"marquee" poems - Hello Poetry

"marquee" poems

She left Reno in a satin slip the color of hot coins pouring from slots, wearing chewed-up tennis shoes, mirrors multiplying her, the marquee burning out letter by letter, a hush pressed between her teeth as if saving the last note. I followed, a gangly shadow, mother’s voice in my ear: "life is not a freeway exit." But she was the exit. She drove west through a glittering throat. In Tonopah she was a waitress, red stains on her wrists, sleeves tugged low, coffee pouring thin as blood. In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna, halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass. At a gas station in Needles shimmering into a coyote’s shadow and slipped behind the pumps. Then movement along the fence, low, quick— gone again. Casinos blinked like electric relics. Truckers called her sugar, greedy hands counting her ribs as if she was the paycheck sweating in their fist, but she slipped away each time, her silhouette already moulting- a serpent skin, a smoke-trail, a saint’s shadow burning off the wall. By Malibu, the night had softened to velvet. The pier at Zuma leaned into the Pacific like a broken bridge. She sang to me— low, cracked— then let the slip fall. Her body cut into the dark tide, no disguise. I waded in after her, ankles bruised by rock. Water lit with jellyfish, each pulse a warning. I stopped where it deepened, felt the pull take hold. No exit left, just the Pacific’s mouth closing around her.

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Sep 1, 2025

Sep 1, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

She left Reno in a satin slip the color of hot coins pouring from slots, wearing chewed-up tennis shoes, mirrors multiplying her, the marquee burning out letter by letter, a hush pressed between her teeth as if saving the last note. I followed, a gangly shadow, mother’s voice in my ear: "life is not a freeway exit." But she was the exit. She drove west through a glittering throat. In Tonopah she was a waitress, red stains on her wrists, sleeves tugged low, coffee pouring thin as blood. In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna, halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass. At a gas station in Needles shimmering into a coyote’s shadow and slipped behind the pumps. Then movement along the fence, low, quick— gone again. Casinos blinked like electric relics. Truckers called her sugar, greedy hands counting her ribs as if she was the paycheck sweating in their fist, but she slipped away each time, her silhouette already moulting- a serpent skin, a smoke-trail, a saint’s shadow burning off the wall. By Malibu, the night had softened to velvet. The pier at Zuma leaned into the Pacific like a broken bridge. She sang to me— low, cracked— then let the slip fall. Her body cut into the dark tide, no disguise. I waded in after her, ankles bruised by rock. Water lit with jellyfish, each pulse a warning. I stopped where it deepened, felt the pull take hold. No exit left, just the Pacific’s mouth closing around her.

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well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.

0

Dec 11, 2018

Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC

well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.

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She meets a man at In-N-Out. He sits down, and she quickly tunes out. Moves phone from the once vacant seat. Don't worry, he said I won't take your things. Oh — I was just moving it... from your seat. Averts eyes. Looks at feet It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio. Closes open apps. Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out? Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I was curious what all the fuss was about. It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to **** Opens Instagram. You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right? Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive. Tapping feet. Two people in line. God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime) Busy? Hah — try dinnertime. Tags @innoutburger on marquee. They told me I'm number 26 in line. Misses his smile at the receipt. I'm number 18. Looks at feet. But I just heard them say 23. They'll call me. Checks the time. NUMBER 18! I gotta run — that's me. Well it was nice... Leaves meeting you.

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Aug 14, 2014

Aug 14, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC

courtney-pruitt

She meets a man at In-N-Out. He sits down, and she quickly tunes out. Moves phone from the once vacant seat. Don't worry, he said I won't take your things. Oh — I was just moving it... from your seat. Averts eyes. Looks at feet It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio. Closes open apps. Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out? Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I was curious what all the fuss was about. It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to **** Opens Instagram. You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right? Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive. Tapping feet. Two people in line. God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime) Busy? Hah — try dinnertime. Tags @innoutburger on marquee. They told me I'm number 26 in line. Misses his smile at the receipt. I'm number 18. Looks at feet. But I just heard them say 23. They'll call me. Checks the time. NUMBER 18! I gotta run — that's me. Well it was nice... Leaves meeting you.

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Were you alive when the bricks began to crumble beneath our hand-held, picket line across the parking lot in front of some school that no one bothered to name? Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers skipping across lips dropping to the street that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat etched the tear lines into mud tracks against our ruddied faces. Cohorts torn into flip stands layered toward standing political sores -- tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before the suits step over brown-bag lunches to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers. We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public. The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.” Under teeming hammer-strikes : glasses shred to paper-splinters before a young boy’s diploma crying white chalk bricks from university’s doors instead on to prison yard orange jumpsuits. Can we call this a school improvement project or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or Inmates on the gallows platform I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers. I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons. In the first wink of dawn We will all scatter To our respective positions Carved out in concrete before the barricades fall to flood the street.

