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Zach Gomes Feb 2010
Orange peel Thursdays and the Velcro shoes
Of children hordes
Who spider up Alice on toadstools in Central Park
Dusted psilocybin shoots my eyes through
With the clarity of ice and sliced mushroom
Steeping in stomach acid before finding blood
The kids are tripping like madmen or halloween candy
Like its time to release and give up to the nonsense
And let your young self congeal to a saccharine sludge

I don’t stroll in the park to keep my mind sharp
I’m here because it’s a riot
My head can throb to the jittery birds
And the blasts of carsong
It’s the right kind of rhythm to walk to

* *

Ketamine days and the lolling slums
To make sure the insane stay insane
And the hobos are washed with spit from the clouds
And the subway exhaust always hangs in our hair
And the old Coney Island burns again and twice more

We don’t pretend to understand what we see
In subway grates thirty feet wide
Like the earth punching out of work for a bit
Opening to you her *** belly
So you can check out the strips of metal inside
Before she slurps you down and with an esophageal squeeze
Shoots you through the turnstiles

The train squeals and grinds down our eyes
With thoughts as slow as ketamine
Makes room for schizophrenia in a conversation
We’re listening to ‘til sundown

* *

Years full of Brooklyn and the assorted pills
Makes offal fit for punks in name brand shoes
Squared off with police in the park
Being beaten for the fun of being beaten
Peacoat locals pass the days in supermarkets
And you grow up to the loony mumble
Of the woman who knows the boat
Moored at the end of the street
Mansion of the stray cat colony
You help her with her daily chore to feed them
Tabbies popping the pills of the homeless
And puking in tandem all over their house
Living off generous dying folk
Lucas Oct 2018
Trees always have to go out with a bang, don't they
explosions of bursting color
freeze-framed fireworks of fall
bursting and cascading,
leaving ashes and hot coals to cool in soft grass

...I used bursting twice, didn't I?
alright, let me go open up my thesaurus...
blast? pop? rupture?
just replace it with one of those and call it good.
Back to the poem:

my popped-collar peacoat straightens my back
gotta match my posture to the pompous portrait
black wool on an over-scratched scratch paper
might as well just pick it all off
allow the color some room to expand
(I don't even own a peacoat, I just like the metaphor and imagery)

you could set the sentinel alight for the same effect
a more smokey atmosphere, sure,
but the color would be a little brighter
and I'd have the mushroom of smoke to match my coat

I've substituted my earbuds with the crunch crunch crunch
of leaves
crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch ––––
shoot that one looked good but it just flattened
crunch crunch crunch
invariable sound
back to my Beats by Dr. Dre

The arrow of geese points south
...
that's really all I have to say about that
some sort of metaphor about flapping my arms and following them?
I like jacket weather though
better stay grounded
hands in pockets; arms in long sleeves

insert some connection to death to match nature's descent into winter

Gosh, this season is too good to stand for something so sad
let's go jump off the roof into a pile of leaves
drink hot soup and get cuffed
watch steam and frost paint picturesque mornings
read in a dogpile of blankets
Winter may be coming
but so is spring ya goof
get off your melancholic horsey
I don't even own a peacoat :/
feeling irreverent but poetic...
Aseh Dec 2014
Every morning plays over like a silent black-and-white film.
You wake up and somehow you’ve forgotten how to speak.
Your throat feels raw and congested from the disuse of night.
The sunlight strikes your eyelids,
affecting an obliterating blindness,
forcing them apart,
drawing you from the velvety embrace of a dream.

Your feet sink into dirt-smudged sneakers;
they drag across tiles and floors and grains of cement,
across blackened splotches of gum tacked to the streets,
pressing them ever deeper into earth,
into tar.

A young woman in a fitted red pea coat stands near you,
leaning against the steel column by the edge of the tracks.
She is tiny,
her olive skin stretches tight across her bulging cheekbones,
her eyes are pools of grey,
her shoulder-length hair is the color of molasses.

