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what is life to an estranged fisherman who catches shells
but knees held up by strings
sullied and winterbleak
and armless orions
and bar-of-red-soap memories
marred inside a confetti tin can?

i am programmed for a slap or two
down at the old public yard sale
where two cents buys a soul
and a thousand useless words

i have lifted all my woes
from inside the battery cavity
of all my clocks
how they ticked and tocked

and every spring upon the
arrival of ants and mildew
i fold myself into a paper swan
perched atop atticjunk
seen from the circular window
stiff and sullen
Egaeus Thompson Jan 2017
I want to find you
in the mist
in the mildew
in the slow, sure sunrise
I want to find you there
and share a singular bitter cup
sweetened with kisses
in between sips.
You are the key that opens the safe in my chest filled with the painful words embedded in records on repeat.
You turn off the player
and replace the vinyl with
handwritten,
daisy scented,
sealed, and posted love notes
just for me.

I commit every word to memory
so I can hear them all again,
but there is never any need.  
I just look in your eyes
And they're all there.

*Good morning my love.
I hope you delight in what the gods have left behind,
For they wait to delight in you
to be determined May 2018
cigarette smoke clogs her arteries
twelve packs a week
bleeding teeth and nails dawdle in her broken hallucinations
the cloud of harsh chemicals mask the iron in dust
it coats her tongue and hands and feet
the minerals latch onto the crevasses of her flesh
refusing to relinquish their rightful territory
she knows all of this
all it took was ages in a bathtub
overcome with mildew
for their stubborn tendencies to become evident
she's since abandoned attempting to scrub the brine away
this poem has been published in The Gifted Penman's Poetry Collection: Volume One
JJ Hutton Nov 2018
In Room 204 of the Lancaster Motel,
I ease myself into the bath.
Music plays. It's the kind
of pan flute and finger-picked
guitar tune you hear over fuzzed out speakers
in grocery stores. I don't know the source.
The place smells of mildew
and cheap coffee and self pleasure
and Febreeze. I'm tired.
More tired than I've ever been, I think.
Do I still have a job? Until I call in to check, I suppose.
And I suppose this pocket knife will have to do.
I never seem to have a corkscrew on hand when
my mood calls for wine. I stab and jimmy the cork
until I can pry it loose with my teeth. A few
bits of cork float on the surface of the wine.
This does not stop me, nor slow me.
Pollyanna and I stayed in 206,
a detail that calls attention to itself, a detail that
longs for a poetic phrase,
yet I feel little other than the
dull thud of coincidence.
I remember asking her
before that first time if
she thought of *** as
a form or erasure or
addition. She said
both sounded nice.
And something
in the way she said nice,
led me to believe
she landed on an unspoken
third option.  I no
longer had an appetite for *** that evening,
but we acted on it to satisfy expectation.
She turned down the air conditioner,
and we laid there shivering and saying little.
She told me not to leave her.
I said I wouldn't.
I'm in the tub now and the bottle is almost empty
and all of this is so selfish and stupid
and I'm just doing it for the sake of habit
and sad sack poetry and ultimately
an "I-Eat-*****" consolation fedora in heaven. And I'm
self aware but the trajectory spirals against my will.
And my life entire burns a little slapstick,
so I get outside of myself--watch, enjoy.
Morning has broken,
a borning worth mocken.
Warden Sun slurks
up, looking for all the world
l/ lastterm's teabag still on the kitchencounter
of student who spent her summerjob corporatively
manslaughtered.
Splendid morningsafter are Sky
Fawkes's housewarmings of no fixed abode,
but this mildew morning drizzturbs
sans amber clamour, dockwork
orange & aubade-bleed into poetic carparks.  

O aubergine azure!
Lumbers me w/ a langour impure.
Busman's holiday for Helios in Goshen,
unlike Lyartsander fullofwoe & Wednes-grey,
who would choose chota hazri
of vit.d, at least  
a monkey's
wedding, over yet another hyetal heist
of a perfectly fine day.
At chirruped shatter of Tirralira FM,
who was up in a haze
of coffee & tea, smuggled miracle days?

