"loudspeakers" poems
Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets. In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little **** in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.
December 1965
5.5k
i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.
i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?
frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,
perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.
(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
It’s always Monday here with the hustle and bustle of the boisterous marketplace,
Negotiations carried out over loudspeakers and hailers,
It’s never without a fight.
It’s always Monday here with the cries of half-dead swans and suffocating dolphins,
Collateral damage is a word used loosely,
Now that the main guy is here.
Last night was a good night, befitting a Sunday’s catch,
Rest is only for the lost and lonely on a lovely Sunday night.
They brought them in, lined up in rows of ten,
Nothing on but a white singlet and pretty underpants.
They cowered in fright and tried to huddle,
The whips flew as freely as the flies that came to meddle.
It was not long till your turn came
Pretty as a rosebud
One man claimed
Smooth as a rose’s petal
Another one gleamed.
It was all too real for you and you fell dead, in silence
It’s always Monday here, someone said,
She was so pretty...
As they carried you on their back
to dump you in the truck
to throw away the body
just outside the city.
It’s always Monday here, said the man shaking his head,
as he went to the playground to fish
for another haul of fresh blood and good meat!
It’s always Monday here...
Someone said...
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
We visited
the Van Gogh museum,
said Dalya, Benny and I,
he loves his art, has
a Sunflowers print on
his wall at home he said,
I love Amsterdam,
love the laid backness of it,
we went to
the Anne Frank Haus,
too, hauntingly sad,
my Jewish relations
brings it home.
Benny came to my tent
(the fat dame was off
visiting the sights)
and we made love,
hoping she'd not return
too soon or at all,
the sounds from the camp-site
loudspeakers, rock music,
guitars and drums,
a slight wind shaking
the canvas, the sleeping bag
rough beneath me.
Van Gogh speaks to me
Benny had said, the yellows
and black, the assumed
madness, the birds,
cornfields, the sun.
I prefer Monet, I love his art,
his capture of nature
and the wild,
the touch of brush.
After making love
we lay smoking and talking,
I thought of the last
few days left before
homeward bound,
the farewell,
the parting
at the English shore,
we kissed
and made love once more.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
She danced away
in the falling rain
of one dollar bills,
under the clouds
of swirling blue
cigarette smoke.
Strobe lightning
blinded the crowd
in seductive pulses,
as the loudspeakers
thundered booming
bass into their ears.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
iron bars on windows
cheapest radiowave loud from loudspeakers
in smoking room
spreading
nonstop most tasteless songs
shouts, giggling and whispers and cries
mixed in the air
swallowing ugly pills under severe control of ugly sanitarian
pills from which you become weak, weary and zombies-like
to not commit suicide is not allowed
to keep glass bottles
no laptop allowed
10 minutes walk a day
and this only with attendance of
medical personal
stupid graffities on the walls of toilets and
smoking room
scarying
anything about punishment of ******* god
surely made not by patients
but belong to „estimated inventary“
the most horror procedure
is doctor visit at every morn
for so-called conversation
you, even not obsessed with suicide
would wish to hang yourself
from unability to cut doc' s throat
so spoke Antonin Artaud
who spent 9years in closed insane asylum in France
while Ezra Pound spent over 12 years in Washington D.C. Mental ward
me spent „only“ 6 months
but i pretty sure that this joy is worse than
be locked in jail
where you at least know what a ******* crime you supposed to commit
me unemployed dadaist was locked by catching by police spraying graffity
in Berlin, which called „FREE PIDGIN!“
reason enough to being diagnosed and
poisoned by legal drugs
we live indeed in society where freedom of speech rules
haha
it was modest trial to tell literally of the darkest terror: loony bin
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
I lay on the grass
by the tent
at the San Sebastian
base camp
warm sun
other tents all around
Miriam beside me
hands behind her head
sunglasses
tight curled
red-hair
music on the loudspeakers
some Spanish stuff
how'd you sleep?
she asked
eyes closed
I said
no how did you sleep
good or bad?
she said
not bad
the ex army guy
yakked a lot
about his mother's
new boyfriend
and how they
don't get on
(the ex army guy
and the mother's
boyfriend)
is he jealous?
Miriam asked
no idea
his problem not mine
but he will yak so
I said
how about you?
I asked
giving Miriam
a sideways glance
some Yorkshire girl
she don't say much
but when she does
I can't understand
what she's saying
I asked her
if she had a boyfriend
and she said
feckless can
gerr eur lad
I smiled
which one is she?