0

Dec 18, 2014

Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC

kara-rose-trojan

2013 CPS School Closings

Were you alive when the bricks began to crumble beneath our hand-held, picket line across the parking lot in front of some school that no one bothered to name? Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers skipping across lips dropping to the street that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat etched the tear lines into mud tracks against our ruddied faces. Cohorts torn into flip stands layered toward standing political sores -- tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before the suits step over brown-bag lunches to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers. We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public. The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.” Under teeming hammer-strikes : glasses shred to paper-splinters before a young boy’s diploma crying white chalk bricks from university’s doors instead on to prison yard orange jumpsuits. Can we call this a school improvement project or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or Inmates on the gallows platform I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers. I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons. In the first wink of dawn We will all scatter To our respective positions Carved out in concrete before the barricades fall to flood the street.

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Today I walked to the park and back And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions All the trees had a purplish tint And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off the dew When I got home I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head. The world that was quiet is humming again I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin Clouds pixelate with diamond edges Voices ring out in a flurry And there isn't a soul in sight. So I breathe in the air And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one Filaments in the vibrant violence Until the summer fades away again.

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Aug 18, 2023

Aug 18, 2023 at 7:25 AM UTC

The_sad_eyed_boy

Daydreams and Nightmares

Today I walked to the park and back And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions All the trees had a purplish tint And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off the dew When I got home I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head. The world that was quiet is humming again I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin Clouds pixelate with diamond edges Voices ring out in a flurry And there isn't a soul in sight. So I breathe in the air And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one Filaments in the vibrant violence Until the summer fades away again.

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leather skinned harlots in their pre-washed jeans and make with sticky fingers the shiny jewels and the keys to proverbial kingdoms but nobody notices everybody is too busy celebrating the return of the same old same old and her ten trick pony shes a fire in the ***** of many a man good thing most of them take medications for it but she is as hard to cure as her burning desires the happy girls are neatly dressed perfumed and powdered in evening dresses nothing it would seem can get in the way of tonight's entertainment song and dance numbers performed with zeal and more than a touch of class by some famous actor who name has faded away but his dreams are still alive up there in bright lights on the marquee all he wants is that second chance like lightening striking a third time the townsfolk all gather there at the edge of the stage to see the show and cheer on his rise to stardom everyone except the girl with the rose tattoo she was still at the bar trying to drowned her sorrows in whiskey and spilled tears her and her pony had enough of this town but they had no place else to go aint much room in the world for someone like her the same old same old is hard way to live she tries to smile but it comes out shouts of misery her pony nudges her arm and looks to the east and the rising sun time to go but she dosn't care shes got a few tricks of her own shes gonna marry the actor squeeze out a few ankle-biters and get the picket fence to put around the little brats keep em in check seems like every time you turn around there is somebody trying to one up you the new girl in town has a mechanical pony and comes with a text book on std's of the soul she will make alot of men happy someday but not today today they all have leather skinned harlots

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

leather skinned harlots

leather skinned harlots in their pre-washed jeans and make with sticky fingers the shiny jewels and the keys to proverbial kingdoms but nobody notices everybody is too busy celebrating the return of the same old same old and her ten trick pony shes a fire in the ***** of many a man good thing most of them take medications for it but she is as hard to cure as her burning desires the happy girls are neatly dressed perfumed and powdered in evening dresses nothing it would seem can get in the way of tonight's entertainment song and dance numbers performed with zeal and more than a touch of class by some famous actor who name has faded away but his dreams are still alive up there in bright lights on the marquee all he wants is that second chance like lightening striking a third time the townsfolk all gather there at the edge of the stage to see the show and cheer on his rise to stardom everyone except the girl with the rose tattoo she was still at the bar trying to drowned her sorrows in whiskey and spilled tears her and her pony had enough of this town but they had no place else to go aint much room in the world for someone like her the same old same old is hard way to live she tries to smile but it comes out shouts of misery her pony nudges her arm and looks to the east and the rising sun time to go but she dosn't care shes got a few tricks of her own shes gonna marry the actor squeeze out a few ankle-biters and get the picket fence to put around the little brats keep em in check seems like every time you turn around there is somebody trying to one up you the new girl in town has a mechanical pony and comes with a text book on std's of the soul she will make alot of men happy someday but not today today they all have leather skinned harlots

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Coca-cola has the taste you never get tired of, always refreshing, thats why things go better with coke after coke after joke Is this a joke Cola-Coke I musta mispoke Coke. Blow your smoke and my heart evoke Mr. Coke Mr. Coke Strong as an oak I swear, you tryna provoke I’m being short-changed Changed by the pain of empty wallets and weight gain Is this the dope or just coke in my Brain veins Cause I swear e’re time it rains I get a little bit stickier with that sugar sweet fresh, ahhhhh taste you just can’t beat Without a drink my meal ain’t complete I trick or treat for that bittersweet flavor that makes my heart wanna beat Say bye, wave hi to e’re passerby that I meet I’m incomplete Is what they want me to think And so i drink I drink and I'm filled I drink and I’m thrilled Just to be a little part in their bigger party Seein only things that they want me to see I nod to agree I read the marquee Lock down and guarantee But I’m still nobody Nobody to you and nobody to me and now I see they WANT me to spend money But I’ll spell it out for you M-O-N-E-(WHY) do I buy things I feel a certain way Why do I buy things I had a bad day I think I buy cause I’m worthess gotta validate and purchase my purpose And coke’s throwin me inna circus of life, liberty and the pursuit of happy times But it's hard to pay your way with nickels and dimes but I can refund this bottle for 5 cents or break it, and it be my defense How does that make sense Now I’m on the fence Do I buy another bottle or a six-pack for the road I don’t really know when it comes to cola-coke coca-cola sugar sweet can’t be beat Will that be debit or credit Our chip reader doesn’t work See you tomorrow Mr. Coke

