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She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone

Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by

Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen

Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart

Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin

The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed

The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do

Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent

She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp

It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.
Rumours were flying all around
Someone was moving in
They question at the table was
Just how long has it truly been?

Windows boarded, papered over
Not a good sign most times
But, there in the shop window
Coming soon "Broken Spines"

The street folks all were questioned
By other street folks who
knew nothing of the tenant
On the whole, nobody knew

The Bluesman worked the alleys
finding out just what he could
But, in the end, he came up empty
And here, empty was not good

The building had been vacant now
For at least ten years plus four
It was at least the old millenium
Since someone used that door

The building was a shoe store
Selling discount boots and shoes
A new tenant or an owner
Gave the street some cherished news

The bartender told the others
She tried to see in on her way
But, the window was well covered
That was all she had to say

No one knew the agent who
Brokered the deal at all
They were surprised someone was coming
Most new stores went to the mall

Cy, the Pawnbroker ventured
It must be a medics shop
No one understood the name
And the questions wouldn't stop

A young woman in the corner
ordered her breakfast and sat back
she listened closely to the council
and followed them on their mind track

She had coffee from Gianni
He served it up himself
Joe had cooked her breakfast
"Two eggs, bacon, and a shelf"

The Bluesman coughed and ventured
We'll know all we need to know in time
I'm off to have some med-cin
and rest my weary spine

The others laughed at his words
Saw him off and watched him go
He went back out to his alley
Away from where the wind did blow

The Captain followed closely
He was heading to the bar
The others closed the meeting
before he ever got too far

The woman in the corner
Paid her bill, and left a tip
She left ten dollars on the table
With a yellow paper slip

She also left beside it
A small card of olive green
She was gone and on her way
Before the little card was seen

Gianni, read it , looked around
There was now nobody there
So he read it to himself and smiled
No use, just reading to the air

It said "Catherine A. "
Seller of used books
Owner of Broken Spines
Books in need of second looks

Gianni didn't know the name
But the store just fit the street
Everyone here was damaged, flawed
Second hand....to be discreet

There has to be a story
To go with our young Catherine A
I guess we'll find out more
On the street....another day
Blois Oct 2017
He always tries to wake up with the alarm
buy his eyes usually come early or late
to that date too.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
but only the doubts are reflected, like
watching dirt on snow.

He goes out, smiles with broken teeth
and waves limbless greetings. As versatile
as a possessed doll.

Everybody says he is a normal example of human.
Maybe he is, coming and going without getting
to where he wants to be.

Then he faces her. Contrasting his life choices
with her smile, he realizes that they
brought him there.

He stops at the pet shop window to look at the puppies.

He goes back thinking that in only
50 more easy payments he'll be able to claim back
his heart's past from the pawnbroker.

He tries to see himself in the mirror
before getting to bed, but he notices that
he forgot to bring himself back. And also coffee.

It doesn't matter, he thinks while he waits
for sleep to come. The pawnbroker is
an allegory on letting go.

The life of a guy without coffee
is like getting the short half of
the wishbone, every time.

In a sea of rain what you'll get is wetness.
You are no going to get out all dry and cozy
Here comes the rest of the night.
I know that one day they will tow me away like they do with the broken down wrecks,
next,
and there's always another to take your place in the pack,
that's the real reason we're told
that we shouldn't look back.

Diamonds and disappointments are one and the same.

Any pawnbroker will take in
your dream for
three cents on the dollar
it's yours to redeem,
do you dare?

When this engine breaks down in some
cheap out of town
I'll be there
with the tow rope in hand because
I was never attached to too much and
such is my life.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
yes, i understand diacritical arithmetic, odd, isn't it, that so few people pay attention; e.g.? mötórhead: which for english ******* is written in excessive spelling as: mootoorhed... english becomes so ugly so soon, the **** language can't help itself, given its dyslexia outpouring, english become ugly the minute you attach, but one diacritical distinction, gulp oh the differences between A and ah, and count the breath, which is H, in english... the slowly oozing curling slither of a python... the english language hides plenty of aesthetic cruelties, medusa-gorgons, snakes in wine barrels, you need but one diacritical investment in this edenic tongue, that rose to the propensity of a british empire, with the daft belief, that little england would never arrive, so sure they were, to not revise the latin bet, by adding "barbaric" distinctions... now you have you sally aussie, and your tom-boy canna.

