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Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
Single years roll down my face,
I send smoke signals to teenagers
Lost in the sound of their personal midnight,
Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’
and remain unquantifiable
in the loose streets of halogen New York,
or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,

Some places you don’t imagine, only experience,
Some places you don’t  visit but get sent,
Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have,
Some places are just prayers and graffiti,

And here, here
The railway bridge adorned,
with tags and padlocks
and ****** fluids with different stories,
I see all the streets and city embodied,
She has a face like blunt force trauma,
Her legs are seductive and her hands
are covered in blood,
Her lover’s smile is an open wound.

In these places there is a fire in every tower,
In these places there is something sharp in every pocket,
In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook,
In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.

A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man
hanging from a traffic light;
Incidents unrelated,
Become dead words in piles of boxes,
That don’t realise they tell us how
this city or satellite town
is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.
chimaera Aug 2014
Words:
whispering sybils
of concealed worlds.
In betweens and beyonds,
somewheres and nowheres,
truths for making believe.

Words.

Carmine nostalgia of the unexperienced.
Utopia upon a time.
Windmill wings to grow a heart,
flavours and scents of new seen worlds,
tangible places pulsating in snow globes,
cosmogony of what is not.

Words:
scribbling, engraving a forever world.
29.08.2014
Ruben Hayward Jul 2015
now is the time, she says.
    she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
    crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
  it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
         now is the time, she says.
    I say not much, they say.
          not much like a Polaroid
   of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
         it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
      factual information is less than an obituary
          telling you that your wife is dead.
        my inalienable right to make pancakes
           at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
    like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
         but, ah, what was that she said---
        a million things all at once with no simile
             (the walls make sound, but
     my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
          no cohesion, no considerable operations,
    no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
        my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
      with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
           my wound grows down the trees like ivy
                my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
            I breathe I breathe
    smaller breathes to not disturb you.
     so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
           you shift like the moon tossing
     on waves of cloud;
         what gods have I to curse
     when thou art fled?
          Little lines can't suffice,
        empty is a word not full--  
               opulence and splendor
         like my toes in the damp summer grass.
              inhale, please, and take your pulse
        out in the cold because  
     the dryer is broken,
         everything beeps at me
        and houses shiver in nightmare.
Travis Dixon Feb 2012
nobody whose who’s
****** bleeding nothing’s
lost or found amongst
swing swung sounds
and rebound where
nowheres echo off violence’s
clamoring dictum: to each’s own
silent stammering victim  

no bits limit the need to share
no stars emit light without due glare
no atom resists the urge to fuse
no one exists alone to choose

yesterday isn’t tomorrow’s
friend forever, yet
if not, one today might wonder
when rain wasn’t
more than lightning’s thunder?
Olivia May 2018
I’m not a pessimist.

But I hear the drumbeat of inadequacy
Keeping time to the echoed songs of a forgotten world.

I’m not a pessimist.

But I feel the bass of a billion irregular heartbeats
Ticking to to the sound of a broken clock.

I’m not a pessimist.

But I see the angry smashing of waves on skin
Crashing with the clicks of a slowing metronome.

I’m not a pessimist.

But I smell the metallic scent of a broken machine
Grinding to a halt while the societal dance speeds up its pace.

I’m not a pessimist.

But I taste the bitterness of infinite gray nowheres
Drifting endlessly while the band plays on.
Eclipsing Moon Oct 2011
Chapter Two -poem-Neva Flores



Sometimes I get tired of having so little time
and plainly seeing my surroundings
crying out before the scent of dawn
has bloomed.
Can a single cloud breathe in
all of the warm air
that hails my universe,
removing all reason to wake up,
live life and resume?

I look at fleeing ships
whose sails are full of thunder
and I hear a song
dissolving the wildest parts of me.
Each note dances in the breeze
dropping its own melody
inside my heart
until it becomes the only thing
I hear inside my soul
and I struggle to even
breathe.

I was a cabin boy on a tallmasted ship.In the Straits of Gibraltor.Yes they did not know I was female but that was my well kept secret.one does have to survive in this world and by hook or crook I planned on doing just that.my name is Samuel.well really Samantha..been called Sam a while so the transition /switch to samuel was fairly easy.I figure Im close to 8yrs, maybe 9 and I'm scrawny and quick.Business was done in cramped quarters so no-one was the wiser.My best friend was Joque, he kinda wanted a son I reckon, he was partial to Me and gave Me the easy work and fed Me all the time..you know the fresh stuff so I wasn't inclined to scurvy..apples whens theys were here...oranges and salt in rations he kinda shared with me.Odd how I was found at sea and in the middle of nowheres they say..just like I was plunked down in the ocean like a drowning rat , lucky it was in front of the HMS Frigate Triumph..not much to see but it was dryer than I had seen in a while...anyways Joque fished me out and dryed Me up ..said he'd never seen a boy with that much hair.so a hair cut was in order...threw me some dry clothes that dinna smell like stinky fish and here I were.