I asked
big ***** girl
with blonde hair
in bunches
Miriam said
O her
I said
she's not bad looking
but not as good as me
Miriam said
raising her highbrows
of course not
I said
Miriam smiled
and lay her hands
on her stomach
and turned her head
to gaze at me
(but the blonde
Yorkshire lass
had a nice ***
maybe we should
match up the ex-army
with the blonde?
I said
then we can
share my tent
Miriam frowned
then said
can't see it myself
the blonde
and ex-army together
shame
I said
do you always
think of ***
Miriam asked
giving me
her stare
not always
sometimes I think
of ***** and art
and music
here and there.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
The country lost their beauty queen
The same day passed the Prince of Pleasure
Televisions will capture the red eyes of gravediggers
And the dried
The prunes and the oppressed
Smoking cigarette butts down to the ground
Mutiny will be on layaway
Shooting in streets and dying local band posters
The road lion growls
Police stay home, your brothers in arms will die.
So it goes. How useful is that?
Up came the sun, down went the stars.
The water calmed still, and loud were the cars.
English Translators dance in Russian studios.
Loudspeakers play the silent songs nobody knows.
The woman in the yellow beaded necklace plays with her silver rings rolling across her white fingers.
Wafting down the black nighttime cool air you can hear the rhythm choir of a thousand black children
singers.
That’s my town.
Isn’t great.
I’ll show you the strangest kid I know.
Purple, red, fast and yellow.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
In this morning's waiting room
And then the café, breaking bread -
I might have read,
Engaged in reverie
Lost myself in thoughts,
Or meditative memory.
But someone overruled
To agitate the air
With an imbroglio
With the inane, vain,
Smug banter of local radio.
It claimed the arena,
And turned our space
From haven into mayhem,
Compulsively silting up
My poor, empty ears
With an unhealthy sound.
Like painting out the view
Behind Beata Beatrix
With a filthy fairground.
Just what we need!
This constant aural cattle-feed.
So: every tree in my opinion
- (I'm speaking as a lowly minion)
Should be hung with massive speakers
Huge loudspeakers, woofers, tweeters,
To entertain us in every place
With never-ending drum and bass,
Then verbose youths, with wit so clever
Can pump us full of **** forever.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell’s
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
********* through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven’t
and rushed on
through the crowd
********* in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you’d given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
I was only 9 years old and I lived in North Vietnam where I was born. My family is Chinese, but work was in Vietnam so my father had moved us there long before I was born. I had 5 brothers and I was next to the youngest, but my younger brother got sick while we were hiding in the mountains to avoid the bombings. He did not go home with us and mother was very sad for a long time.
There was really nothing to do for entertainment. My day was made up of sleeping late in the morning and school in the afternoon. We only had about three classes, which was giving us a very basic education. I had many friends in school and good number of relatives.
My older cousin and I played together often, just spending time together. Over loudspeakers songs of the people were played to encourage hard work and loyalty to the Communist Party. Everything in the country still ran as it had under Uncle ** You never speak bad of Uncle ** or you might not make it until tomorrow.
Since we had so little entertainment we found our own. She and I would go up during the day and sometimes at night to listen to the workers in the factory sing praise of life, progress and Uncle ** Now I was very small, but crime was not a factor and so even with me being so young, my cousin and I were always off on an adventure.
A big event where I lived was a marriage. It was a beautiful event with the bride and groom dressed in wedding clothes. A long high necked dress for the women and the man in his best white dress shirt. I know this because when my cousin and I were out one night we saw a wedding party walking down the street. It was so beautiful and exciting that she and I joined at the end of the procession.
I expect our age helped as we were welcomed to the celebration. Eating candy, cookies and sticky rice, special treats for the wedding party, but a special treat for a poor little girl and her cousin. Both welcomed by the bride and groom.
My cousin and I did this twice that I recall and the songs still resonate within my head of a beautiful moment in time and a break from the bombs dropped almost daily from the sky.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
My mother and I met on Cupid.com
I was thirteen and she was forty-five;
but on her profile she was listed as
twenty-nine. We agreed to meet
at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon.
The sun was out;
it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting
the dead, green earth
and snake-like sidewalks.
I sat in the far corner, my head
in a book; every now and then
peeking over the pages my
finger bookmarked. I was reading
****** and I had not made it
past the first page. Lo-Lee-
Ta, or something rather.