It happens slowly:
the woman in the red pea coat leans further over the ledge,
tilting her head to the side,
searching for life in the roaring darkness.

It happens briefly:
a low rumble beneath your feet,
a glint of light,
a yellow-white rectangle splays across the tracks.
It widens and expands,
oppressing you,
swallowing the woman in the red pea coat,
as she looks up and stares back at the brightness.

The train does not strike her –
it consumes her,
it ***** her up like a vacuum through its sharp metal teeth,
and she vanishes,
or she becomes a refractory beam of light,
or she explodes.

A screech hovers above the crowd,
shrill, high and clear – the rawness of terror.

You cannot help it – you peer into the gap
between the platform and the subway,
absorbing the darkness.

You wonder what moment, precisely,
her life left her body,
or her flailing limbs surrendered to their inevitable consumption.

The paper bag she had been carrying survives,
strayed on the platform,
an afterthought.
Frankie Gestone Feb 2018
By: Frankie and Christine

He knew as soon as she walked out the door that he would never see her again. His heart sunk down into his stomach as he realized the only thing left to survive on are the memories of her. Fists clenched, blood pulsing through his veins, he set out for the only place that had ever made him feel sane--the docks. He kneeled down, head facing the water, he saw her reflection over his as his memory tasted her cherry lips. She whispered to him, something distant and vague that he couldn’t decipher. Confused, he nervously reached into his pocket, and the key to her apartment flew out and into the water- he had forgotten he previously stole it from her room. “What did she just say?” he wondered.

His palms sweating, and hands shaking, he reached for his cell phone anticipating a call or text any minute now. He contemplated giving her a call, searched for her name in his Contacts List, and realized that her name was no longer there. “The nerve,” Gianni thought, “how dare she erase her number from my **** phone? Now what am I going to do? Well, it’s better if she contacts me first anyway.”

Days passed and no phone call from Gabriella. Frantically biting his nails, he figured by now she has already moved on with another lucky guy, while he has been completely erased from her heart and mind- what a bitter cold thought how cruel life can really be. “Honestly, though, wouldn’t she at least want her key back?” he asked himself as the bitter cold swept upon his raw, cracked cheek. “And furthermore, how the hell did she get back into her apartment? No one else was home,” he tried to think rationally.

Gianni needed answers, and despite feeling crazy, he ventured back to the neighborhood where their love once was shared--would she be home? For what felt like an eternity, he ran towards her home, but he slowed down once he reached the door face-to-face suddenly feeling hesitant to ring her bell. Fingers quivering, he slowly pressed the small, black button. His body aching with the thought of the worst possible outcome, he turned around and slunk out before he could even see if there was a response.

Gianni found himself sitting on a bench a few blocks away, lonely and insecure. He looked at the time on his watch, it was 8:45 pm. He exhaled-it was so cold, he could see his breath -and in the vapor, he saw the image of Gabriella’s face. Then, the phone suddenly rang in his pocket- he reached hoping to see her mystical number again, but it was his mother calling for dinner.

He made his way back home, through side streets that he hadn’t ventured in years, finally to come home to see Gabriella in her baby blue peacoat waiting for him outside his stoop. There, he saw her, standing with open arms and a smile awaiting his presence. He walked towards her, but as soon as he put his arms around her embrace, she disappeared like the cold vapor from his breath- it was a dream- it was all just a dream.

“Was it a dream though?” he thought to himself, “or am I hallucinating? Is there a difference?”

The food on the table repulsed him and he could not eat any of it- it was steak and mashed potatoes again. He felt an urge to *****. There was a knock at the door, which jolted him in his seat and shook him to his core. He ran down the stairs to open to the door, only to find, Raymond, the UPS man, delivering a package that he needed to sign for. To his surprise, the return address was from New Mexico with just the name “Moretti” on the upper-lefthand corner--Gabriella’s last name.

He hesitated if he should open up the package, but his hands were opening the box before he could think again and he found two blue onyx gemstones with a note. “Gianni---the night we last spoke, I impulsively packed my bags and hopped on the very next plane to New Mexico. Maybe one day we will meet again and I will feel for you what I once felt. Have a wonderful life.”

