"neons" poems
Destination home...
Making my way
Sleepy heads leaning
End of the day
Different people
Diverse ethnic races
Same endpoints
For us nameless faces
Where we're headed
Timeless cues
Rain-stained windows offer
Only blurred views
Beautiful display
Droplets colliding
Like liquid missiles
Crashing and merging
Yellow street lamps
Neons on buildings
Vehicular signals
Intermittent flashings
Reds, greens and ambers
Fighting for attention
Blues, whites and their hues
Feast for perception
Myriad colours
Refracted and broken
Prism induced dispersal
Little light show haven
Quite the spectacle
This dance and flight
Kaleidoscopic effect
Between water and light
Rain didn't abate
Unleashing full fury
All of us still safe
Capsule of tranquillity
Watching the chaos
Still silently looking
Overwhelming wonder
Heart is choking
Found myself tearing
At the sight of this view
Realised for certain
That I'm missing you...
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Streaks
from worn out wipers
dented cans, plastic wrappers
the glow of a cigarette ****
lying comfortably
in the ashtray
white knuckles tight
on a weathered wheel
empty roads
cold and black
eyes tired but open
like trucker stops
or roadside diners
with the neons
still on
I keep driving
teetering between
my existence
and a sweet dream
I’d slip into that slumber
if not for the passengers
still fast asleep
in my back seat
So I keep driving
as quiet
and as lonely
as it may be
I keep driving
because
somebody
is putting
their trust
in me
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
*The desperate pounding
on the wall can be heard*
"Love Love Love"
I can't believe you're so shallow.
You refuse. You die.
You vanish like a burning hay,
right here, on the blackened way.
Candy peaks, monotonous points in the sea
Let me descend
Open you a bit
River,
Sun,
foamy stream,
You drown,
Love, dream, dream!
TV screens
Times square
Light-ants
Electric signals through wires
deep dark night flooding rush
Volcano erupting
Surface! Screammm!
Neons
Alcohol on glass
Old charwoman rubs it
with rag
Hands shake you
in the foamy stream
Ha!
Who was right?
The night staggers you
with thousand stars
Wolves howling
Moon
Mushrooms
Dew & violet & knights
& Mysteries
Welcome to the old days
Tomorrow you will be introduced
to the wise King of England
A rocker picks up stuff
and scatters the TV screen
bottles of liqour are smashed
in his house
Glass scattered, guitars wrecked - he's crazy,
pulling out hair, gnashing teeth
-You all killed him
and You are not even aware
Meanwhile a man strolls the woods
searches for mushrooms
on sunny autumn day
he smells moss, bark and undergrowth
He's contemplating the topics of
childhood & ******
Red lipstick smears all over her lips
She's the animal queen
All belongs to her
Thanks to her claws,
cat-moan, and the
short living
aggressive cinder
she owns.
Leather jacket be her weapon,
Night be her moment.
I am the Eye,
and what I see
is a child picking yellow petals
of sow-thistle
kneeling in the sun
in his timeless summer.
Who would know,
that this chapter
would be closed
one day
and the brown leather book
would become dusty
someday
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Keen little neons
playfully jump around, colliding with her mind
and she sits there, legs crossed, her ***** aroused,
but it gets doused as the Wall Street pinstripe type walks by
she utters a sigh, looks at the sky, the ending's nigh, and it's night.
Skyline looks pretty
beams and lighted apartment block kitchens and real pop-up ads,
them keen little neons,
her eyes flicker like those hanging lights in horror films,
perpetuate fear, the skeletons are in the clear.
I told you, you schmuck, the end is near.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
I am cursing the rain in bright black and grey ink in beautiful cursive writing. I know you're questioning how black and grey can be bright but If you don't know, you'll never know.
I am painting sunsets on canvas but with pastels instead of neons. It's almost a bit too sad instead of a bit to happy; so fitting for a sun that's disappearing, right ?
