Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kristo Frost Mar 2013
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.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2015
The Rulers wield their silver shields,
             wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
             boast brazen bayonets
and unicorns flaunt ivory horns
             defending martinets.

While Bankers beam Their self-esteem
             (bailed out of broker's debts),
and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
             in six-star luncheonettes,
the deep, devout and down and out
             survive as silhouettes.

The Press take pains to wash our brains,
             Their words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we fear to speak
             in worlds They’ve polarized,
and rush to war, through Satan's door,
             watch cities vaporized.

The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
             of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
             and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
             in spectral disarray.

We're taught at school the Golden Rule
             for all to live in bliss,
but in the wars on foreign shores
             the only rule is this:
“Yo! You and I must fight and die
             inside the black abyss!”

But well alive, the Merchants thrive
            on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
            to quell the dissidents,
while Partisans are posing plans
             to conquer continents.

And back at home, the rumors roam
             “Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
             in weathers wet and numb.”
When we’re in need, They’ll intercede
             with prayers if we succumb.

A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
             to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
             ensures we all agree:
“With dynamite we fight for right
             and not for tyranny.”

The brain aborts when drugged with sports
               and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
              and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
             they baa when they obey.  

In search of sense in sounds intense
             of droning drum tattoos
(the beat sustains the endless reigns
             which swamp the avenues)
souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn,
             delayed by shackled shoes.

Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
            who watch us day and night
to track our trails and read our mails
             and say They have the right
to know our thoughts and thwart our plots
             to cease Their oversight.

Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
             the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
             Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
             and common sense deranged.

Along the roads, the future bodes
             in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
             'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
             pale orphans share a crust.

Dead colonies of humble bees,
             a ravaged hornets' hive,
rain forests, dales and minke whales
             soon nothing left alive…        
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
             as long as They survive.

As sunlight wanes in winter rains
             and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spider's webs
             seem tattooed on the wall.
Upon the night the Masters write
             The Final Protocol.
Salmabanu Hatim Sep 2018
The road which we used to take so often hand in hand,
Cried bitterly,
When it saw me alone.
The trees on the roadside wept,
And shed their leaves.
The  birds chirped with dismay,
Whilst the lampposts dimmed their lights,
Unable to see me forlorn.
Omnya0 Oct 2018
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
Everything is dying, but I don’t see the snow
That glimmers to remind us to forget that things would grow
Rather there are acorns that, lying strewn about
Will plead for painted, ghost-like trees, for dreams that never sprout
And seeing rotting seeds, we weep that they will die
Though desp’rately we water them and pray for them to fly
And then the wind decides to make the acorn quake
So we, delighted, fool ourselves to think its death was fake

Everything is crumbling, but I don’t see the fence
That stoutly stands to block the view, to put up a pretense
Rather, there are lampposts that flicker in the night
Directing eyes to shadows that will tell of every blight
And if there was a fence there, then we could ignore
The demons that are hiding there, in every sill and door
Instead we run away from ones that claim our soul
And to the crumbling buildings where, residing, they control
Wrote this after the loss of a friend. I'm normally not this angsty.
tories give you **** all
and then blame you for having it
make you the scapegoat
for their cause and effect
you should be self made
like them
and their forefathers
names you should recognise and respect
these nuclear families
at their core plantagenet
conserving themselves
at the cost of the rest
should be expelled
gelded and fed the excess
strung up from lampposts
by their wallets
until death
while they were intermingling
into everything
we couldnt feed our families
and our families went away

thats how divide and conquer works
kirk Nov 2018
I knew they'd be more sightings, it looks like I was right
The day has arrived once again, where things have come to light
Shinning armour is absent, and there is no gallant knight
Oh Annette, there's only Den, and your chastity's not tight

It seems Miss Tidy has returned, she's covered a long span
**** escapades displayed again, written by a big **** fan
***** heifers filled Cow Pies, diving in like Desperate Dan
I wouldn't mind a go myself, because I am a man

Bus stops and phone boxes, seem to be your mainstream media
Your depicted as a ****, and your appetite gets greedier
Every time that you appear, your antics are more seedier
Be careful of your infamy, you'll end up on Wikipedia

What the hell is going on, you've resurfaced once again
There's no accounting for good taste, with ******* different men
I don't know if it's better ***, than your getting from old Den
Oh Annette if you get judged, it'll be a Ten from ***

Bus shelters are the place, to read about your ***
Showing intimate parts of your life, like the local multiplex
Written words like **** and ****, are nothing to perplex
It's obvious what's going on, its hardly that complex

