath short.
The lamppost flickers faster.
The wind howls.
The temperature drops.
My heart races.
My fingertips are just to touch the chalice when
the light stops flickering.
My breath becomes long
and deep.
The breeze,
soft and subtle.
The stranger,
gone.
I sit there
attempting to rationalize.
An old man comes strolling by
humming a jaunty tune.
As he passes,
he stops.
He looks into my eyes.
I feel again unable to move.
The lampposts flickers twice
then goes out.
I jolt up,
fear looming.
Then a flash in front of me.
I look up.
There is the old man
holding a flame atop his lighter.
"The light will always show the way,"
he says.
I stood there
dumbfounded.
And the old man continued to walk down the path
humming the same cheery tune
and holding the lit lighter over his right shoulder
all the way
until he disappeared from sight.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
the smell of this place
will soon fade at the back of our minds
each thought & memory
will soon be broken into uncompleted lines
one day we will find our feet back
walking the ground where you first fell in love
touching the halls that are now a different hue
to see if they've forgotten you
tales of fairy & lore
will soon be covered with dust
your firsts and lasts
will soon all be eaten by rust
the place of our childhood
though many years have grown
its ceilings may decay
but it will always love to be your home
the trees may bend and left forgotten
hidden behind tall buildings & lampposts
most of what you left behind
will soon all be ghosts
familiar faces with unfamiliar scents
they wont expect you to stay same
tight bonds will melt into loose ends
and they will forget your name
my name isn't carved into something historical
all of this will be washed by the rain
how bittersweet it is
to travel down memory lane
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
**Rows of stone houses, all back-to-back
lined by the side of streets cobble set
housewives with shopping, segs in their heels
clopping down ginnels with ringing footsteps.
Cast iron lampposts, corporation green
daily were reset by clockwork it seemed
casting more shadow than light which to see
brimstone edged steps, scrubbed 'elbow' clean.
Sweeps on their rounds, in Summer would rush
cleaning the flues with rods and brush
kids in the street, staring in wonder
at soot snowing flurries, from porcupine pots.
Nutty slack in the grate, drawn by the pan
coal smoking stacks, pouring out grime
creels of damp washing, stealing the flame
when years end smog, jaundiced the sky.
A trip to the 'flicks', Saturday morning
'thrupence' for best seats, 'top-a-the-stalls'
rounds of cheers as good-un's were chasing
the bad-un's were boo'd, soon to be caught.
In 'wellies an scruff,' we went to the 'flea-pit'
with 'ha-peth o' cheap spice', soothing the throat
food for thought, all week long
and played them all, the films we saw.
Cowboys and Indians, cap guns held high
annoying the neighbours, 'bye it were grand'
riding the range on imaginary horses
best we ride on, with slap of the hand.
'Play in yer own street', my recallection
and 'geer off mi steps, they've jus-bin-swilled'
yet still we 'mucked out' with die-cast toys
against the 'midden', and on the walls.
No more adventure, making own fun
young-un's today don't know how it's done
cartoon and serial, games of war
we'd launch to the moon, upon the see-saw.**
... ... ...
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
--jonah’s Lot
gravel-stricken streets & gaslit lampposts;
I close my eyes to take it all in—
this new solitude I’ve found to host.
a sacred sort of song I sing--
[oh, how does it feel to be alone?]--
though still wrapped in Love to ward off the sting.
& though I feel strong in my shield of Stone,
I cannot help but turn back in slight,
& a saltiness creeps up from my anklebones.
--at the dock of the bay.
in the distance you shine with your Father’s glow,
a smile&touch; I have longed for since that June long ago,
& the knot in my stomach continues to grow.
greatness I see as your eyes blink to me
when the smoke billows between our twin heartstrings,
though Ben strikes that it’s time to be free.
so though my travels lead me in opposition to hellos,
you are loved, Eternally Loved,
is what I have always said & have always wanted you to know.
--a fisherman’s courage
His mast is rising & His sails are billowing &
I step out on the dock, reluctant,
then the sunset pours through the Captain’s hand.
“child, you know what you truly seek,
among the waves you’ve yearned&desired; a storm detour,
when I was the one in control of this Sea.”
He reaches out to pull me in,
“you’ve always been free to walk on water,”
& that first step resonates like an eternal din.
--resolve&glory;
**I depart in peace & with all the contentment I have discovered
[that I have found, that I have found],
& all I ever had to do was cling to the Anchor.**
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
Flesh hooked on lampposts (ribbon-like)
Railings, bus stops, fences too
Unlooping miles and miles of eager skin
Colouring the pavement with vivid
Bone strung like windchimes (hoisted high)
In all the brightest places
Mainly on rooftops, we have an affinity
The sun splatters them pastel each day
Muscle- candyfloss on benches
Warm, thick (seeps into their mouths)
Chunks of wriggling bliss in the tighest corners
Embossed with sweet disaster sprinkles
Me me me; the essence of Me
My pulse spread out across the city
My veins in the underground
My heart cut up onto various plates
The pieces will take years to be found
And they're not all mine anymore.