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Apr 7, 2017

Apr 7, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC

Coca-cola has the taste you never get tired of, always refreshing, thats why things go better with coke after coke after joke Is this a joke Cola-Coke I musta mispoke Coke. Blow your smoke and my heart evoke Mr. Coke Mr. Coke Strong as an oak I swear, you tryna provoke I’m being short-changed Changed by the pain of empty wallets and weight gain Is this the dope or just coke in my Brain veins Cause I swear e’re time it rains I get a little bit stickier with that sugar sweet fresh, ahhhhh taste you just can’t beat Without a drink my meal ain’t complete I trick or treat for that bittersweet flavor that makes my heart wanna beat Say bye, wave hi to e’re passerby that I meet I’m incomplete Is what they want me to think And so i drink I drink and I'm filled I drink and I’m thrilled Just to be a little part in their bigger party Seein only things that they want me to see I nod to agree I read the marquee Lock down and guarantee But I’m still nobody Nobody to you and nobody to me and now I see they WANT me to spend money But I’ll spell it out for you M-O-N-E-(WHY) do I buy things I feel a certain way Why do I buy things I had a bad day I think I buy cause I’m worthess gotta validate and purchase my purpose And coke’s throwin me inna circus of life, liberty and the pursuit of happy times But it's hard to pay your way with nickels and dimes but I can refund this bottle for 5 cents or break it, and it be my defense How does that make sense Now I’m on the fence Do I buy another bottle or a six-pack for the road I don’t really know when it comes to cola-coke coca-cola sugar sweet can’t be beat Will that be debit or credit Our chip reader doesn’t work See you tomorrow Mr. Coke

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Stop light, Tail light, Brown snail on Blue door tonight; Strip mall, Pocket call, Phantom shadow Standing tall. That queasy diner At Main and Piner. “No Pain, No Gain”: Marquee headliner. Kids at play In parks by day, With darkened eve, “Inside!” Obey. Blackened alley, Wet **** in Sally, The flash of knife, Sticky finale.

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Oct 9, 2012

Oct 9, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC

Stop light, Tail light, Brown snail on Blue door tonight; Strip mall, Pocket call, Phantom shadow Standing tall. That queasy diner At Main and Piner. “No Pain, No Gain”: Marquee headliner. Kids at play In parks by day, With darkened eve, “Inside!” Obey. Blackened alley, Wet **** in Sally, The flash of knife, Sticky finale.

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Poetry stands us on the overlook of the forest and makes us see the ladybug in the shade of an indistinguishable tree. Poetry takes time for the janitor no one has ever spoken to. Poetry gives voice to the frightened child and the bird who forgot how to sing. Poetry smells like the garbage in the apartment of a 5-day drunk letting us wonder whether it is his heart or his mind that is broken. Poetry turns a pacifist into a powerhouse. Poetry wraps words into presents becoming gifts of love and breaths of life in our common humanity. Poetry makes us sticky on the floor of a movie house or bad caramel apple decisions, and unfortunate one-night rendezvous. Poetry puts portals at impenetrable walls. Poetry brings salvation to the Atheist, hell to the saint, equality to both. Poetry makes room for love regardless how redundant or naive. Poetry bleeds on our behalf that we might die a thousand deaths and live to die again. Poetry makes the forgotten glaring, the trivial a celebrity, and illuminates the streets as a marquee for what had once been insignificant. Poetry is a spotlight. Everything is a star.

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Jan 3, 2014

Jan 3, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC

Poetry stands us on the overlook of the forest and makes us see the ladybug in the shade of an indistinguishable tree. Poetry takes time for the janitor no one has ever spoken to. Poetry gives voice to the frightened child and the bird who forgot how to sing. Poetry smells like the garbage in the apartment of a 5-day drunk letting us wonder whether it is his heart or his mind that is broken. Poetry turns a pacifist into a powerhouse. Poetry wraps words into presents becoming gifts of love and breaths of life in our common humanity. Poetry makes us sticky on the floor of a movie house or bad caramel apple decisions, and unfortunate one-night rendezvous. Poetry puts portals at impenetrable walls. Poetry brings salvation to the Atheist, hell to the saint, equality to both. Poetry makes room for love regardless how redundant or naive. Poetry bleeds on our behalf that we might die a thousand deaths and live to die again. Poetry makes the forgotten glaring, the trivial a celebrity, and illuminates the streets as a marquee for what had once been insignificant. Poetry is a spotlight. Everything is a star.