Begrudged continuous miracle, rife
w/ nice lives, but life's
not such a luckyfind, merely
the strife galling forth pluck that
binds lackies to cells
& latchkey legacies. Habitforming titration
to the tritical, the trivyelled
9-5 shadiness, 24/7 extinction,
our most unapish aspirations working their notices. Rats
sinking to the bottom of the ballast dew. Shagnasty
nescafelife, REALInotmycupofTY. Good
Morning Godot Depot Of Affoisted Dusthood!

FYI all jentacular pollyannas,
lastnight I watched a doc or 3 on ******'s pyjamas,
as well as a reality show on the morrisband
from
Broadmoor.
Then News
24 till 4.
Now scooze
me if some
seminal television starring Rowland
Rivron has got me allsentimental on being cynical:
TV listings tomoz promise small hours of cultural miracles.

Summer in the city should be
mongogenic as Mungo Jerry's
'Summer In The City'. It is in a way:
the glaw, it glaweth everyday.But
the sun still lit up a
mole l/ a fox - scintillatingly flinches Jupitertawn,
Jupiter-
fawn.
The Hyades stayedput,
so best return to stertor, study
a gaseous sleeperhold in the sandman's yoga class,
heuristically: carpe diem cras.

Pesky petitbourgeoisie
in their lobrid SUVs
transport portliness to transport
links, once sofas & fruitbowls
relinquish jingly
ignitors. Balance due to the diurnal toxins, the dismal poisons,
the regnant moral obscurity:
the outlook looks bright for those who'd like one
last great fireball
gig, globalised vespertine slagheap
of Kali Yuga. Endgame encore is ongoing
bomb of -yawn - sameold brandnew obnubilant morning.
Valentina Elixir Aug 2018
I banged my head onto the wall until it got splattered to a thousand pieces of colourful mosaic;
******* all the gloom, wet and sticky, on which they lay and grew prosaic.

Somethings like flowers, like coloured rain drops fell on my hands;
Through which they easily pervaded.

Flowing up, through the vessels, to the brain;
Overflowing and leaking from the wrinkles and filling up the skull,through the ears out they drain.                        

Creating infinite abstract blooms, which try escaping;
Out, again into the gloom, of the head that is dehiscing.

Those invisible blossoms spread across the room like mildew;
Soon creating a world of their own, **** and new.
Julian Jul 2016
Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though **** unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream
Life, Love and No Mathematics to God and Gain
Emilea Burgh Feb 2
the house across the street
has been empty
for years
because the landlord can’t afford
to tear it down
or build a new one
and it won’t pass inspection

one lamp stays on
all day
all night
to deter the copper thieves
or any other broken soul
seeking shelter
from the streets

a child runs across the splintered floor
his feet black as tar
stinking of mildew and *****
a mother sinks into her soiled chair
but she tries

a trust-fund recipient rides his jet-ski
his oiled body
tanned and toned
a father, gleaming, takes a photo
and he flaunts

everyone has their own place in the world
in a trailer park
in a tent
in a split-level home
in a shelter
in a palace

but never on the pavement
beaten down
like a poorly-trained dog
blamed for the errors
of its master
Shadow Puppet Jul 12
My soul seeps through the floor boards
I pray to the lord he'll take me with a flaming sword

The chords have wrapped around my wrist and feet
My fingers bleed like mold dripping from my missing ceiling

There's not a scream left in me
Not a voice
You drown it out when you create voids
Digging past my surface planting hurtful words and poisoning purity

I took all the mirrors down
They reflect the mildew of grief
Anguish supreme
Reign of anger and hate

I mourn for what was torn out of me
I cannot write what is intangible
Unforeseen
I just want to forget what's happening

Which is why I'm done writing

I can't speak so I can't use words to truly express anything
The chords around my wrist and feet are on my throat in my mouth

Weep
Vocal chords vibrating from the shaking of cold rigid fear

Fear I find when I awake mid-night crying out for
No one and nothing... nowhere.
Created 6.10.19
J G Nov 2018
The warmth of your breath
Touches my skin in more ways than one
The scent of your sweat and the morning mildew
Seeps into the depths of the disheveled and stained white sheets

Everything that tries to make me let go
The fear that I might lose you
In my own claustrophobic mind
Yet, this moment occupies my mind

But we lay together, laughing away the fear
A breath of innocence for the both of us
Though the world will try to break our bond
You stayed

The steady pace of beating hearts and slowed breathing
One half of one another, our minds together
Free
T R S Sep 14
I held my tongue.
As often as I could.
While dating the skinny-faced girl.