His heart stopped, and he remembered how they used to just spend some summer evenings on the floor of her bedroom listening to Mother Nature’s Son by The Beatles from the White Album- a tear dropped from his left eye onto the backside of his dry hand like a raindrop onto a cracked drought ground. Humming along to that tune, he Googled what blue onyx gemstones are used for. These stones are especially good for people under mental and emotional stress and they are said to improve one's intuition and natural instincts, eliminate bad habits, give the strength for and to change, and to experience an overall feeling of inner rejuvenation.

“Guess she’s trying to tell me something,” he thought. He felt so dead inside and wondered how could she have left during the lowest and weakest point in his life. Tossing and turning all night in his bed, he remembered how he was once told how people put crystals underneath their pillows at night. Why not give it a shot? He put the two gemstones underneath his pillow, laid his tired head down on the cold side of the pillow, and suddenly drifted into a dream.

Up floating in the cosmos, Gabriella appeared to him surrounded by a baby blue light, the same shade as her peacoat. He began elevating up towards her level as he looked into her aquamarine sky eyes, as if it were her eyes that elevated him, and then he began swimming in the air with the pink fish and the violet dolphins. Then shades of orange, amber, metallic green, silver, and gold swam in circles around his soul, while a mirror came down in front of him and he saw his reflection of half black and white. All in the background surrounding him were various shades of gray. Gianni then began to hear Gabriella sing their cosmic song and suddenly he now could understand what her mirage had once whispered to him at the docks: We are timeless and you are now here, not with me but as me, inside me. Let go and burn out like the flame in the wind. You are nowhere. You are we. We are both the lock and the key.
Love, Dreams, Colors, Blue Onyx, Heaven, Hell, Peace, Surrealism, Universe
Joseph Valle Nov 2012
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.

So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.

Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Emme Apr 2013
Dia
Hacked
Every hook
Every cue
Every one of my references and internal pantheon
He's wired into it.

How did that happen?
He's a stranger
I didn't even know he existed two weeks ago

And yet...
He gets it so right every time.
~~
self referential
I like it when he writes of me. To me.
That curly feeling.
His revelations, and the mirror held up.

Tribute, affection, the wry smile of a stranger.
The slightly bonkers obsession and fascination.
Glimpses of a convoluted mind.
~~
Rib Ice
Standing on thin ice
Peacoat open, arms wide
I step into that hug

Burned by warm skin and hard ribs
Even more by his kiss

He likes to hear me moan
~~
Whose mindfuck now?

Are my actions consistent with my words?
Am I as I say I am?
Do I mean what I say, or am I playing you?
How's your ******* detector?

cards on the table time
abdicate or defecate
ante up
~~
headlong

He leads me on a scavenger hunt, insinuating, enticing, pulling me into dark corners to kiss me and probe me intimately, until we're off to cross the next threshold in this trip...

I have no idea how I got here. Turned round, disoriented, down the rabbit hole.
~~
Deep Purple

On the way out
Curious discoveries

Door handle sticky
Musk in the air

Who's that knocking at my back door?
~~
Goddess, lit**

I like this intimate touch I have on your mind and emotions. It makes me feel powerful and protective of you. And pulls me closer in.

When you say I am a goddess, your goddess, I suspend disbelief and nod in acknowledgment and agreement. Yes, of course. In those times, I know I am powerful, wise, feminine, and mysterious, And that you are before me, kneeling, clasping my legs, leaning on me, head against hip and belly, worshipful.

And sometimes, you clasp my wrist as I'm turning to go and pull me back, quietly certain and not to be resisted. Inevitable. And then what? Kisses? Your hand on my breast bone? Gently steadied to meet your gaze, interminably and for no time at all?