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I walked into a boisterous marquee And ordered a shot of Nepenthe What troubles you? asked the tender with a long goatee I’ve pawned off all my treasures to the wretched blue sea At this, with a puzzled look his neck did crane To learn the love a starfish has for salty water, I explain

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Nov 12, 2010

Nov 12, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC

I walked into a boisterous marquee And ordered a shot of Nepenthe What troubles you? asked the tender with a long goatee I’ve pawned off all my treasures to the wretched blue sea At this, with a puzzled look his neck did crane To learn the love a starfish has for salty water, I explain

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My thoughts They can get scary It's threats, more often than not, not empty It's hard to convey what they say They whisper a fray of cliche self hate with 41 years to work it's way to this level of decay It's all consuming, engulfing then removing positivity 'til it's so scarce I'm left to pretend mostly A sparse landscape of depravity naturally Clear cut to make way for the fear factory The soul fractures, now solely fear so to ward off lonely I let it stay Not knowing how to play Leaves me in the dark on what's at play My thoughts They aren't worth a penny My two cents is free I'd pay you to take them all completely Is there a chance it gets messy? Abso-freakin-lutely But oh what a hero you could be Imagine it up on a marquee, shining brightly "Some dumb fuuck, a heros story" (A family movie) I'll be the monkey in the middle, come meet me Come greet me and see purgatory, my state of temporary suffering and predetermined misery What I'm forced to portray is only done cause I must obey or pay some ******* up penalty Knowing I am the game and the prey, feeding a self-righteous gluttony How much more do you want from me? How much more must I contort for thee? ©2024

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Jan 30, 2024

Jan 30, 2024 at 3:35 PM UTC

~•§•~ My Two Cents on My Two Cents ~•§•~

My thoughts They can get scary It's threats, more often than not, not empty It's hard to convey what they say They whisper a fray of cliche self hate with 41 years to work it's way to this level of decay It's all consuming, engulfing then removing positivity 'til it's so scarce I'm left to pretend mostly A sparse landscape of depravity naturally Clear cut to make way for the fear factory The soul fractures, now solely fear so to ward off lonely I let it stay Not knowing how to play Leaves me in the dark on what's at play My thoughts They aren't worth a penny My two cents is free I'd pay you to take them all completely Is there a chance it gets messy? Abso-freakin-lutely But oh what a hero you could be Imagine it up on a marquee, shining brightly "Some dumb fuuck, a heros story" (A family movie) I'll be the monkey in the middle, come meet me Come greet me and see purgatory, my state of temporary suffering and predetermined misery What I'm forced to portray is only done cause I must obey or pay some ******* up penalty Knowing I am the game and the prey, feeding a self-righteous gluttony How much more do you want from me? How much more must I contort for thee? ©2024

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Addicted to it man, just can't let it go Stunned thunder clap, another good show The south-side monster on 16th street Listen to The Words, or just let him be Words that spilled out for Jesus & his drink A Lotus to bloom out of the rough Double down for one more hit of that stuff [CH] Gimme a thunderous clap, a slow rolling roar And I'll always come back for just one more Austin from Tallahassee To Jackson Square in New Orleans The Appalachian trails, to Venice Beach In Florida it'll leave ya sleeping on the street You can find it anywhere There's smoke and drink There's a gambling man (&a gambling chance) Under every marquee [CH] Gimme a thunderous clap, that slow rolling roar I'll always come back for just one more [CH] .....One more score. Addicted to it, can't let it be Every sucker on a stage, (including me) It's not fame, money or glory we seek But if you get a taste, it's so hard to leave Oh, that thunderous clap, that slow steady roar Always coming back for just one more.

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Jan 12, 2019

Jan 12, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC

Addicted to it man, just can't let it go Stunned thunder clap, another good show The south-side monster on 16th street Listen to The Words, or just let him be Words that spilled out for Jesus & his drink A Lotus to bloom out of the rough Double down for one more hit of that stuff [CH] Gimme a thunderous clap, a slow rolling roar And I'll always come back for just one more Austin from Tallahassee To Jackson Square in New Orleans The Appalachian trails, to Venice Beach In Florida it'll leave ya sleeping on the street You can find it anywhere There's smoke and drink There's a gambling man (&a gambling chance) Under every marquee [CH] Gimme a thunderous clap, that slow rolling roar I'll always come back for just one more [CH] .....One more score. Addicted to it, can't let it be Every sucker on a stage, (including me) It's not fame, money or glory we seek But if you get a taste, it's so hard to leave Oh, that thunderous clap, that slow steady roar Always coming back for just one more.