Sure.
When she twirled me around,
I found myself out of my own head.

And
Sure.
Even when she was found dead,
in the comfort of the bed,
in that house of hers,
doused with secrets and drug-fueled murmurs.

It's stirred something deep down inside.
Whirred up all of my hiding hidden emotions.

Sure.
Sowed.
And show how action over devotion
determines who's actually in charge.

Ugh.
So I barged into my mildew-made storage unit.
And I used it to plop down
And sit.
And see.
On a concrete floor.
With nothin.
Just me.
and I mangled me.
Exsanguinated.
Strangled.
With bloodshot eyes.
Enough.
Enough to manage to see how
hate
and hard hell
can create an icecold shell
over everything I ever wanted to be.
when all the birds have broken their wings
i will find comfort in the warmth of your blood on my hands.
time tells nothing
i reminisce about torn seams
and ***** dreams
as i scrape out remnants of the
purity trapped in the mildew under your floorboards

O Hearken! the lilies are singing to us!
(forever entranced by the acacia with the broken branches)
i have swallowed the frail bodies of the nightingales
and i have promised to protect them with my own flesh;
put your hands within me and you'll know the breaking of their hollow bones

Our God sees everything! how could anyone have a mother?
your ivory rib cage shatters under the weight of a thousand Saviors
as the unforeseen expanses of the universe
blot out what was left of your conscience
(snapped like a toothpick in His holy fingers)
just like those bitter nights when i hear
cassiopeia screaming to be freed of heaven’s chokehold.

O Hearken! kneel for The Great Reprieve!
when all the birds have broken their wings—
oh mercy you, oh mercy me
i have returned!! hello everyone i have missed HP dearly!!
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley

A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance

Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run

All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground

The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns

The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown

The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned

The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint

The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone

When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?

Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Stark Lights
Fill the room
Nowhere to run
Skies collapse
Thunderclaps
Where do they come from?
You shrink inside
Run to the covers
The bed is wet
Smells of mildew
Maybe they killed you.
Who's next door?
And why is it Screaming?
Come and play..
Tammy Cusick Aug 23
*
Piercing eyes
pale white gowns,

furrowed brow's
big bright crowns,

horizontal smiles
across floor to ceiling paintings
limp of emotion,

distraught in sepia
color at rest,

mildew in the teeth
callous on the tongue,
nails in the feet
dragging dead weight,

wrapped in burlap
tied in loose ribbon,

clammy cold hands
only for the given,
dilated.

red in the face
angry with a fist
distraught in the heart,
spliced across the wrist.
sandra wyllie May 29
I feel like a bulging drip
on the ceiling tiles, as it grows heavy. It must shed
from its own weight. It collects in a bucket
of overused smiles. Gets thrown out once it’s filled up,

along with the mildew and other rot of broken
promises and lost thoughts. The tinny sound of each plunk
leaves me in a funk. So, I naturally crawl
back inside the spaces overhead where the furring

strips have lost their grip. At some point the whole thing
will collapse like a house of cards unevenly
stacked. But until it happens, I’ll go kerplop. Make bluesy music
with each resounding drop until I reached the top,
and get emptied out again like a longshoreman.
JN Cole Aug 2018
swim awayswim away


paper tyger
burning bright
in the forests
of the night
caught in
screens of
black
forest trees
paper tyger
burn
the night

swimaway swim away

paper tyger
burning bright
in the forests
of the night
burn
the woods
burn
the woods down
burn it all
but keep me
alive
keep me alive

keep me
alive
i will eat
the moss
out of
your sinews

keep me
a life
living off
of stardust
and of mildew

keep me
keep me

embers flicker
embers flicker
i will eat
the ashes
of your
heart

burn it all
burn it all down
don't let me
fade away

paper tyger
burning bright
in the forests
of the night
fill the sky
fill the sky
with glories
from your
lanterns
burn the night
burn the light
paper tyger
burning bright

swim away swimaway
Bruce Levine Feb 14
Proactive
Reactive
Choosing the path to follow

My eye’s on the rainbow
Holding on to dreams
Keeping pace with forever

This is my house
This is where I grew up
This is where I want to live and die

3/28/17

*

My time to shine
Simply Faded
Holding a near empty glass

Her life is about making money
My life is about making art
What is one without the other?