I am swallowing pills mixing them with liquor, testing out theories to see if I can find the right way to write. All I see is blurry candle light and a dragon on my wall telling me my writing *****
And it's sad to think how pessimistic this poem started but how within a 15 minute drive home I've come to see....
That all the rain cleared up the night sky and out came those glimmering ***** of fire we call stars. I've caught myself staring but I always have different emotions with each glance.
Tonight..I guess the world isn't so sad after all.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Water is reeked with nicotine
The souls are reeked with Ginsberg
but the heads and the thoughts have both pungent smell like
hot rooster comb flowers
I slept last time the day before yesterday
I saw the ****** Mary so beautiful
in that glow of blue & gold
neons of Bethlehem
thumbing a lift near a cadillac with CD plate
& the jazz was caroling in wet sand
there were twelve bars in the honour of that boy
who has to come here one day finally, ****
he has to come just for jamming in this world
as it's said he could /!/ get all that mess of ours
off ourselves gentlemanly playing the part.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 10:16 PM UTC
It was late at night, And
It was dark outside, where
the lights from the train were
flashing and flickering on
the underground walls.
The station arrived,
We were alone.
The empty station walls
were illuminated with
broken, glimmering neons
along with its buzzy sound,
As we were walking down
with our grasped hands
towards the exit on
a shutdown escalator.
It was so silent a time,
Even, our thoughts
could be heard, as
mine was saying
of the station. The station,
Where it all started someday,
ended once for a while,
But will now end soon.
For ever.
We left the station,
Where she went another way,
And I waited for a ride to home,
which never came, But
The streets, the bridge, The trains
were sighing on me. The ones,
I will never arrive, never ride.
Still, the long whistle, will
once more, force me back,
Down the memory lane
As a tear will wash the dust,
off my old shoes, that I will
Never wear again.....
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
The sky exploded red that evening
as the sun descended on the valley
and in the silhouette
I remember
the oil lamp lit up by her door
With cold winds and tired legs
I made it up the stony trail
and through the fatigue
I remember
her little hut puffing chimney smoke
A simple meal to fill me,
a fire to remedy the frost
and in the light of the flame
I remember
her eyes adorned with a desolate shine
Night fell soon after
stars danced in the naked sky
and as the moonlight kissed the peaks
I remember
her warm hands subtly grasping mine
On the morrow
we said our farewells
but as I started my descent
I remember
a sudden pang of insoluble woe
and I rushed back
the path of green and stone
with all the nerve I could muster
I remember
leaving a letter in a makeshift envelope
As often as I was entitled
I found myself back in the lone hamlet
as if to keep an unspoken vow, every time
I remember
her eyes of sadness, her smile of greeting
until the day we broke tradition
for there was no familiar face
where the trail ended
I remember
the cruel north wind cutting me open
A decade since,
of prayers to false gods in prodigal shrines
and with eyes shut
I remember
her hair billowing before the winter snow
In the monotony of city lights,
of skyscrapers and street neons
rising cigarette smoke up in the sky
I remember
the dance of the stars, the warmth of her hold
--
Every time
I dare go up the hill since
and gaze at the empty summit,
These memories seem to keep waning
So as I move across the highway this time
I remember
to forget the trail route to heaven.
-X-
Oct 16, 2021
Oct 16, 2021 at 5:33 PM UTC
artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...
~~~
to, for & from SJR
~
this force,
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine
write write rite right
consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to
write write rite right
cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?
street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?
lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity
from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.
all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights
he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,
and is satisfied
unto sleep
praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to
write write rite right
4/16/16
10:30am
nyc
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
Mommy mommy
take me home
I've wandered these streets
alone
for far too long
what's a grown man to do
not knowing exactly
what he's supposed to do.
Bourn too many moments
of other's sorrows
at the expense of my own.
Mommy mommy
take me home
I saw you in my
dreams last night
a corpse in a car
you honked
as you drove on by
my thumb was out
trying to hitch a ride
to where I can not say
you put your finger to your lips
"Shush, baby"
was all you had to say.