If **** *** is preferable, if it's not just a passing whim
You can lick my exposed ****, and I'll give yours a rim
A tight *** is just as good, as a nice warm ****
Oh Annette untidy your legs, and we'll go out on a limb

**** *** excites me, but there's just one small detail
Is your *** completely free, or is your **** for sale
If you use lubrication, then it never will get stale
Naked flesh I really like, that's probably cos I'm male

If telephone boxes we're obsolete, if bus stops did not exist
Where would Annette's news be then, from the *** obsessed artist
Would he try a public lavatory, would he have a different twist
Oh Annette If writings ceased, *** stories would be missed

George Formby leaned on lampposts, but I'm not sure I'm a strummer
Unless you count a *******, and you are a heavy ******
I'll wait until you come by, for one hell of a good ******
Outside in the night light, so much better in the summer

Could you be a lovely girl, or are you an **** *****
**** ***** and ***** *****, are just the local lingo
Oh Annette if you want ***, don't wait too long in limbo
I can do it on all fours, as well as legs akimbo

Softer holes are better wet, **** positions don't much matter
Whether it is *******, or laying a bit flatter
Certain parties can be fun, if your naked on a platter
A very happy unbirthday treat, I'd share with the Mad Hatter

Do you bite as well as ****, be rough and rarely gentle
let passion take control of you, cos I'm not temperamental
You seem to be the kind of girl, to be experimental
It makes no difference if your a ****, it isn't accidental

There's nothing wrong with ***** *****, if they are never shut
Open all hours is quite fun, when you're an **** ****
I hope you have "**** Handles", that are looming round your ****
So Annette relight my fire, I don't want my long wick cut

Come on now be daring, because you seem like an old friend
I hope your ****** preferences, are not just a passing trend
So much is known about you, with all that has been penned
If your into *** ***, then give your **** a lend

Just how many blokes you've had, well I don't have a clue
There's Den of course but now and then, you try someone new
It doesn't really bother me, if you've had quite a few
You could be in fetish films, if your backdoor is blue

Perhaps I have misjudged you, and you are a teachers pet
And everything that has been said, is something you regret
But If the rumours are all true, then I would not forget
To stuff my ***** up your ****, and I'd say oh Annette !
What can I say about Annette Tidy, as you may or may not know, I discovered writings concerning Miss Tidy's shall we say carnal activities in February 2016, there we're further details of her misdemeanours 2 years later. Both sightings inspired me to write a poem the first of which is titled " Oh Annette Tidy" .
After the second sighting I then wrote " Oh Annette Tidy's Back Again " I thought I was done with our Annette until I began writing this new poem, so you might say the Annette Tidy saga has now become a trilogy of **** escapades, I hope you enjoy it and I wonder if this will be the last we will hear from Annette Tidy ?
It all started with the Kabbalah and ****,
Her soft hair withered through my sand papered fingers, cracked and dry they strand by strand simply flaked away in the light breeze,

I pounded and gushed into her, wet as can be, animalistic and determined to *** deep in her for both of our sanity yearned for deep unfertilized love and tight hard muscles connecting and contracting,

The mercy was for us both and yet chochma evaporates my soft splendor heart and shrivels my eyes until I can no longer see, she has closed my eyes now, Bitul is the medicine she slips into my closed dry eyes and with love and food we wake to meet Keter in the eyes of the world looking back at us,
Using our eyes as rusty lampposts to see through the frosty shutters of two panes and 13 planes,

We step into the shower now to rinse ourselves of our sins and appreciation, for red wine runs down your cold pale chest in admiration for a loss of confusion I drink it from your satin flesh, off your bread, my fingers,
You, sacred heart, to give truly to me, chesed, what truly belongs to you, I & I,
My oh my, need I say more,
For fire needs gas to burn on water's sweet shore, I will give you the finest recipe of the most pure fuel from the source of eternal light, but it is within the power of tonight and tomorrow morning,

I have gifted you a sip but we must wait a few healthy years, for it is hard to refine and maintain, but it has found its destination all along,

It's long lost memory in my hand weeping for life and love as I came and shrugged it away with disorder and fear, which may not seem brave, nor humble, nor soft, but I refuse to let it be my doctor,

When your soft skin, your ageless yoni cries surrender penetrating tears around my soft splendor shaft, the angels unwrap their wings for flight, for they no longer are needed here, for a few years have passed now and they gave face to their own little life, hands, small toes, tireless grace, I & I,
and you, are the things I love,
True, is how I love,
My love, my friend, my pleasure, my angel, from up above.

— The End —