and why am i not reciting my verse,
on the odd occasion,
i do listen to spoken word,
to poetry being recited, rather than composed,
and sure, it has a decent amount
of attention... but... but!
what's with all the hysteria?!
every, single, poet, i listen to,
is hysterical! these days madmen speak
with a more calmer countenance than
these "poets"!
perhaps i'm buying my time,
but the shrill of these efforts to perform
makes the hyenas seem inviting,
it makes a tiger's roar a cat's meow,
and yes, the prime "defence" of poetry,
or "technique" namely that
of rhyme, it's still vogue, rather than a
faux pas, but only if it's not methodological,
if it's not systematic,
   the cute bit on the side,
the spontaneity of:
   within the prose - the classy origin
of the beaten drum -
rhyming like that works,
but systematic rhyming belong in the 19th
century...
        no one would dare write,
within the guiding help of a poetic school,
just like painters wouldn't paint
within a school of cubistic replication...
rhyming is dead,
because poets had to write a prosaic
"aversion" of themselves -
given that prose itself: became all too
simplistic, therefore?
   *poetry is the new prose
/
   ars poetica est prosa novus;
right, that's settled then,
we won't be hearing an argument about this
observation, any time soon...
people have become bored
with the imbalance of over-complicated
characters, who are studied too often
and to an even greater extent than
is necessary, while the narrator dwindled
beneath them, in their shadow...
   people enjoy crafty narrators,
intelligent narrators -
     the only medium that care little
for such narrators, and much for
the most versatile and inventive characters
is the movie industry,
or the art of writing scripts -
  where the narrator plays the most
glorifying aspect of any writing genre:
the pawnbroker,
   and in more kinder words:
     the invoker of pawns as the shields
for the grander pieces of drama,
nonetheless: indispensable,
  and securely staged with an honourable
purpose.
- and yet, every time i watch these
recital videos by poets,
  i can't feel but a certain pinch of salt
on a freshly made wound,
   or the idea of eating raw onion, or garlic,
or for that matter, ******* on a lemon
and not providing slapstick humour
with the ****** expression that ensue;
the sheer desperation, the sheer
"heroics" of *****-fits, the mere exasperation!
i have yet to come across a soothing
voice in the current poetic zeitgeist,
a sane voice,
           and as all critiques tend to show:
apart from the vanity project,
  that is me;

i guess the best i can do, is leave you with
a quote from jack spicer from
his poem: ode to walt whitman...

  along east river into queens
the kids were wrestling with industry.
the jews sold circumcision's rose
to the faun of the river.
   the sky flowed through
               the bridges & rooftops -
herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.


p.s. his output was hardly the stuff of
prodigy, but sometimes:
  saying the least, is saying: just enough;
me? i'm a rapacious wizard -
  first i'd write an encyclopedia -
then a dictionary,
       but that is not to suggest it's a forced
error of "expertease" -
      namely? either the anti-thesis of
the christian third party (the zeitgeist)
took grip of me,
  or some other wielding demoniac artefact
of my "idle hands" spurned me on...
it doesn't matter,
    a 1000 mediocre,
             equals 1 that's popular -
but popular is never: the finer effort -
just a congested, constipated drag of
having to recite, recite, recite,
recite, over & over & over again -
that one popular brooding...
  
if you'd know, you'd also know that writing
1000 "mediocre" verses -
is less teasing an overcast of boredom
and tedium,
        or as kant said in his grave of
english society:
    i said that the categorical imperative is
to live by one maxim, alone!
one!
    these english are throwing maxims
left, right and centre,
      and i call that: the imperative of fickleness!
if not toward.