She arrived ten minutes later
than the time we agreed on,
but I wasn't angry. She offered
to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino
and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined.
We sat there for what seemed like a decade.
I was too busy looking around; acting
like I was admiring the art on the walls;
and she was playing with her hands;
humming to a popular female folk singer-
songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers.
'I can go,' she said after the track finished.
'No, it's okay.
Stay, please' I said.
There was silence.
'It's been a while since I've seen you'
she said.
'I know, I know' I said,
'You lied
about your age.
That's not cool'
'Sorry about that.
I just didn't know
if you'd like me
if I was older
than forty..'
'That's the entire point,
no?' I interrupted.
And I didn't notice
she had bad posture
until she started fidgeting
with her hair; it was in a loose,
unkempt bun. She tugged
at the hair tie until
it all fell down to her shoulders.
I was finally relieved
to see that I had a beautiful
mother and soon suggested
that we go to her place
and talk about my childhood.
She smiled, and made
an attempt to grab the car
keys she left on the table,
but I was quicker.
'No,' I said laughing,
'I'm driving'.
And that was the first
time I ever took charge;
and nothing has changed since.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
At Hamburg
at base camp
young Dalya
says to me
what a dump
have to put
up our tents
that Yorkshire
***** couldn't
find her ****
with both hands
let alone
put up tents
but it's done
mostly by
me not her
standing there
mouth open
suggesting
this or that
I watch her
taking out
a ciggie
and light it
with my blue
cheap lighter
then lit my
cigarette
thanks she says
how'd you get
on with that
Aussie guy?
He was good
knew the ropes
had it up
in no time
I tell her
let's go for
a large beer
and burger
at some bar
she tells me
so we go
to some joint
in a field
order beers
and burgers
and French fries
I like her
she's sassy
and up front
and has nice
soft melons
pushing through
her tee shirt
she talks on
I listen
to her voice
and music
from high up
loudspeakers
some rock stuff
and wonder
if we might
at some time
in some way
nestle down
in some place
she talks on
studying
my hazel
eyes and brown
bearded face.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
I saw Dalya
by the showers
her hair was wet
and she looked
like a drowned rat
her tight jeans
seemed tighter
the white tee shirt
clung to her
bringing out
the best of her
and she was smoking
looking at the grass
what's up?
I said
woman problem
she said
woman problem?
I said
you know the flow
she said
o I see
I said
you want to go
into Oslo
and have a beer
and see the sights
have a meal?
she looked at me
and inhaled deeply
she was silent
for a few minutes
then exhaled the smoke
and said
ok if you like
better than lying
in the tent moodily
gazing the canvas
listening to the camp-site
loudspeakers blasting out
Led Zeppelin or such
good what time?
I said
give me an hour
to sort myself out
and I’ll meet you
by the bar
she said
and remember
no *** tonight
I nodded
and she went off
towards her tent
and I walked into
the shower room
to refresh myself
sad about no ***
but that was it
that's how things go
**** the flow.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Miryam slept
most of the way
through Paris
that evening
her head
on your shoulder
her eyes closed
like pink shells
her mouth
slightly ajar
an innocent
sleeping child
kind of look
on the coach
as it travelled
through the bright lights
and sights of Paris
Beethoven's
5th Piano Concerto
pouring
from the coach's
loudspeakers
you gazed
at her tight
red haired head
sense of her
laying there
a soft sound
of breathing
a barely felt sense
of her pulse
and feeling
that the most
important thing
at that moment
that pulse
that sound
of breathing
that the whole world
would cease
if she did
neither again
you lay back
your head
on the headrest
taking in the sights
the lights
people passing
street scenes
bars and cafés open
couples walking
arm in arm
a kissing couple
here and there
the second movement
of the Beethoven concerto
easing through
the coach
and looking down
at her hands folded
in her lap
as if they too slept
fingers holding
thumbs touching
her knees visible
where her skirt
rode up as she sat
and as you lay there
taking in
her being there
that eternal moment
sinking in
the Proustian connection
of her sleeping so
and the Beethoven episode
the piano easing out
and her head there
on your shoulder
rested childlike
and all or most
of desires kept at bay
seeing her lay so
like untouched
untrodden snow.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
the car wash plays music over two tiny, square speakers, one mounted to either side of the vending machines.
It usually plays modern pop music hits and misses,
But today it's playing Elvis.