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For the big occasion She's lost a pound or two Last minute jitters playing out Something borrowed, something blue Posies for the bridesmaids Flower in her hair The thought of all those people Gets her feeling scared Roller waiting, protocol demands Be ten minutes late Line up for some memories By the old lych gate Holding back tears of joy She glides the aisle in a daze Nervous smiles exchanged As the ***** plays A moment's pause, new shoe shuffle Children struggle to behave Baby words da da da Echo down the nave No impediments are known As far as we can see No one shouts out from behind Yeah, it should have been me! In the nearby meadow The big marquee awaits Congregation filters back Through the old lych gate The groom pays sincerest thanks To everyone he should The best man airs embarrassments As we knew he would The band strikes up, as they dance The car is 'modified' Lipstick on the window Cans and balloons are tied It's not a worn out cliche As the night winds down they realise They really have just lived through The best day of their lives

0

Aug 3, 2013

Aug 3, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC

For the big occasion She's lost a pound or two Last minute jitters playing out Something borrowed, something blue Posies for the bridesmaids Flower in her hair The thought of all those people Gets her feeling scared Roller waiting, protocol demands Be ten minutes late Line up for some memories By the old lych gate Holding back tears of joy She glides the aisle in a daze Nervous smiles exchanged As the ***** plays A moment's pause, new shoe shuffle Children struggle to behave Baby words da da da Echo down the nave No impediments are known As far as we can see No one shouts out from behind Yeah, it should have been me! In the nearby meadow The big marquee awaits Congregation filters back Through the old lych gate The groom pays sincerest thanks To everyone he should The best man airs embarrassments As we knew he would The band strikes up, as they dance The car is 'modified' Lipstick on the window Cans and balloons are tied It's not a worn out cliche As the night winds down they realise They really have just lived through The best day of their lives

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Every coulee, thirsting, gladly drinks, Every basin and every sleepless hollow; Where duly each charitable droplet sinks, Whither hasten the novel spring follow. Yet it goes, unfolding as a tempo mosies Shoots will shiver open their split edges, To strip, unclothe their budding posies, In the timber, the garden, and hedges; Weaved is a grove of anchored love A Finch or Sparrow to meet another, A nest, a cloak, a marquee high above A den for father, hatchlings & mother.

0

Feb 9, 2017

Feb 9, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC

jamie-l-cantore

Every coulee, thirsting, gladly drinks, Every basin and every sleepless hollow; Where duly each charitable droplet sinks, Whither hasten the novel spring follow. Yet it goes, unfolding as a tempo mosies Shoots will shiver open their split edges, To strip, unclothe their budding posies, In the timber, the garden, and hedges; Weaved is a grove of anchored love A Finch or Sparrow to meet another, A nest, a cloak, a marquee high above A den for father, hatchlings & mother.

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I wish we named every rainstorm. Hurricanes get everything, but It's easy to have everything when All you do is take. I used to think that falling Asleep was the same feeling as Earthquakes shaking the grounds. Don't get stuck in the chasm. Washed up memories, shoe box Chachkis, left untouched through the Eye of the storm. Who knew these Relics would follow you here. Crying as the pouring rain stops Is impossible. All of the tears have been taken. But rippling water is overrated. Have you ever seen sand slide through The Sahara Desert. I've been there. I've seen it. I watched as each minuscule grain slid Down the valley ridges built from years Of wind storms making piles. Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face, Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars. Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin. Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns. A million dandelion spores dancing ballet. Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing. Buried under dunes, only too soon to Uncover you once again. You wouldn't believe how something Solid can so namelessly float across the land.

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Jan 9, 2016

Jan 9, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC

I wish we named every rainstorm. Hurricanes get everything, but It's easy to have everything when All you do is take. I used to think that falling Asleep was the same feeling as Earthquakes shaking the grounds. Don't get stuck in the chasm. Washed up memories, shoe box Chachkis, left untouched through the Eye of the storm. Who knew these Relics would follow you here. Crying as the pouring rain stops Is impossible. All of the tears have been taken. But rippling water is overrated. Have you ever seen sand slide through The Sahara Desert. I've been there. I've seen it. I watched as each minuscule grain slid Down the valley ridges built from years Of wind storms making piles. Piles idiosyncratically stretched across its reddened face, Maybe modeled by the smoldering surface of mars. Lay down and let it wash across your leathered skin. Sensations spreading, each nerve on every centimeter of you Lighting up, marquee, competing with the hot desert suns. A million dandelion spores dancing ballet. Tip top, tip toes to a tarantella timing. Buried under dunes, only too soon to Uncover you once again. You wouldn't believe how something Solid can so namelessly float across the land.