i might recite something one day,
but i'm waiting for the hysterics of today,
to hush down, and so that silence can
overwhelm these "poets" -
    and, in the end? scare them.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
******, another day of slow internet access...
feels like the late 1990s,
or early 2000s with the dial-up modem...
just around the time when
internet videos were not big...
                ******, ******, ****** all day...
just expecting my regular fix
of information,
             and all those metaphors for
   ***** syringes -
                ****** as someone else's thinking...
attempting a head-stand on a tight-rope
in some, very, familiar, circus...
three ms. ambers down:
   oh... so the music videos allow me to
bypass this... "debacle": cool cool,
strapped in, ready to go...
        just today,
   under the matrix -esque skies of england...
i smoked my first cigarette
and watch a pair of robins sit on
my neighbour's fence...
     aww... so pwetty pwetty...
       also nice...
                to spot a pair of robins...
and not the standard bearers of bird-watching
in your garden that are composed
of sparrow...
       all that orange: in the right place...
a bit like:
   that myth of the page 3 tabloid
the sun, glued to something beyond
a cleavage...
           cleavage... hmm...
that's the difference between cleavage
and the grand canyon of a ***?
cue soundtrack: the gardener
                          by marylin manson...
i never felt more alive...
      digging that hole...
              almost all of a reality of life
can be experienced in an english garden
in outer-suburbia...
   30 minutes... you might chance
deer, you'll certainly spot a fox...
   audacious manifesto...
     sometimes... even a rat...
   scuttling along,
   hush hush politics...
   as i imagine...
                                    animal farm:
who would the rats be?
  don't know why i never came around
reading anything by
roald dahl - or j. r. r. tolkien
for that matter...
    to have to "short-cut" my way
into the heavier literature exploits...
   so i dag, and dag,
shovel and fork in hand,
interchanging,
   until i managed to reach
a geology amateur fetish...
    ah... the foundation of London...
clay...
         dig deep enough,
past the garden earth layer,
you hit the clay...
             half a meter deep,
then the load...
              ***** must have weighed
around 50kg
     in her nursery package...
      moved her from the patio
into the vicinity of the dug hole...
via a pagoda...
                            broke my back...
broke a sweat...
             but i managed to plant her...
as i managed to plant
that plum tree 3 years ago...
    and as i lodged her in,
i whispered a shamanic fare-you-well
to her...
   'she's in good company,
of course she's going to bloom,
           bloom and produce cherries'...
clearly i underestimate my weakness...
or, rather,
              i play the salamander -
while back on the internet...
               a movie review by
black pilled about pawnbroker...
so it must be spring,
or at least: spring on the edge...
    so much for the robins,
and as much about plating a cherry
tree in an english garden...
            tended to by some ******...
it's like a snap-shot
of a memory,
carrying mineral felt
        on a construction site...
around 30kg rolls like i might carry
an anorexic unfathomability of a woman...
sooner or later the swallows
will return,
     and all in all...
the eeries, a sensation:
   so bird is part lizard...
    it's a lizard in a disguise of a mammal...
and... of all the creatures...
birds,
    are the most elevated,
in terms of ****** affairs...
   like the base standard of the monogamy
of swans,
    and all that crying eye
of a swan widow, or widower...
well sure...
  cognitively... we're on top
of the hierarchy...
    but in terms of: sigma replicas...
with our outliers...
    *** "stuff"?
             i guess we were beaten
by swans...
   and in terms of muscles,
gorillas, and diet?
               gorillas beat us to it too...
either "we're" a paradox,
or there's a god akin to Loki
          playing us the mules of foolery;
somehow "reality" is not suspect,
somehow: it always was;
but now there's a cherry tree in
my garden, which i planted...
        just about the right sort
of compensation for not having
a protruding Adam's apple
                     bulging from my neck.
Tom Shields Aug 2020
Striped to the nines
these cats carry pig stickers
animal kingdom death comes quicker
shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker
chalked out in lines
lead bellies line mines
outlaws make laws, break jaws
drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob
live like all-stars, a full-time job
all-grime, an all-crime job
a romantic era of terror
splashy ink does injustice
while they sidle Fords with Thompsons
every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde
everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron
everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed
they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on
it ain’t pretty
black eyed beauties and black tied beaus
lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows
guns and love and money, everybody knows
it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty
you can get in clean
but you have to get your hands ***** in this city.


A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound
the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive
one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived
to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived
songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground
what scratch he could collect
he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck
wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks
he was not ashamed of a spotlight
a bluesman can’t be afraid
he tore down the house six nights
and on Sunday he prayed
when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed
the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier
a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror
outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll
at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising
he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul
and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising
a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too
pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?”
He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets
bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through
he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air
sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair
he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there
a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed,
he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast.


Putty in palms
men melt in her gaze
Medusa couldn’t ****** a man as easily
Penny flies with fancy and never stays
she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door,
to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her
who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life
which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner
where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife
she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny
she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools
it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value
and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you?
She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all,
until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll
Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was,
this invited trouble to her diner, because
a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean
every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean
he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin
he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in
pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad
she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life
Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife.

Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants
they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men
capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence
you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence
deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it
your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager
used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager
the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya,
I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah?

Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history
like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse
the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery
a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry
you can say it, business is booming
body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming
out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too
it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county
you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy,
an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty
nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy
and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety
terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see…


So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window
make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out
my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route
a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands
I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans
making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back
same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive
I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety
that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop
I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop
an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop
now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood
I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone
but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on
I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him,
he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim
it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a ***** cop’s residence
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance
I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died
one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence
He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all.

Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors
agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency
adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally
coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence
to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections
a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position
never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double
always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts
a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot
it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got
he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot
sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass,
his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ***
hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see
he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last?
His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery
these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free!
He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee
eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out
he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything,
by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing
it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring.

Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see
and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity
I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory
they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me?
All I am is all I could ever be!
Dogged, **** tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes
sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes
investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt
digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt
it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity
they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out
and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt
but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily
a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions
all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me
I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army
where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends?
Am I standing in a web or a noose?
Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose?
I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion!
I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission!
There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay,
when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!”
I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play!
The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way
but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay
any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay
while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway
that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death…

Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight
with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight
she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so
so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night
crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size
she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd
ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize
evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud
she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize
even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes
and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise
was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for,
tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor,
an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner
she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days
and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age
for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page
she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast
and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so,
that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow.

In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case
five to ten
years off the prime of his career
militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face
disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space
and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace
got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced
older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace
he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope
he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race
he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver
so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power
the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver
looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here
he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint-
meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin
when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human
and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass
he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas
promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet
locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals
he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes ******* sings
but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings
and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings.

That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death
I swear to ******* God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath
it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left
I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin
it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again
the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and ****** back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman
all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman
but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their ***** work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then…
Who’s going to be left to clean up after that?
Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat
the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat
figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth
I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!”
for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it,
I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!”
this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man
I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue.

Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and
lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains
we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then
cops were ******* with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men,
every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a ******’ blues musician
it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and
they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end
in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and ******, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took,
I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs
papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain
he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain,
in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane
he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad
that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had
his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp
he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp
I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do
people don’t make the city clean
you know what I mean
there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick ****, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that ******* cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax,
the city isn’t *****, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we **** sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.
write
please read and enjoy
Ken Pepiton Oct 2020
Politics and religion are all I wish to talk about.
Define your terms in balance with mine
and we may converse on equal points
where such delicate touch means
balancing seen and hoped for
reality in times of
such interesting
side realities,
-- screentimes, verily virtually real at the level
of sub-myelinated signals from old
WHAT WAS THAT quests,

layers of visionary invariables sift us to this

appearing as real as walled people in the
memory damning days, as paper was
seen to burn at Fahrenheit 451,
and we all saw The Tattooed Man
had the Pawnbroker's face and hands.

What forms the mob, if radio were never real.
How would we agree we know one thing
alike as an overture, or a rag-time blue
feeling story from both sides
in one song, y'know?
Am I lyin?

Tell a story like Micaiah?
Eh, lead a king astray by leaving him believe all he wishes
were true? Long live the lie, must I say, in silence,

to what effect?
How great a fire can one tongue kindle?
Can a tongue tamed and reined, rule itself,
perse, make a word
mean
power. See said is seeing read, hearing read,
being told to see said things as the sayer said,

read, the words we say we write informing awe
one we, away…
--- every story has an arrow in time, the archer aims,
the arrow flies, see
silver bullets are useful when wooden stakes
seem as splinters of truth repulsed in ***** efforts
to remain un impierced…
at the appointed time…

-- it sounds like science fiction, and that is normal now.

Hiyo, Silver…
how deep do radio waving ripples go,
in shaping a child born down wind of Nevada…
sleep learning seems to
have evolved evil in to a state
of being where nothing good can ever happen,
- dreams cease and deep sleep ensues
so we wake to find, just as we expected, sufficient evil
to force our hands to clap,
our fingers to flex, and our will to see goodwill be done,
one day, at least,
today,
I made may my word, and I noticed your reading
gave my may to you.
Peace out, we yoostasay.
May your best you rule
this day.
Have your own way. Remember:
Doing evil makes your self disappear.
All innovative players are given that one clue as a rule.
In my game of life, I never tire of testing for sanity. Who cares if this means nothing and nothing is something that never makes things worse?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
a drunk is not going to, suddenly,
think himself as anything,
other than a "before"...

         to integrate into a culture,
is to be governed by a bias,
or at least, to be,
alleviated by the bias,

   i came upon these isles
without a pior post-colonial
juidgement,
  but i'm sensing that,
that's what's required
to allow the shallow standards
of integration...

see, my position is far from
unique,
i don't actually dispose myself
to calm the nerves
of a northern transit of
    counter-arguments,
against the racists...

