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Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
       a
           beast
                      crashed
                                       in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.


"FERMIN!"






















He hurdles the stares
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass,
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering

pavement

It


peters


off


into





the







street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





Hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Robin Lemmen Nov 2018
You leave pavements ******
And graves dug but without bodies
Learning tricks of manipulation
You know how to wrap us around
The small of your finger
With bloodshot eyes and a mouth
Full of sweetened poison
You kiss girls and leave them hungry
Foolishly hoping that your touch
Just might heal them
You leave pavements cracked
So we are all left skipping  
Hoping to save your back
Isn't love unkindly blind?
India May 2018
We perpetuate heartbreak culture,
teaching girls the man who holds her loves her despite the bruises,
or it was her fault; she looked older.
We fetishes shoulders,
prize youth from the young in return for pre-chewed gum,
swallowing tired ideals from those who still wield them like flags,
waving their patriotism on poles of bone before a throne of medieval *******.
They chant mantras with beer stained breath about how 'our' country 'bested' the rest,
but what about the brutality?
The blood split on foreign soil in return for prehistoric oil?
Our land is deemed pure so long as the violence on our hands never reaches our shores,
but the ocean is red and staining our sands.

How can you have pride in a country who's sole identity is based off having the worlds largest navy?
Congratulations. You bombed your way through countless continents, collecting cultures to gather dust on pedestals and alters
We sin on Sundays, drink till we're ****** then wave at the seven deadly's (they don't apply to us here).
We teach preschoolers nationalism before they can walk,
indoctrinate our children before they can talk.
George killed the dragon.
Hood gave to the poor.
we all jumped on the bandwagon before we realised the princess had no choice and the rich still ruled.
There was no voice in the tale for those whose wail could be ignored.

What about those without lines in the script?
Those kicked to the curb, then kicked from it?
Our pavements have no room for nonconformists,
they're tailored to for same mind, same mindless wanderer,
squandering on the lasted polyesters even though that mouth on the street hasn't eaten in over a week.
'God save the Queen' from the vermin;
the homeless have been tossed out of the trash.
Why help them when you could save your cash by turning a blind?
After all, out of sight, out of mind.
Welcome to England, we hope you like what you find
Because we’re not changing it.
ns Apr 2015
An infant wrapped in ***** sheets
No heat to warm his soft cheeks
A mother weeps for her mistakes
Clutching the baby tight, trying hard not to break

Absurd thoughts crossed the mother's mind
What harm could happen if she leaves her baby behind?
Never has she wanted to keep him alive
A sin she can easily connive

A night full of guilt and regrets
Things she wishes to forget
If only she was a better mother to him
Everything would have never been so grim

Tonight she shall cross the street
Walk the pavements of melting sleets
Lay the infant down on freezing concrete
Turn her back, a sin she would concede

But guilt twisted her stomach as she walks away
She feels as if her baby calls for her to stay
Conscience compelled her to walk back
To the little angel lying on its back

She picked him up and love confounded her
"How dare I leave this poor angel? I am such a terrible mother!"
She planted a kiss on the baby's face, she then wept for her mistakes
Holding the baby in her embrace, little by little, the heartaches dissipate.

ns
I haven't written in a while so forgive me if this poem's a bit off.
leila Aug 2018
walking in the alleys between the crowd
nothing touches my mind
still walking between the crowd
nothing comes to make me happy
nothing attracts my attention
I am the one who is still walking alone
buys a bottle of mineral water drowned in solitude silence
walking the way of pavements..
ns Feb 2017
The waves brush my toes
   to keep me away from the water
The sand tickles my feet,
   as the sun falls into deep slumber
The tress groan as its branches and the wind
   twirl around each other
All of these happened
   as I walk on a beach in a boring afternoon in summer.

The children's feet dropped to a beat
   as they stomped through the leaves on the ground,
The trees let the wind blow their leaves off
   as they turn from green to brown
The night grow longer and colder
   as the moon calls for winter to come
All of these happened
   in a peaceful day in autumn.

The Christmas lights blinked
   as merrily as the dancing of the icy cold winds
As the sun shies away from the ice covered towns,
   the moon grinned
The snow angels sand beautiful songs,
   as the lakes and rivers sparkle in glitter,
All of these happened
   in a white chilly winter.

The leaves start to grow back
   as the trees hummed to a sweet song to the hills,
As the sun cheers and smiles brightly,
   the blue sky remained still
The people greet each other on the pavements,
   as the new bird harmoniously sings
All of these happened
   in a calm and happy morning in spring.


ns
A W Bullen Jun 2016
In the second hand soothing
of darkest address: frost crawls.
Having crept down the alleys
on  serpentine silvers
to pilfer the vaults of an Indian Summer,
in crystalline raiment
the malachite pavements
succumb to its covering sprawl.