I begin to believe you won't vanish.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2015
I'm tired of written apologies you don't have the guts to speak-
Poets use words and letters and metaphors to explain how they feel
but you, you use a paint by numbers
and it seems to me I've ran out of every color
so now you're just a blank page staring back at me
tempting me to write my own apologies
because I somehow feel bad for you having to say sorry.
These days can become the flat tire on your car on the way to a funeral
but I will always be there to bring you light
even when you take your lack of apologies
and use them to knock out the lights on the ceiling fan-
I will wait in the dark until you decide to change the bulb.
But you never do-
so I'm left there picking up shards of lightbulb
as my hands bleed and spell out your apologies
and I look up at you and ask for help
but it seems you are stuck inside your own mind
your own world until the mess is cleaned up
and the light returns and then I'm stuck here apologizing
for getting blood stains on your t-shirt.
I understand dismay, and the ability to be distraught-
but I don't understand being someone else's peacoat
there to keep you warm until its no longer needed.
I just want to be appreciated.
Sean Yessayan Nov 2013
You stood there, probably cold,
in the frozen foods aisle.
Actually, you had a peacoat on.
When I first saw you,
I only saw your back.
Your hair looked wiry and blonde,
I thought you were aged and frail.

When you turned around with a gallon of milk
your face surprised me.
I was swept up in awe and stared too long.
Your eyes-- blue, kind, and calming--
rested on pillows of roseate cheeks
that looked recently swept by winter winds of New England.

You looked at me, too, but with an austere expression.
I said, "I hope the tempest of your mind
soon finds peaceful resolution in tranquil waters,"
in my head.
She walked past me
her audible rhythmic steps
made with untied,
disheveled
boots.

A beatnik
simply keeping a beat.
Joseph Valle Jul 2013
I've never worn a peacoat in July,
until today. Today will be the first time
I've ever gotten goosebumps from
open subway windows on a
lightning blue underground.

I'll need a hat too,
anxiety and age has
removed what was left
of my skull cap and if
I don't tend to my head
I'll catch a chill.

Stale summer smell
still lingers in the kitchen air.
From the balcony I see many men,
men walking alongside my
building below in shorts
and tank tops,
pretending they can still feel
fingertip rays from the sun.

But they know it's gone.
For today, maybe the week,
the heat has gone off in search
of a more deserving city
for the time being.

Pretending won't make these men
feel it, but hope keeps
their leg hair raised on point,
similar to the hackles of the runt of the litter
when he snarls for the last piece
of meat in a *****, metal bowl.
Sarah Whisnant Sep 2014
a walk in the bitter cold just to feel something. on that walk i just might see something beautiful that will make me feel like i did when you were still here. i may see a woman crying, her jet black peacoat throwing a tantrum in the winter wind. her cheeks as cold as the mans heart who caused her this pain. i may know that she will never love again but it won't make me any more sad than i already am. I'm not sure such sadness exists. i may see you walking up from the subway wearing the same hand-me-down coat you covered me in when my walls were crumbling and i was drinking a ****** cup of coffee that i thought would be my last and when you still cared. the sight of you may light my heart on fire and this bitter cold won't be able to freeze me because I'm sweating beads of passionate sweat from the heat you made me feel inside. or i may not see any of this and just feel the twinge of wind hitting my face, like i did last night, and the countless nights before that. after hours of that far too familiar sting, i'll go home and warm up with artificial heat, nothing compared to yours. i'll climb into an empty bed and i'll awake only one or two hours later with an empty mind and heart. then i'll crawl out of bed on an hour of nightmare filled sleep and purposely burn my tongue with coffee just to start off my day with some sort of feeling instead of terrible desolation. all of it just to feel something. just to keep the wraith of you away.
Danielle C Jan 2012
Your thick rimmed glasses,
striped sweater, black peacoat,
and white SUV from '98.

It's been over a year,
and I thought I'd never want you back,
but now I see,
I can't find the perfect man,
because I can't have you.

I can't have your intellect,
or your dry humor,
in my life ever again.
Never.

The messages you don't answer.