The lights of the city burn
each one someone's home
each apartment
like souls
world's of their own
I've knocked on many doors
and some have let me in
though a place to rest
no home, no peace, no silence
for me.
I've been a restless poet
a wanderer too
forever traveling through
those internal landscapes
a paid guide
through all those painful memories
and those standing on the edge of suicide
some move along
some fall behind
I offer that pool of peace
reflections
is all I've had to give.
Mommy mommy
take me home
you are running far too late
I've been alone out here far too long.
Standing on this corner waiting
my eyes are tired
in burn outs fading light
the
streets shine neons invitations
but none welcome me.
Mommy mommy
what did you mean
when you put me out here
to be
and when will you pick me up
or
will I remain forever lost
out on this corner
thinking each car coming is you.
I'm still wandering these streets
paying the cost
looking for home
looking for you.
Mommy mommy
time to take me home
time to take me back to you.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
My life has become a bit like a fishbowl:
the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to
be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger-
prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons:
blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the
cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in
the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every
now and then to see how much you really care when I let
myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow
of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been
placed next to my bowl. Some nights you
forget to turn it off, but I don't mind
so much because at least then I
can watch over you at night
the way you watch over
her, instead of me.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 11:47 AM UTC
They hang limply from the walls as
Old friend DECAY settles
Suburbia Mexicana neons and
Obscene jabs in raspberry
Demonizing the scalp of an 18th cake
The lipstick is not dark enough to
Carry a meaning here
No scent lingers as the calendar turns
Another year burnt to death as
We move further away from coincidence
And desperately memorize the lines of a
Modern work, every brushstroke an intellectual
Marvel so if we stare enough it will enfold on
Itself to glass
Guten morgen, Herr Schicksal!
Would you be so kind as to
Dissolve the peppermint stench
And leave the shower on?
I may see a reflection through the
Steam and like it more than yours
I never much liked chloroform or
Frosted roses
Settle on with
Delusions of Poland
And lazy eye tangos
With naked melodies re-vamped
By a 21st century greaser
Please don’t leave
Hail to Canon, brute of mine!
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
The city is slick with neons winking
at unwary pedestrians
inviting wallets into opening up
credit cards and false dreams
of luxury. Few care about seduction.
The rain drops gently
scattering sparkles
that nobody cares about. None.
at 5pm
the only interesting pathway is
home. All.
Day pulls its shutters close
and the nightlights
imitate day.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
sleep forsaken.
this is why we are Night:
when all sunhidden
natures awake.
and the stars fish for friends
in the deepest pools of our heads.
(can you feel it
in your heart's fingertips?)
a curious buzzing of bees
like a transcendental scattering
of omnipossibilities.
up and down,
block and flow;
smallest sparks erupt into a fireshow.
(spiderwebs of thought)
catching magic by its wings,
from which Genesis unites
these disparate things.
(behold, my beloved)
but all too soon
the neons flicker:
(like eclipsing moons)
castles drown,
oceans fly,
and the dullness of Day resumes.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
There is a hole in me
it's a perfect circle
No need to pinpoint the location
It's not as if anyone could fill it
Even if they knew exactly where it is
There is a hole in me
Maybe it encompasses my field
You see it in my hands or in my back
This hole doesn't have a bottom
Maybe it could, but it's like the ocean
Too deep to measure without giving myself to it
I've dumped many relationships in this hole
accuse me of ******
but no one will find their bodies
I've had some people climb down there on their own volition
thought they could be my archeologist
save me from this emptiness
I never saw them again
If a stranger happens to run into it, I'm prepared for this
I've wrapped caution tape and neons signs with the words "slippery when wet!"