On shellac returns of lamp delta falls
minutiae maraud in bitter sweet symmetry
shattering petals, encasing in glass
the Stella shot run of the vine.
A glacier tourniquet scuppers the mold
an accomplished assassin of natural device,
with icy indifference it hushes the *****:

The Moon, for the life in her eyes.
Donna Apr 2019
The sky is dull grey
and so are pavements ,  that’s a
real boring sandwich

:)
Where’s the sun gone it’s chilly outstde and proper grey skies too !
annh Aug 2019
red
neon
rain spattered
pavements teeming;
one thousand prismatic shades of meaning

graffiti-laden puddles splish, splosh, splash;
as midnight turns
to blue, and
dawn to
ash

‘I walked up, and I walked down, and I walked straight into a delicately dying sky, and finally the sequence of observed and observant things brought me, at my usual eating time, to a street so distant from my usual eating place that I decided to try a restaurant which stood on the fringe of the town. Night had fallen without sound or ceremony when I came out again.’
- Vladimir Nabokov, The Vane Sisters
Tom Balch Jan 2018
And after the rain
on a damp city morning,
the January streets are littered with the
aftermath of celebrations,

plastic champagne flutes, lost shoes and
torn down streamers adorn the pavements
along with copious amounts of lost dignity;

The old has been well and truly bid adieu
and the morning heads of the revellers
will recall little of the night before
as they yawn and suffer their way into the new year...
Sam Jul 2018
I am not what they say I am,
I am not what they think I am,
I am not what they see as I am.
I am just who I am
and being
who I want.

Don't listen to them,
'Cause I'm not a killer.

I may have killed many people on my mind
But I couldn't do it.
In a matter of fact,
I did **** someone
and that person was me.

I died,
I died falling on the pavements
from a high expectation
they made.

I died,
I died 'cause I killed myself trying to lose track of regrets that still haunts me.

My flaws that I didn't even see and all the bad things that they point out on my life, it is the reason why they left me
and the reason why I killed myself.

...

I wanna die again, 'cause I'm afraid I could never escape my fears of falling into pieces when I see everyone left me.

So,



Before I trigger the gun














I hope there's no bullet.






Noises in Mind, Copyright © 2014
Sam N. de la Rosa
All rights reserved.
It might be hard for you to be pressured with what people think of you but, there's still chances it could change so don't lose hope and don't **** your soul. Just live!
ren Jul 2016
You were seventeen
You wanted to badly to be loved,
To be noticed,
And I wanted to give that to you.
I still do.

I want the stars to warm and guide you,
To take you home.
I want you to laugh
And not feel empty.
I want my love to ring in your eardrums;
I want you to hear birds chirp,
And really listen.
I want the sunshine to feel like gold
As it fills the pavements of your mind.  
I want you to feel
everything everything everything.
And when it's all gone,
When it's all empty,
And you feel likes nobody loves you,

I do.
annh Nov 2019
White nights, grey days,
Phosphorus and gin;
Graffiti-laden pavements,
Diamond rain and paraffin.

Chalk dust reveries,
Aerosols and spit;
Zero-hour freeways,
Magnetic parapets.

City high, city low,
Monoliths in drag;
Silent spaces, dwelling places,
A hoody and a bag.

Freestyle evangelists,
Salvation strikes a pose;
Train tracks, kitchen hacks,
The rapture and the snow.

'I'm laying down, eating snow/My fur is hot, my tongue is cold/On a bed of spider web/I think of how to change myself.'
- Fever Ray, Keep the Streets Empty for Me
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jWFb5z3kUSQ
Nigdaw Aug 2019
A train to the big city
Where the pavements are of gold
A job, a life, a future

A cardboard box in no-man’s land.

Why do they come? Refugees
From their own poverty
Here to share in ours.

There’s a boy in oblivion over there
A needle in his arm
And **** in his hair;
Sold to the dream of another world
Not here.

Some walk the streets you know
Teenagers, offering their bodies
Hoping to save their souls;
Pawning dignity for a take-away,
**** in sin city
For the rich and gay.

There is no gold here, you fools
Under the same sky you sleep
On the same wish you weep
Crying yourselves to sleep
Counting lambs to the slaughter.
Annette Dec 2019
the marvelous rumours that streetlights spread on rain glazed pavements!

i splash barefoot through puddles that hold no prints of yesterday and keep none for tomorrow

inhale the earthy smell of dust cleansed leaves and soaking ground

and hang my umbrella on the highest  branch of a turpentine tree

after the rain
petrichor - the smell after rain
Nigdaw Oct 2019
The street is silent
Everything become still,
Cars pulled up on pavements, make way
Pedestrians, without utterance
Transfix their gaze,
As though Death himself
Sat behind the wheel
At the head of the cavalcade;
Brushing a tear from the cheek
Of his smile fixed face:

A small white box,
Lost in the back
Of a long black limousine,
Continues on its journey;
Unhindered by a day
That up to that moment,
Was very like any other;
Until there it was
Iridescent in the sunlight
Making a last short journey
From cradle to grave.

I swear not a bird sang
Nor an engine idled restlessly.
A child's funeral procession I witnessed.
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