    am i here,
  solely to inherit this circus
of the current events?
can i just listen to the epitome
of the 1980s...
with simply red...
and not something akin
to the cure or
depeche mode?
  god, they were great,
in hyde park...
who? depeche mode...
beat aerosmith...
   two girls in company...
promis and...
  she's... she's....
            already married...
i remember talking to her
on d.m. via MSN...
her name...
                    not Alesha...
i'm pretty sure it began
with an A...
   no, Lebanon doesn't spawn
Alisons...
  ****! what was her name?
Braintree! ****...
that's a city in Essex...
   Ayisha...
                no... that's not it...
         she's Lebanese...
****...
                i can't remember her name,
a name that's,
           pop culture worth...
so much for Layla,
so much for Keileigh...
  so much for all the other
love songs...
                   ****!
now i have it!
            ALICIA...
               leb- alicia...
tender as a daffodil...
           ****! i managed to remember!

Alice in Woderland: *** C.I.A.,
  leb-
       eh...
  **** me...
i just planted a cherry tree....
i'm getting bitten on the non-existing
bite-markers compensation...
                 around the toes...
    there's a solo aspect
of rhythm guitar,
in the line of sight
of clapton...
    and i'm fiddling,
to find the proper jazz trumpet...
and a pawnbroker jew,
and...
       the "magic" celtic stone
of prayer to boot?

   well, that's me,
happy to be the fiddly drunk,
happy to be drunk,
  happy to not have
the sort of narrative that
might not allow,
someone having their life
ruined...    

               as i told one gilded crown
of patience and company:
you know, that i'll ruin you...
then? she drops out 4 sweethearts...
and i... luckily,
remained confined to making
company with shadows...

                i'd love to become bitter,
as i'd love, to also,
become prone to the waiting game,
lies, and the persistence of
covering up markers,
whether by foot or by hands,
or the items of hair of nails...

  n'ah...
i must prefer someone living a lie,
than outright stripping them
of the "decency" to conjure up
a throng outlet of lied to: people...
           some would claim:
i'm bitter happy...
  i'm the pristine, operatic example
              prone
of schadenfreude...
i abhor exercising my
canvas of emotion
   against the paint-brush of
                                 schadenfreude...
no point: in fact,
of slaughtering an animal:
if you're not going to eat it...

so i came across the english,
post-scriptum of the, empire...
i hear a voice from the north
diminish the per se existence pride...
and i'm like...
   all i have to inherit,
is a garden, in an out-suburbian
setting...
      what the **** have i inherited,
that the natives,
will not own up to?
                   am i supposed
to own up to their past history,
is history even being towed
to make a summary,
of next week's Monday?

          so i'm supposed to come
"clean" concerning
the Ukrainians,
the Lithuanians...
   or the fact that the "other"
commonwealth,
was non-existent, until about,
100 years ago?
  lucky me: there's no pride associated
with it...
   i just don't know what it feels
like, what it feels like,
belonging to a horde of shrapnel
individualists,
cosmopolitan...
             zombie-brains...

  you got me...
      i speak an acquired language of
a people i can't relate to outside
of London,
and i've inherited a language
of a people i can't relaste to,
beside "exile"...
   economic "war",
such a slow riddled theatre...
            
    i know the blame i'm supposed
to put on myself:
i will continue celebrating
my drinking excesses...
          but i will not...
suddenly, somehow...
       concentrate all this blame &
shake gaming,
for a pontius pilate diversion...
and allow...
the other side: the full pardon...
scot-free behaviour...

   i can take the blame i am allowanced...
but to... somehow...
walk away blameless?
    sure... prostitutes...
because i didn't feel like
being ****** over by
"spy dough in the oven"
dynamic of lying about
contraception...

          unless you're about to tell me
that s.t.d's are transmitted ******,
via slurping on
a warm slush-puppy of excess skin...
you tell me...
   i should have found myself
mildly entertained
by playing the roulette,
than ******* some russian hag.
bulletcookie Apr 24
“The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,”

A blackhead chickadee arpeggeos across the plum's branch,
white petals floating down to pointillist path,
where a green and muddy ground catches moist spring.
Minuscule wing swarms dance circles and zigzag tunes
to April’s breezy baton in overture to nature.
Snow-bells, pawnbroker hang, while crocus stand in purple/yellow ranks of elliptical rooted silence.
Oh gentle air of ancient curious prīmo vēre,
what wonders will you issue forth and form?
With outstretched arms and hearts we welcome you,
your nurturing ways of equanimity in equinox so true.

-cec

"Ode to Spring" by Thomas Gray
4/24- NaPoWriMo - write a poem that begins with a line from another poem

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