When unto touch
Impenetrable towers
Open your heart before your eyes

3/31/17



hidden dreams of glory
soaring over trees
flocks of birds on an august morn

sweet september
fly-fish casting
swallows nesting and honey bees


early evening sunsets
pink and orange clouds
holding hands with moonlight

8/2/17



enlightened enigma
pervades the temperance of time
holding moments against shadows

8/31/17



The tapestry of the mind
Filled with golden threads
Like the orbits in the universe

9/3/17



The happenstance of fate
Turns reality into daydreams
Or is it the other way around?

9/4/17



Florida
The land of mold, mildew
And bug bits

But memories aren’t enough
and the sadness of the times and places being gone
can never retrieve the times and places.

10/19/17



The pestilence of time
Transcends the boundaries of fate
And takes its own rewards

10/27/17



Plotting the day before me
I look at the empty page
And wonder at the metaphor

In the age of technology
We’ve reached a new low
The age of mediocrity

11/16/17



The Quest

There is no such thing as an impossible dream
Because the only thing impossible is that one can never reach the end
And, in one sense, maybe the quest is the end unto itself

11/21/17




It’s supposed to be fall
But the trees don’t seem to know it
New leaves struggle to fill up empty limbs

As the sun focuses on a single tree
Like a lighting “special” pinpoints an object on stage
Life projects its essence of humanity.

12/1/17





Tranquility Abandoned

The sudden, torrential, downpour sent him running for cover
He grabbed his computer, book and writing kit and ran inside
Tranquility abandoned.

12/9/17


Manhattan Tempo

I pace at a Manhattan tempo
Frantic reality, utter turmoil
Lost in the quicksand of fate

12/11/17


Another week of our lives
Torn away from us
And now another and another…

12/8 & 13/17


Death hangs over me
Like an anvil waiting for the blacksmith’s hammer
Where’s the Christmas miracle?

12/15/17



Hope draws me on
To a journey not yet taken
And a destiny unfulfilled

3/10/18

*

Reliving the days
Of your fading life
The last bowl of broth

4/5/18
Traversing the world alone
It’s the good mem’ries
That hurt the most

6/30/18



The yellow light of dawn
Burning through the trees
Awakening the day

7/26/18



A yellow crescent moon
That overlooks the landscape
And hyphenates the stars

8/15/18



Now that you are mine
Sent from Heaven to be with me
I am yours forever

8/29/18



The temperature dropped
But the warmth of the sun fills the room
Like love fills the heart

10/14/18

*


Meditation in motion
Slow locomotion
The torch of devotion

11/20/18



Re: Social Media

My hatred increases
In geometric progression
To my daily existence

11/29/18

*


The Road of Love

The road of love is long
Filled with potholes and bumps
Along the way

12/6/18


Yenson Aug 20
There stands our Novel Chamberlain
Xenophobic uber-prat with top dog pretensions
a weak chine coward showing profile unrefined
goggles dark, black shirted.shameless bully craves attentions
parody of a man mired in semblance exuding puerile ignorance fine
insipid pale republican Tonton Macoute compensating his limitations

There stands our novel Chamberlain
a oaf with mildew loaf, the  ubiquitous Brown shirt warrior
he's here, there pontificating absurd prose worthy of disdain
cringing vocabulary, warped voyeuristic styles, he straddles Parlio
emitting odious **** of a mentally deranged finding shelter in de rain
basking in mock praises from acolytes and accounts in his alter-egos

There stands our Nonentity Chamberlain
the charlatan of all poetic sides and raconteur un- magnifique
he's eaten in Laos, slept i Siberia, climbed the Laurent and lion slain
been all over the world, bedded women from China to Mozambique
he is a trialist, finalist, racialist, specialist, a fantasist, all but not plain
as he sits in ***** drawers in a dingy room masking his life oblique

There stands our 'no-mark' Chamberlain
dark shades and black T-shirt a poser fantasizing he is a G-man
look behind the facade and see the under-endowed troll insane
a coward, a nasty, witless, brain addled yob and **** fresh in a can
show me the confident wholesome being who does like this knave
a fake con artist, buffoon, with the pretentious guise so much in frame

— The End —