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© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
betterdays Apr 2014
virtual ink etched on vitual paper.. synapse rebounds taken down, on tablet... applet releasing the
imagin- ed pressure in my incohezant brain. little bytes of... making it right sent into.. the webby ether clouds....... zip drive compressed, pixelated, ram driven,memory boosted, data mined, spam shot,
drive by.... now encrypted ... password denied... .....virtual ink lost to the .....link ... .......... 404 error ...... page not found... virtual paper, now, lost forever.

destined to be in
www. miscellaneous file/ never to see the light of day. not org. nowheres
just lost another one...
******....lol
b for short Oct 2016
One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride *me.
© Bitsy Sanders, October 2016
Waverly Feb 2012
Is this where it happens?
Is this the where
and when?

On a bus going through
nowheres stocked with burned-out houses
and Chevys idling on empty axles?

I have passed so many of them,
that I don't know
when it'll stop;
all this quiet and oblivion.
Bijan Rabiee Sep 2018
Hop on a train to nowheres
Where no kindred souls reside
And you shall find ebbing cares

Get away and defrost
Your turbin of independence
And electrify soul's ******

Leave and don't look back
Your hut is an allocated rut
An ever-widening  crack

You are born free of chains
A roving verve of stardust
Exploring firmament's veins.
Bijan Rabiee Mar 2019
Let us flow
Like a wafting feather
Smooth as kitten's fur
Let us flow like an arrow
Into the heart of Fate
Let us flow with day with night
With natural satellites
The whole universe is flowing
Into what we may never know
But the sure thing is to flow
To flow with all our being
Toward starmight opening
Toward the zest of life
That throws us a sign here and there
So flow to deceive the end
For nothing ever heads nowheres
In stagnant bordering.
Alienpoet Oct 2016
The shadow that never leaves
That breathes beneath my skin
Like I am paying penance for an unknown sin
The voice of the girl who I loved tears me down
Leaving me with histories frown
I come from the sixteen year old who suffered from psychosis
I didn't choose this
Does it mean that I am cursed?
Though the reaction is immersed in a painful ache
When I lay in bed awake
When I think of all I could have been
If not weighed down by all my regrets
I live in corner of nowheres ville
The words left unsaid still hurt
Sometimes I blurt them out when I am alone
To the voice that talks inside my head
Does she know how much it stings
To be king of nothing.
Rose Claire May 2014
Lying naked and alone on my bedroom floor. Fragmented splinters left in the corners of my mind. I **** myself out just to stay on time. I live in a room on the second floor. But, really that girl doesn't live here anymore.
                       Shhh........ Do you hear him? I think he's at the front door. Oh God, I think he's creeping up the stairs. I can't take it anymore!
                             Rag Doll..............Rag Doll... Shake that furry tail!
                             See her? ..............See her?..... Nowheres!

                    Lost, lonely, and confused once more.......****** where are you?
looking for me!
Antino Art Sep 2019
I pledge to write for an inner peace movement
To fill the void left on the blank page of a story we could not complete
I pledge to write more beginnings than endings, and if words fail to meet me where you left, I'll wait with the patience of a bookmark, holding down the gap we left pending
as if locked in stalemate: light paper vs dark ink because the way of the pen is the no-sword style of contending that deflects the black and blue thoughts that leave bruises where we think.
I pledge to erase, or at least, start over, only to toss each cumpled piece unfinished onto the pile of things I have no answers for- only hopeless questions, mailed into the static of heartbreaking silence, until it clicks, like a retractable pen, and finger flicks from an audience follow as this throwaway piece hits the mic on its head, drawing feedback, the static giving way to meaning and the audience now there, tuning in as if waking up while dreaming, now clicking, snapping, leaning forward as antennas to the right frequency we're streaming, snapping together now, a thousand pieces of a hidden picture completing, I write to throw captions around my own confusion, and watch them snap like photos of what I'm seeing beyond illusion on this train of thought leaving, the coast starlight from LA to Seattle, the lines of a notebook as my railway leading toward our emancipation from battle.
We are free from the places we are told define us. I write to move past them. Poems are what we leave behind us, in the graffiti'd nowheres of subway tunnels between the lights of the places we were meant to see.
Poems are the spaces between.
My mission is write
for you to read me.
OneCorn May 2012
all I hear ever
screaming louder and louder
so I scream back
they all turn on me
I feel cornered

I can't run
nowhere to go
I cling to my one space
but they take it away
consuming it in their fighting

I try to drown it out
but it never ends
someone is always mad at someone
they don't care if it hurts me
and they know it does

I try to ask for help
but they just keep screaming
I run and hide
but nowheres safe
it never stops the yelling and threats

my only escape
is the pain
the cold metal on my skin
as I press it in
the sting as I watch the blood pour out
wordvango Jul 2015
an asphalt two lane passing
peanut fields cotton patches
         a passing by
fast cars going nowhere

twenty closed down gas stations
   now houses or completely empty skeletons
whizzing by us and the remembrances
    at 60 are who knows

yet we get to know ,  or
    I do as a newcomer, the
local flora and fauna,
     having to shy my muster first, you know. Prove I am worthy.