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I leave them all to their drunken joy while only I alone float out the door on a different high. Past the blood stained sidewalk I see only hopelessness, foolishness. The winners and the losers both stained the same red. My heart has slowed, my blood as thick as the gummy ***** that has won its love. Across Nelson st. I continue forth. I stop on the warm black top. I once seen a photograph of Bukowski smiling while standing in this very spot. I stop and try to feel his joy. All at once I feel thick hands pushing me on. "You won't find it here" A deep guttural voice says against the back of my neck. "Nope not here" A tired weep escapes me. "I'm here for you Old Boy" The original Barfly says to me as my tears become the whole of me. "You're losing" His beer dressed breath says into my ear. "I know its hard but you cant stay here." Bukowskis ghost takes hold of my shoulders as I weep. Pushing me on his voice becomes harsh. "God dam it this is how it is!" He stops me dead center on Nelson st. "Didn't you read all that I left for you?" His shouts are slow and raspy. "I warned you!I warned all of you!" I can feel his grip tighten as my sobbing shoulders sag in retreat. "This is how it is!It hurts!" His shouts tear into the night "And the returns are mostly nothing!" His voice lightens the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne are present. "Go on now." His voice now a note above a whisper "Tend to your own demons. We and the Gods are with you." A pat on my right shoulder then Bukowskis ghost is pushing me on. I'm a wreak , I don't want them to go. But I know I cant stay. I know who I'm going to see before I turn around. I know whose hand I felt. My heart begins to slowly rip. My tears run out of flesh and fall onto the still warm black top. Tiny explosions billowing tiny clouds of steam erupt as I turn and see Bukowskis ghost waving a beefy hand at me from the corner of 6th and Nelson st. Next to him stands my Grand Father, the man who broke my heart when the Gods decided to take him away. He's smiling, his malice free eyes just as welled as my own. Bukowski puts his arm around my long dead Grand Father and comforts him as he smiles that smile I still long for in my dreams. I fall apart. Then quietly gather up what little that is left of me. I turn away from the ghosts on Nelson st. Focus on the bright lights of the Warner's marquee and without looking back I continue on.

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Jan 3, 2014

Jan 3, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC

anthony-b-perales

Bukowskis Ghost (6th & Nelson st.)

I leave them all to their drunken joy while only I alone float out the door on a different high. Past the blood stained sidewalk I see only hopelessness, foolishness. The winners and the losers both stained the same red. My heart has slowed, my blood as thick as the gummy ***** that has won its love. Across Nelson st. I continue forth. I stop on the warm black top. I once seen a photograph of Bukowski smiling while standing in this very spot. I stop and try to feel his joy. All at once I feel thick hands pushing me on. "You won't find it here" A deep guttural voice says against the back of my neck. "Nope not here" A tired weep escapes me. "I'm here for you Old Boy" The original Barfly says to me as my tears become the whole of me. "You're losing" His beer dressed breath says into my ear. "I know its hard but you cant stay here." Bukowskis ghost takes hold of my shoulders as I weep. Pushing me on his voice becomes harsh. "God dam it this is how it is!" He stops me dead center on Nelson st. "Didn't you read all that I left for you?" His shouts are slow and raspy. "I warned you!I warned all of you!" I can feel his grip tighten as my sobbing shoulders sag in retreat. "This is how it is!It hurts!" His shouts tear into the night "And the returns are mostly nothing!" His voice lightens the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne are present. "Go on now." His voice now a note above a whisper "Tend to your own demons. We and the Gods are with you." A pat on my right shoulder then Bukowskis ghost is pushing me on. I'm a wreak , I don't want them to go. But I know I cant stay. I know who I'm going to see before I turn around. I know whose hand I felt. My heart begins to slowly rip. My tears run out of flesh and fall onto the still warm black top. Tiny explosions billowing tiny clouds of steam erupt as I turn and see Bukowskis ghost waving a beefy hand at me from the corner of 6th and Nelson st. Next to him stands my Grand Father, the man who broke my heart when the Gods decided to take him away. He's smiling, his malice free eyes just as welled as my own. Bukowski puts his arm around my long dead Grand Father and comforts him as he smiles that smile I still long for in my dreams. I fall apart. Then quietly gather up what little that is left of me. I turn away from the ghosts on Nelson st. Focus on the bright lights of the Warner's marquee and without looking back I continue on.

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There is a violent madness that hides inside all of us, some oppress the chaos, others live in denial Once in a blood moon, hidden in a dark room, vibrations of bedlam, a paracosm of two For the world that we see through a hidden marquee, a putrid stream for the mentally ill Yet with no hesitation, a dark star pulsating, you plunge into the void, then pull me through Fret not, for each thought gives birth to brilliance as we stir the cauldron of the sacred brew Blood and water, son and daughter, resilient to the universe we devour and consume

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Dec 7, 2020

Dec 7, 2020 at 8:00 AM UTC

There is a violent madness that hides inside all of us, some oppress the chaos, others live in denial Once in a blood moon, hidden in a dark room, vibrations of bedlam, a paracosm of two For the world that we see through a hidden marquee, a putrid stream for the mentally ill Yet with no hesitation, a dark star pulsating, you plunge into the void, then pull me through Fret not, for each thought gives birth to brilliance as we stir the cauldron of the sacred brew Blood and water, son and daughter, resilient to the universe we devour and consume

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we amble down, the hill, to the waterside markets. i find it so quaint, that our town has a green beside it's river, running. grass manicured and lush, presently filled with little town of tents, and open marquee stalls that sell, all manner of things, plate sized portobello mushrooms, olive tappenade, great bunches of happy faced flowers, cupcakes of scrumptious, more and more-ish flavours. home made cordials. jewellery, and cushions and carved wooden bread boxes. all spread out for us to see. ant and owls made from old silver spoons..... bonsia trees, fresh herbs, jamon and piccalilli, tropical fruits in smoothies, icecreams and salads and over, under the age old morton bay fig face painters, wooden geegaws and thingymagigs painted in bright carnival colours....... what a way, wonderful and sublime, to while away, a lazy sunday morning.. we amble back up the hill with bags of edible treasures an silver owl named boo.... a child tiger hybrid and a spinning clown....