Today it's playing Suspicious Minds.
Today the sun is shining and the sky is blue.
All the washing stalls are occupied.
Silver, blue, and two black cars are getting clean today.
And I sit across the lot, waiting to work the rest of my shift,
Watching the day turn,
As House of The Rising Sun begins it's turn on the car wash loudspeakers.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
Growing old is scary for some
And a blessing for others:
We have live our life: the best way we know how
here we are all alone,
We are now living under different change of the body
Walking around with our portable therapy for instant energy
Long time ago it was
portable cassette or CD player with two or more loudspeakers:
those horrible double decker’s
Now it’s
problems of blood circulation.
Dozens of useless prescriptions,
Directions that read take three to
Four times per day
So once again
Moving forward with all kinds of botheration to
Another slower lane to nowhere
Last but not least
Keep out of reach of small children
Before you reach the
Dead End Street
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
Dalya bought a burger
at the burger joint,
bought a beer
at the camp bar.
Sat on one
of the benches,
ate the burger.
Benny sat opposite,
ate his hot dog,
sipped his beer.
They'd been
into Stockholm,
saw the sights,
ate at some cafe
that did good meals.
Rock music churned out
over the loudspeakers,
ACDC stuff.
What you doing after?
She said.
There's a disco over
by the shower block,
he said.
Don't fancy it,
she said.
Where's the Yank girl?
He asked.
She's off
with the Aussie
in the City.
My tent or yours?
Benny said.
Makes no different,
she said.
If they come back
too soon we're *******
She ate,
eyed him.
He sipped,
eyed her.
Her knees touched his
under the bench.
Won't be back
in awhile,
she said.
The ACDC ended.
Crowd noise.
Beer stink.
Burger smell.
Led Zeppelin
music started.
After we can,
she said.
My tent is best,
she added.
He nodded,
smiled.
Music got louder,
got wild.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ********** at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
nothing but age.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I wish I could think of
the right way to say
I love you...
It's like there's no possibility.
My vocabulary is far too limited
The love I feel is far too complex
And I am far too unimaginative
to give you something that hasn't been
Said a million times.
you would certainly find a way -
youve always been fantastic at words
and i wish i could borrow
some of your genius...
Every combination
Every language
Every time I try
I can't figure it out
You have made me feel like...
Like the solar system revolves around me
Like death could never take my life
Like I know the Name of the wind
... no ... i can do better
i want to keep trying
i need to keep trying because
if i cant figure it out
im going to implode
You deserve a special
I love you.
something to mimic the special
you make me feel every day
i yearn to give you that
so bear with me while i paint you
a written picture instead and
hope it can convey some semblance of
i love you:
------------------------------------------------------------
You are a city.
And that city, in my head,
Looks a little like... well
it's under constant construction, the
scaffolding where you expand
the buildings - your knowledge.
and despite what you might think
it's a comforting presence
between them run roads, so many intersections
all leading to different interests
but those streets have potholes - your past
experiences - and there isn't enough tar in the world to fill them.
not that it matters, because your traffic never stops and the
streets are never still; potholes and all
zipping around on those roads are cars
that get you from point A to point B - your responsibilities,
when you really need to stop for gas. it's admirable
how dedicated to those pit stops you are, and
that you still really love driving
fortunately, despite pollution - the toxicity dumped
by other people - your city is still eco-friendly. you wanted
fresh air, so on each building you install solar panels - you
never sit back and let people ruin the world
so people sit on their porches and listen to music you pipe
through the city streets, via loudspeakers you installed
because you want people to enjoy themselves - and they
absolutely love it. they show their appreciation through
smiles and laughter. how could they not? nothing can compare
In your city
I want to be a window washer
a maintenance woman
a taxi driver
a gas station attendee
an ecologist
a musician
I want to be someone involved with all you are.
You're a constant inspiration
So call me selfish, but I relish just being around you
And lavish that I get to be special to you
You deserve more than these simple three words
but for the sake of concision - your favorite, I know -
I'll simply say
I love you
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
I feel scared when
I am alone in the middle of a crowd,
Which is almost always.
I feel irked when
The music is much too loud,
While the night won't irritate me.
I feel flared when
Someone abuses the language and are proud,
Which is also an insult to themselves.
I feel terrorized when
They proclaim that there's no one but Al,
Not to mention the time of their loudspeakers.
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 7:06 PM UTC