But under the ivory moon
When I'm sighing, "I'm lost" to each night
My city rocks me straight to sleep
And walks me through the dying light
So while I'm here, my soul's all right.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
but I'd love you if you let me.
Flashback to the night when I have never loved anything more than thunderstorms, heavy rain, ***** white sneakers and stolen kisses in the warm month of June.
You got me thinking— maybe I was made to feel invincible when you're around. That lampposts weren't supposed to be much needed on dim streets when it's 7 pm. And that the world isn't so scary as it seems as long as I have you and the only thing that scares me is when I've realized I was caught off guard by your kind heart and fearless soul yet in the first place, I was never meant to keep the beautiful and ugly parts of you.
You got me wishing that some nights could last longer because I can never figure out if I will still get to witness downpour with you, if that was our last grasp of good-bye that the tip of our fingers never wanted to let go but we had to or we'll just keep on pretending that I was made to kiss you with art and passion everytime I have to leave and everytime I would come back.
No, you are not mine in the first place.
But for the meantime, please,
I'd love you if you let me.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 1:27 PM UTC
Hey there
Skater girl
You got me all twirled up inside
When you made those turns
I get goosebumps
When you swerve right by me
I'm pretty sure it was you
And not the evening chill
And yes it was late
The lampposts were on
And the traffic lights
Out of sight
Why should anyone
Tell you when to stop or go
You were an unchained thing
You had the road all for yourself
And I had that night
To see you scribble in your strides
You did ballet, not on thin ice,
But on rough pavements
For life was not always
A smooth and clear ground
It can be a lonely
Concrete street
It can be you right now
Free and astound
With me in the distance
At first glance
It'll seem like
You're free-rolling
But I know
It's really art
In its abstract form
The solid, rigid sound of wheels
Scraping ground
Is tranquilizing
To our left is a quiet parking lot
And at the right, a multipurpose home
While I'm sitting on grass
In a suit
Please don't mind me
And keep on skating
Skater girl
Doodle me a way
Map me a dance
With the tracks of your skates
In this fast-rolling world
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
incogitable is the question
you've asked yourself
since you could form
thoughts dense enough to grasp
quandaries these daily citizens
are encouraged
"not to be contemplated"
unthinkably aware of your surroundings
that you tend to notice cracks
in the side-stomped concrete
three-point-five seconds before
my ankle ever twists
and yet, your eyebrows carved canyons
in sweaty, porous sediment
caked onto the blood-fed silkscreen
stretched below your hair
you didn't believe me when i told you
cameras will litter the city streets
innumerable greater than the lampposts
illuminating your view of my sprained ankle
(you missed that one, by the way)
you honestly believed that everyone
thinks about everyone else
because that's what you do
but boy, I gotta tell ya,
you are not like anyone else
you're the high-flyin pilot
star visible to the naked eye
caught behind the crescent of the moon
yet still shining through
and some may even come close enough
to brush heat waves you emanate from that hot heart
unfortunately, your perennial denizens
rely on waxen wings
crashing anxiously homeward
to moss-laden paradises
they make up
twisting neural networks into bundles
here i recline
pierced through the retina
held fast iron-gripped heart
legs tight and fingers licked
incogitably cognizant
of each
and every
answer
|| Restricted Access Memory ||
will not permit to ponder
ponder for longer than
a second anyway
but a second is all you
need to receive
seventeen-thousand-four-hundred-and-forty-two
percent of your daily value
of vitamin E
(that stands for Enlightenment, people)
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I ripped out of the old tavern
Into the torn indigo overcoat
And traveled under the porticoes of a billion fantastic stars
To celebrate this marvelous November night.
In the labyrinth of bricks and stones
I hum and whistle the Irish song
Like a singer before the orchestra, my multitudes.
How exquisite—Avec un plaisir de génie—is my peripatetic existence!
Lungs full of air, and I see the Muse in me.
My treasured newsboy cap from a thrift shop spins on my hand,
And my feet bubbles off the floor like soda pops.
I pray my gratitude to the one above the altar
For my indomitable freedom. Amen.
A pocket change rolling, bikes uninhabited, and lampposts perpetual.
A rolled cigarette wantonly leaned between my sticky lips.
Autumnal dews wetted my forehead like spiriting wine.
And while, scarf blowing, boots tattered,
I raised my odalisque eyes heavenward
The world pixelated above my moist eyes
Like a seabed of jewelry stars
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 1:03 PM UTC