Tests are always given in schools; the new kid and all , gets pushed to see if he can push back,
must prove himself; life is like that
    even way out here between
nowheres.  So , on Wednesday night, I get out
     watch the cars go by, passing

to where I don't care now, I used to.
       And watch my cats play hide and seek , their
mama so playfully teaching ,
    get all mosquito bit and consider

going two hundred yards to my right grabbing a free ear
or two  , fresh and all them acres filled , no one will miss.
When I see, this is just here, I am a member now.

This is my town now, Clayhatchee.
I can go across the street and buy me a
cig and a beer. Say hey or howdy, give and get a smile.

I will not ruin it.
My cats play gleefully, they only steal hearts.
I am good , now.
I've already stopped
searching the world of
nowheres
and
*nothings.
wordvango Aug 2017
it ends in tonalities of spliced ends
some woven together others
jutting into nowhere dangling
like a Dylan song you love but don't
quite know all the metaphorical meanings to
of nowheres and space probes
sent to tickle you
on your own you must believe in
something more
special spacious
put meanings into amorous
trysts space gods
mystiques
unadorned with the accepted norms
a late night sobbing alone
cats and dogs your companions now
but knowing some outer space
visciously beautiful being
is gonna haunt you soon
and fly you off to the moon making passion
without touch a beam a laser like on your ******
tickles    get it doll
Satsih Verma Nov 2019
Leave me by me.
I was an onlooker in
wilderness of knees.

Primal truth is dead
I search peacemakers
of nowheres in vain.

Watch my loneliness.
A bronze elephant stands
still in dream traffic.
I makes it a point of buyin'
  My bacon
  In Macon
And nowheres else, no lyin'.

The porkers there
  Gotst a taste
  That doesn't waste
My time square.

I gotst to travels a good way --
  That's true --
  But, you'd, too!
For that flavor pay.

Besides, the folks
  Up there in them those parts
  Have real gentle hearts
That knows hows to coax!

Yessirreebob!  I makes it a point of buyin'
  My bacon
  In Macon
And nowheres else, n-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o lyin'!
I was reading a book that had quotes of Abraham Lincoln in the '80s and he called hogs and pigs "porkers"; I had never heard of them being referred to as "porkers," and I never even heard of the word before, either; and the first chance I got to use it -- in this poem -- I didn't hesitate.
Yenson Jul 2019
That Cat is so slick
man! that dude's as slick as a prototype Maclaren's F1
In type, there's just no match around
academicals - he comes A Type
sound as sound can be, tungsten steel the frame
cool as dew with va va vroom to make toes curl
that Cat is just so slick

hey up, here come De Demoralization Mob
de  Tonton Makout of mama Doc Macafethievies
that doyen of house-burglars and her mob de Anarchy
criminal gangstalkers and the dime-a-penny mob
tasked with the job of pulling down a Colossus unstained

That Cat is just so slick
in dazzling casual style arrayed
with wit and wisdom expressed with panache
in any work or labour always tops the league outright
the quickest of mind, the sharpest of tools, he's just that smart
yet as laid back as the sweetest wine, yet as strong as Balkan *****
that Cat is so slick

Hey up! see the tonton Makout, brainless zombies droning
full of crap in mindless quest twisting in revolting mire
attack-dogs with rotten teeth, snapping and snarling in rabid throe
the going-nowheres of today venting frustrating and eating cancers
them dregs of the simpletons brigade and cannon fodder society

That cat is just so slick
a fine specimen of the real man in a real place
self-assure and vapoured in quiet confidence that's proven
the sensibility of sages, the cheeky humour of designers lauded
a masterpiece of a lover, a renowned craftsman of romanticism
oh to sing like a nightingale and write like he made the language
he cruises in effortless grace like you sail smoothly on the high seas
wow that Cat is exceptionally sleek

Hey up! here trudges the tonton Makout of Ghostville
verbose empties drunk on nonsense ales spewing doom and doom
two score years of anodyne dirges, a thousand dingos doing tangos
eating ****, spewing crap, paid a penny for fermenting forcasts
ding-bats doing the ding **** without any ding-dongs to show
miseries of their inadequacies projected in abject forms and style

That Cat is just so so slick
the host with the most, the Legend that make them feel unworthy
the thinking womans' dream, the *****' dearest wish, the man good
titled and honorable, straight as a dime, sincere, caring, he's just all
the sane mothers will see the son they wished they had
tonton Makouts sees that which they can never be, no matter what
They are never play in that League, all they want is to break a leg
jealousy and envy haunts them in radiated fumes, they choke
that Cat is just so slick and cool and he's the real Deal.....
YOUR TURN MUGGINGS .......Wonder if the tonton Makouts can write poetry, Yes they can, they just hide their identities and create loads of false tags and write zombie poetry. Hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
Satsih Verma Feb 2020
Leave me by me.
I was an onlooker in
wilderness of knees.

Primal truth is dead
I search peacemakers
of nowheres in vain.

Watch my loneliness.
A bronze elephant stands
still in dream traffic.

— The End —