And another sign that says "construction at work, drive slowly"
Another sign says "Not liable for any accidents, procceed at your own risk"
At night I hold a flashlight to the hole
and see spiderwebs but no spiders made of jagged rocks
other than that I see no sign of life
sometimes when I'm feeling pointless I take a shovel
and toss some dirt down
Hopeful that could make a difference
When the wind hits 75 mph in my head
the hole E C H O E S
it has powerful acoustics
sometimes eery mostly hollow
but often sounds like a mountain lion in heat
There is a hole in me that might never be filled or tapped for well water
This hole was created by a broken family
A Mother and A Father
And now passed on to the daughter
Because of this hole I am suggestible to fall in other holes
like the depression hole
it's very dark in there and millions of people are in it
but no one is aware they aren't alone
and once you're there no one plans on getting out
or the financial hole
where people in fancy suits consistently throw down reciepts
or call out your name but never lend a helping hand
Or the desperation hole
where creepy men lurk in the shadows
begging to give me money if I undress them and open my legs
with my eyes shut
there could be something for me
Somewhere down there
in my hole
A secret I need to know or a way into another world
But I am too scared to fall in and let go
It could be the death of my ego
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
the light pulses
flashes
draws you in
it narrows
and widens
can’t block out that glow
it flickers
Begging for your attention
Like a helpless moth
You're flying towards it
Confused
This isn't the real light
These girls, like neons they got you
These numbers they flickering like the halogen
and they got you
They promising everlasting love like LEDs
and it got you
Got you frantic
chasing that lime light
You're in that frame
Shine bright like the sun
Staring at it too long
and you’ll go blind
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Time slipped off my mind,
So did life and reality.
But as they hanged the lights,
and started planting the
green neons, I recalled time,
Just two days to the
Great Indian festival,
Where I visioned her,
With the red dress,
And the big round ear rings,
Walking the pavements with me.
The lights seemed vibrant,
The breeze smelt catkins,
And the rusty autumn leaves
filled the streets, where
we walked down with hands gripped.
Ow what beautiful a time.
But time ain't going to be the same,
My hands would soon be left free,
My heart torn apart, with blood
filling up her empty soul, As
We would face the time, with
wet eyes and a heavy voice, as
The next time, The lights
would be dimmed, the breeze,
would smell whisky, The rusty leaves,
fill my hair, Where she kissed me,
Under the same tree.....
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
A faith to laws;
victim to burdens
and heavy with flaws,
yet sails seas in sleep,
breathing untouched miles,
A life from mans keep
with plentiful isles.
Under in dream, away from toil.
Relief is her coastlines and seagulls,
ebonies and greens,
pastels and neons,
pure to the seam
and whole.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
From my perch that's high above
I survey the vastness that's below;
The great sprawling urban “utopia”
Tis a jungle with no hint of nature.
I see a maze of concrete and asphalt,
Neons and walls of synthetic colour.
I see a great haze of smoke and dust
Kicked up by them migrating hordes.
Built by and for the human master,
All other species are mere scavengers.
Here we are supreme and defy nature
Now that we are at evolutionary peak.
But then I spot a strange anomaly
On the roof of a derelict structure.
Weeds grow roots into its fissures,
Year by year they go more deeper
Is this a sign, I begin to ponder,
Of greater reversals yet to come,
When “utopian” bubble finally bursts
Under the weight of our arrogance?
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
The night exhales
loud, ***** coated breath and
on an inhale pulls me like
the tug of a cigarette filter
through flashing neons
pressed against a navy blue
ceiling
floor
wall and
button up shirt
of a Welsh boy
named Adam, who offers
a rib disguised as a dance and
out on Wind Street I stumble
the Eve of Swansea
with my American accent
the apple already tucked in my throat
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
Spare me but a moment,
No longer,
No less.
Allow me to drift away from this place;
Allow me to close my weary eyes,
And disappear.
In this moment,
I shall be freed from the anachronism
That is within me
And surrounds me.
I shall no longer hear the shriek
Of fleeting automobiles,
Nor the scattered screams and shouts
Of the fools in the city.
It shall all vanish,
Only to be relieved by
Those ancient, mesmerizing melodies
Of both music and laughter.