The songs I will not play,
I cannot play,
that I would play.
we out run the streetlights at dusk
clicking on overhead
raining urban-orange rays
with the dying day

hang a tight left down the alley
dodging car mirrors and hoses
orions belt preaches purity
hovering above the city
black winter skies
wind riled up
whipping cigarette butts
and plastic cups
leaves stain inky brown corpses
in the stairwell
quickly
please
my hands are gonna freeze
get your keys from your
used peacoat and
shoulder slam the front door
we burrow in the basement
kicking off shoes i collapse on the couch
warmth wine ****
in abundance
my slumping tired shoulders hear
your laughter from the kitchen
and long for you

come caress me gently.
you've waited so patiently
for me and my vials of venom
roaches are trickling in from the ceiling
and i might really love you
One more
cigarette

One less thought
captured by my notebook

I know
I have two inner-pockets in my peacoat
One with Silver Sherman's
and one with the little notebook of deeper joys that follow

Yet I've spent more time
Lighting Maduro paper
than sparking ideas
onto trees that are utilized for musings
rather than consumption

I inhale carbon monoxide,
(in line following the crowd -- by choice)
Rather than exhaling the same
for the leaf-lungs of trees

I stretch for something
A dichotomy of Pockets

Paper lined for thoughts
or
Tobacco twined for my subduing

One more, One less

One more circus of circumstance,
One less bridge to nowhere
One more apple to pick,
One less bone

I wonder,
"When the sands of time
should be sifted through my hands
and not my mind?"

But my mind continuously filters,
wondering which grains of now-repurposed stone
amounts to more or less

You fool!
Stop staring at the back of the clock
Discontinue your prescription to madness!

Watch instead the gears turning
not in anxious fear,
but in wondrous awe

Everything: a means to its own end;
not an end to its own means

And yet,
blackened by the smoke,
hardened by the repitition,
you take another drag

And all I can say
is that my throat screams for tea
and my mind
for resolution

One more thought,
One less execution.


--


I know
That if I was self-driven enough
I could compose a chart
(or a melody)
that shows the correlation
between the distance of you
from my thoughts
and the intimacy of nicotine
to my mouth
Jhonhary Mayorga May 2016
He has sunken,
He is flat!
(He may just be
A bit more fat.)

He may have
Knees of Plasticine
And self-pity like
An entire emo scene...

But this is a new year!
(In mid-May?)
This is when we
Stop the decay.

Let us end
The discontent:
Let us make
Jhonhary great again.

"How do I do it?"
I hear him ask.
Well, here are the steps
To accomplish said task.

One:
Go outside and run
As if first dates were after you.
Go outside and run each day.
You have to.

Two:
Speak a little slower!
You're not a motorboat.
You sound like your tongue
Is wearing a peacoat.

Three:
Shave those sickly
****** hairs away.
You look as appealing as
A plumber's derriere.

Quatro:
Perfecta tu
Francés y español.
Aveces te escuchas
Como muerto caracol.

Five:
Just... chill
With the self-pity.
No manic pixie dream girl
Will come sing you a ditty.

Six:
Learn to play that song
You're just letting stall.
Don't be that guy
That just plays "Wonderwall."

Seven:
Keep buying clothes!
Yes, you look great.
No, don't be alarmed by
Your wallet's lowered weight.

Eight:
Come up with
More steps!
Make fewer jokes that
Leave people perplexed.

Nine:
Keep writing.
This is something you enjoy.
This is where your thoughts can
Come and not be destroyed.

Ten:
Just be you.
Be that well-meaning, uneven guy
Who wants to brighten
Another person's sky.

Eleven:
Make this your
Open-ended answer,
The last step you're
Always going after.

Write these last lines
As you begin your amends.
Make this the poem
That never really ends.
Raven Quill Jun 2017
If at ever, it would be winter
In the middle of still woods
The bleached born settling
A wrought wood/iron savior

Silhouette ambient reeds
mingle stark ska trees,
red beaded berries,
dragon’s secret thistle cove

Heavy overcoat, brown boots,
cute hooded peacoat
One Christmas colored shell
Tidings of comfort and joy

— The End —