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May 17, 2014

May 17, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC

under the morton bay fig.

we amble down, the hill, to the waterside markets. i find it so quaint, that our town has a green beside it's river, running. grass manicured and lush, presently filled with little town of tents, and open marquee stalls that sell, all manner of things, plate sized portobello mushrooms, olive tappenade, great bunches of happy faced flowers, cupcakes of scrumptious, more and more-ish flavours. home made cordials. jewellery, and cushions and carved wooden bread boxes. all spread out for us to see. ant and owls made from old silver spoons..... bonsia trees, fresh herbs, jamon and piccalilli, tropical fruits in smoothies, icecreams and salads and over, under the age old morton bay fig face painters, wooden geegaws and thingymagigs painted in bright carnival colours....... what a way, wonderful and sublime, to while away, a lazy sunday morning.. we amble back up the hill with bags of edible treasures an silver owl named boo.... a child tiger hybrid and a spinning clown....

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One night in December, The streets were army gray And hurrying strangers Rushed home for the day. Nimble legged salesmen Sold flowers by the street And rhythm was the rumble Of voices cars and feet. The young were dressed for parties Some sang with radios And over-friendly women Assumed their favorite pose. Trashcan colored beggars Searched gutters with their hands While uniforms saved sinners With sermons songs and bands. Patrolmen sang the pop songs From slowly cruising vans As nighttime changes faces Pushers change their plans. The movie marquee lightning Put movement to the sound As nameless children squabbled For pennies they had found. Uptown they're making movies For Hollywood L.A. They listen to the sirens Downtown far away. The Civic Center phantoms Are easy to forget. Folks simply close their eyes And they haven’t seen them yet. They haven’t seen them yet.

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Jan 7, 2017

Jan 7, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC

CIVIC CENTER PHANTOMS

One night in December, The streets were army gray And hurrying strangers Rushed home for the day. Nimble legged salesmen Sold flowers by the street And rhythm was the rumble Of voices cars and feet. The young were dressed for parties Some sang with radios And over-friendly women Assumed their favorite pose. Trashcan colored beggars Searched gutters with their hands While uniforms saved sinners With sermons songs and bands. Patrolmen sang the pop songs From slowly cruising vans As nighttime changes faces Pushers change their plans. The movie marquee lightning Put movement to the sound As nameless children squabbled For pennies they had found. Uptown they're making movies For Hollywood L.A. They listen to the sirens Downtown far away. The Civic Center phantoms Are easy to forget. Folks simply close their eyes And they haven’t seen them yet. They haven’t seen them yet.

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Cast a glance to the comet up high with a name sounding awkward and dry (in the stellar marquee it's marked 'six-seven-P') and a motion that's hard to descry. As the comet continues to fly, caught in gravity none can defy (yes, it traces ellipses through solar eclipses), we ask 'does dark matter comply'. So, we sent the Rosetta to pry and I can't help but wondering why (once in orbit) we spun it so close to the sun, it is likely to sizzle and fry… But before, we may soon verify that the comet's a custard cream pie made of green cheddar cheese, like the moon, if you please (though that's gospel the savants deny). When receivers no longer reply (at the end of their solar supply), we won't seek to debug 'em, instead we'll we unplug 'em and turn off our spy in the sky. If it's certain Rosetta will die then, oh lordy, I surely will cry if we land it like Philae behind the sun, shyly, before I can whisper goodbye.

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Jun 25, 2015

Jun 25, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC

Cast a glance to the comet up high with a name sounding awkward and dry (in the stellar marquee it's marked 'six-seven-P') and a motion that's hard to descry. As the comet continues to fly, caught in gravity none can defy (yes, it traces ellipses through solar eclipses), we ask 'does dark matter comply'. So, we sent the Rosetta to pry and I can't help but wondering why (once in orbit) we spun it so close to the sun, it is likely to sizzle and fry… But before, we may soon verify that the comet's a custard cream pie made of green cheddar cheese, like the moon, if you please (though that's gospel the savants deny). When receivers no longer reply (at the end of their solar supply), we won't seek to debug 'em, instead we'll we unplug 'em and turn off our spy in the sky. If it's certain Rosetta will die then, oh lordy, I surely will cry if we land it like Philae behind the sun, shyly, before I can whisper goodbye.

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You and Judith sang in the choir at the Major’s daughter’s wedding and after you walked along to the house and gardens where the reception was being held where there were marquees for food of various kinds and a huge beer tent where there was champagne and beer and wine and soft drinks and lemonade and she said I will never have a wedding like this and she glanced around at the marquees and the people in their fine clothes and large hats and waitresses walking with trays of drink maybe not you said taking two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress not with the money my dad gets from farm work she added taking the glass you offered her and sipping and you watched her lips and how they worked the crystal glass and her fingers holding the stem as if it were a gold gem worth more than her father earned in a lifetime but I can always pretend she said and placed her arm under yours and walked you forward over the grass we can always pretend it’s our wedding day and these are our guests and over the way in the entrance of one of the marquees Hill stood with his schoolgirl girlfriend Shirley both supping the bubbly him in his Sunday best and she in a pink and white dress and her blonde hair and stockings and white shoes and you said would we invite Hill and his girlfriend or Tidy and his thick caterpillar eyebrows? she looked over at Hill and pretty Shirley and said we have to be generous when in love and it’s our wedding day and she lay her head on your shoulder and you watched the bride and groom over by the main marquee kissing and embracing and the people around them were cheering and as you both moved on she said where shall we go for our honeymoon? the south of France you said somewhere warm and glancing at the sky it carried a promise of a coming storm.

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Aug 7, 2012

Aug 7, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC

JUDITH AND A WEDDING DAY.

You and Judith sang in the choir at the Major’s daughter’s wedding and after you walked along to the house and gardens where the reception was being held where there were marquees for food of various kinds and a huge beer tent where there was champagne and beer and wine and soft drinks and lemonade and she said I will never have a wedding like this and she glanced around at the marquees and the people in their fine clothes and large hats and waitresses walking with trays of drink maybe not you said taking two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress not with the money my dad gets from farm work she added taking the glass you offered her and sipping and you watched her lips and how they worked the crystal glass and her fingers holding the stem as if it were a gold gem worth more than her father earned in a lifetime but I can always pretend she said and placed her arm under yours and walked you forward over the grass we can always pretend it’s our wedding day and these are our guests and over the way in the entrance of one of the marquees Hill stood with his schoolgirl girlfriend Shirley both supping the bubbly him in his Sunday best and she in a pink and white dress and her blonde hair and stockings and white shoes and you said would we invite Hill and his girlfriend or Tidy and his thick caterpillar eyebrows? she looked over at Hill and pretty Shirley and said we have to be generous when in love and it’s our wedding day and she lay her head on your shoulder and you watched the bride and groom over by the main marquee kissing and embracing and the people around them were cheering and as you both moved on she said where shall we go for our honeymoon? the south of France you said somewhere warm and glancing at the sky it carried a promise of a coming storm.

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The cloudy skies on this dark night Light up wiht dove white light Penetrating near and far Just like an albino star The shadows jump amongst the trees I'm consumed in my white marquee A tender breeze to cool to touch What god created such? Water shimmers in the glow A spotlight on the crowing crow This magical theatre comes to life Like Macbeth with a silver knife But alas here comes the bloodshot skies As the sun begins to rise Pushing the moonlight far away All to return, another day...

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Nov 16, 2014

Nov 16, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC

barnaby-harrison

The cloudy skies on this dark night Light up wiht dove white light Penetrating near and far Just like an albino star The shadows jump amongst the trees I'm consumed in my white marquee A tender breeze to cool to touch What god created such? Water shimmers in the glow A spotlight on the crowing crow This magical theatre comes to life Like Macbeth with a silver knife But alas here comes the bloodshot skies As the sun begins to rise Pushing the moonlight far away All to return, another day...

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I lie on my back- Girls walk around taking pictures they say that the lighting makes them feel funny The river water rushes swiftly and silently over the dam and a scrolling marquee informs me that TIME STANDS STILL . . . COMING SOON I'm talking to you on the phone- My senses tell me that you're far away but my spirit knows you're here... You were here once You must be here now Ahh yes, of course- You are still here but you have changed form Now you are three girls takng pictures And one boy scribbling in a notebook Your body has changed to a skyline and a raging river I can see everything from here- I know just where I want to go but I can't go there yet... It's going to take a little bit of time- But if time stands still How do I get to you? The girls are holding up a white sheet and the model girl is changing behind it and I can hear her slippind out of her clothes Some older ladies have entered the frame- They hold a paper doll in front of a camera and take pictures of it against the yellow tinted windows The girls are leaving- They say that when they get outside they're going to be like "Woah... What is color?" And I hope they're wrong because everyone deserves to see these colors Miniature people ride minature bicycles across a miniature bridge that spans a miniature river Time stands still

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May 13, 2012

May 13, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC

dustin-the-destroyer

9th Floor [Time Stands Still]

I lie on my back- Girls walk around taking pictures they say that the lighting makes them feel funny The river water rushes swiftly and silently over the dam and a scrolling marquee informs me that TIME STANDS STILL . . . COMING SOON I'm talking to you on the phone- My senses tell me that you're far away but my spirit knows you're here... You were here once You must be here now Ahh yes, of course- You are still here but you have changed form Now you are three girls takng pictures And one boy scribbling in a notebook Your body has changed to a skyline and a raging river I can see everything from here- I know just where I want to go but I can't go there yet... It's going to take a little bit of time- But if time stands still How do I get to you? The girls are holding up a white sheet and the model girl is changing behind it and I can hear her slippind out of her clothes Some older ladies have entered the frame- They hold a paper doll in front of a camera and take pictures of it against the yellow tinted windows The girls are leaving- They say that when they get outside they're going to be like "Woah... What is color?" And I hope they're wrong because everyone deserves to see these colors Miniature people ride minature bicycles across a miniature bridge that spans a miniature river Time stands still

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