No longer shall I see the gray tiled floors
Glazed with an insidious toxic polish,
Nor strain my eyes to see beyond
The flashing neons of places I dare not tread.
I shall see only the fond smiles
Of lovers,
As they sway back and forth amidst
The mellifluous music of the gala.
I want nothing more than to sway,
To be held in the arms of a man
Who no longer exists.
Through agonizing ages,
It seems the gentlemen could not endure
All that threatened to erase them from
This world.
The tower grows ever taller wherein
Rapunzel waits;
The taste of the apple that
Poisoned Snow White
Still lingers upon her lips.
Sleeping Beauty ever rests;
No prince shall come
To her aid.
Spare me but a moment,
For if time is truly manmade,
Allow me to drift away
Eternally into the past.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 2:08 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish there were two of me;
And sometimes I wish there were none of me.
I wonder, if I were to split myself down the middle clean,
What I would do with either side.
Maybe I would send my right side to school;
While my left side mellowed in poetry all alone at home.
Maybe my left side would fall in love;
And my right side love herself.
I think I would teach my right side manners; she would talk very properly, with her posture being straight and definite. Her hair would be braided into eight neat sections, not one strand being audacious enough to fall out of place onto her forehead. She would sit with her fingers clasped neatly on the lap of her freshly pressed dress. Her smile would be bold but not daring; with dainty dimples guarding her cheeks. She would be the most beautiful girl you’ve ever met. She would be the fresh dew coating morning grass; she would be the last sip of peppermint tea in December. That would be my right side.
I probably would be a lot easier on my left side. I would set rules but probably forget to enforce them, maybe. My right side would be jovial and carefree. She would wear neons and bellbottoms so wide they swept up every splinter she graced over. She would wade in the bog in August’s damp mornings and you’d be shocked when a splash of water touched her unkempt hair and the slightest curl would form under the frizz. She would love anyone aimlessly like the hopeless romantic she was; she would break hearts and she sure would get her heart broken; but she wouldn’t mind, a broken heart to her was nothing but a separation of phenomenal worlds, and in fact she missed revelling in the fiction of her own. She would be the weeds lining your back yard; every last one of them. The yellow dandelions that you would never pluck because you wanted them to grow into the white fluff that you could make wishes on. That would be my left side.
Except when reality hits, I remember I can’t split myself in two. So I guess my left side and my right side will remain where they are, being the prince and the pauper of my conscious thoughts. They might not be completely fiction; however, I know that because I’ve met them before. Sometimes my right side counts sheep for me before bed, while my left side smiles radiantly at me when I wake up. If only they could ever meet each other, I know they’d become inseparable. They do say that opposites attract, you know.
Two-faced
(12.12.2020)
—adrianatamara
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 12:30 PM UTC
What is it that roars in the distance,
O, mankind who's soul shall be made to weep
It is the bellow of The Lion
As he prowls upon his keep.
The Lion is the comupance of your sins, my boy
His glare the road to perdition
His teeth the the small brush
with which you clean the floors
of the stalls of Hell.
Janitor has one eye and
Railroad cap.
He knows the ropes
He has been long employed
Spitoon laying sideways
Shows the slow tenure.
Rotted tooth teaches wisdom
No comely comfort in
Convalecent Cell of Hell
Men in fedoras
The thought that
There are neons
and noir outside
And The Ghost of Lust
But none produces the tentacle tingle
My geriatric genitals swoon no more
at Turn of the Century Erotica
In that is cheap Irony.
Eeerie green light from gacious lamp
Shows spirits in the curtains
In the pictures
on the tin-types of the ancestors
"It is always about ten in the morning here, Witty"
"That is a nice time to be"
"But your favorite time was eleven thirty, was it not?
and also April and all her tulips and fertile smell?"
"Yea"
"It's March.."
****
Did not even get capitalized because the soul is destroyed.
Beleagured.
Doomed ******
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC