"penthouse" poems
Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric
join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes
get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!
did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?
you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade
old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures
there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)
soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)
might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!
headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final
shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
Last week, Cortney moved into a four story apartment
with seven twenty-something year old roomates, all boys.
The men share the first three floors.
while Cortney has the enire top floor to herself.
I spent the night there saturday night.
And around 10:00pm
a twenty-three year old boy
Blonde, baby faced, named Kevin Smith
stumbled drunk into Cortneys penthouse room.
Kevin smith removed his pants, and crawled into bed with us.
Kevin Smith nuzzled into my face, pulled me close, and rested his hand,
firmly on my ***
Kevin Smiths breath smelled of *** coffee, (and a man who regularly brushes his teeth.
Good Job Kevin Smith.)
At first, Cortney and I assumed Kevin Smith was each other.
after further, mostly-unconcious, inventory of our limbs,
we gathered this was neither the case, nor a hallucination.
Cortney flopped dryly for her cellphone and shined it's light at Kevin Smith.
"What the **** Shouted Cortney.
No response from Kevin Smith.
"What the ****
We got out of bed and put clothes on,
laughed at how ridiculous it was
that a drunk stranger just grabbed my ***
while an unconcious Kevin Smith laid in Cortneys bed.
Kevin Smith sat up
"This is really telling. I uh..."
Cortney cut him off
"Get out."
As she turned on the light.
"Can you guys call my phone?" Asked Kevin Smith,
"No." Said Cortney
Get out of my room."
physically pushing Kevin Smith out of her room.
Cortney held up Kevin Smiths drunk zanax filled body on the stairs.
preventing Kevin Smith from otherwise falling down said stairs and dying.
Kevin Smith showed his appreciation by saying,
"High fives all around"
I watched Cortney strattle drunk Kevin Smith awkwardly, yet also motherly
down the stairs.
I leaned over the railing and high fived Kevin Smith.
"I just want you to know," mumbled Kevin Smith
you guys are my friends.
You don't need to.. I got this".
"No, you really don't" said Cortney,
"if you fall down or throw up on me
you owe me $20"
Cortney delivered Kevin Smith to his bed.
Kevin Smith mumbled something, and Cortney returned upstairs.
"What the **** Laughed Cortney.
"What the **** I replied.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
New York penthouse
room service
french perfume
satin sheets
gold etched dinnerware
sixty-one pairs of high heeled shoes
diamond earrings
crystal goblets
antique art
picturesque window view
of the homeless on the streets below.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
I'll wait for you forever
till stars forget to shine,
and oceans become puddles,
words no longer rhyme
Till deserts turn to gardens
where flowers go to bloom,
the grass is red, the skies are green,
the dawn brings out the moon
Till rain is something very dry
and butterflies drive trucks,
when every pond is chocolate sauce
with candy coated ducks
Till basements have a penthouse view
with windows three floors high
and stairways are a place to swim
no matter how you fly
Till mountains are a level path
that you will go to walk
and silence now becomes a way
for every one to talk
Till everything we've ever known
is gone and disappeared
The world does end, there's nothing more
just like we always feared
Till broken hearts are happy,
tears a welcome site
Night comes at the break of day
and daytime looks like night
I'll wait for you forever
until the end of time
It matters not how long it takes
if I can call you mine
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
I work for Jones & Co.
You are likely somewhere down below,
I have grown used to this unnatural height.
Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles,
working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference.
My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel.
We were mingling on the penthouse deck,
when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.
Jones is a superstitious man,
he has a dream-catcher above his office door.
He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor.
The one separates Jones from his company,
the other, us from below.
Five years of billing in six minute blocks,
labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs.
A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.
B.E. Twain
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Writing letters in Spanish to Penthouse magazine because everything sounds better in español.
It was a beautiful loving thing before it all exploded like a train wreck.
Are you furious?
A country that douses itself in English and then drowns you at the hearth.
Cherry vanilla
Obsessive compulsive
Mint and lemon-grass handwash
The only things that matter?
Thoughts from when I first woke up this morning... Still in that fuzzy bit where you don't open your eyes and no matter how you're laying, it's always comfortable. A feeling I take for granted. I think about you kissing my ******* and not about how you're falling in love with my best friend; but if she's happy, I'm happy. Good morning.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
I’m searching for Paradise
Beyond the vast ocean on a beach filled with white sand
Under the palm tree in the shadows of untamed land
Where the ocean tides pave over the imprints of a desolate shore
And the wind echoes around caressing the sun drenched floor
In front of the sea, sparkling from the sun’s radiant light
Waiting to set, and be engulfed by the night
In my hand I clasp upon a cold and crisp, refreshing beer
Looking upon the horizon so clear
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On an immeasurable plane of green land tangent only to a white mountain range
Where the prairie has been spared from the time of industrial change
In front of the sun as it strokes the horizon line
I sit, while I clasp upon my tall glass of wine
The sky is painted by an array of colors, reflecting off tranquil clouds
Free from the hustle and bustle of crowds
The grass is soft, like long bristles of velvet fur
As the pollen rises from the flowers, it creates an indescribable blur
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
In the big city, illuminated by artificial light
Surrounded by friends in the chaos of night
We trek, pushing through the people infested street
And pulse to the music of an inescapable beat
In the heat of passion, impossible to explain
We pop bottle after bottle of the most exclusive champagne
Under the stars, beneath the glittering sky
Indulging within the penthouse so high.
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
On the edge of the world, perched upon a soaring cliff
Where you can taste the cool crisp air with but only a whiff
As the sun begins to peak out from beneath the earths womb
I pour a drink, full of spirits to consume
The birds begin to sing in metronomic rhyme
I sing along, to count the time
In the twilight hour sets
The new day begins as I’m purged of regrets
Oh, wouldn’t it be so nice
To escape this place to Paradise
I’m searching for Paradise
After an extensive and exhausting day of work
Grueling and toiling for a boss who’s a ****
Breaking my back for the lowest of scraps
Sweating and Striving till my knees collapse
I return to an undersized and meager house
To be greeted by my enduring spouse
Embracing the responsibility of my new role as a father
I look upon the face of my daughter
And within her eyes so nice
I finally find Paradise
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
He's New York penthouse
and I'm small town trailer park.
Kinda worried my blue collar might
stain the white one he wears so well...
But he likes the way my perfume smells
(I don't tell him it's from Walmart)
when it lingers on his pillows
and I like the way his sweaters fit me
(my favorite's his from college).
He holds my hand in public
and folds my clothes after ***
I hide under the blankets
as he gets ready for work.
He's New York penthouse
and I'm small town trailer park
but he tells me I'm just what he needs.
So maybe I'll leave my toothbrush in his bathroom
and a dress in his closet,
maybe get comfy (or frisky) on the couch,
maybe I'll let him say "we" a few times,
I might even try it out,
We
Us
maybe add some future words,
Will
Should
Next summer
Next Christmas.
He's New York penthouse
and I'm small town trailer park
but We
say, "I love you"
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Panasonic and Sony beeping
in custom made Reid & Taylor pockets.
A trade for a Rolex throned on his wrist in lieu of
once existent dreams, in now hollow sockets.
Adrenaline pumping before
high stakes meetings and brunches.
Calculating the dose of his choice of drug,
penthouse suites and timeline crunches.
Dizzy with ambition, painting
******* bleached canvasses.
Narcissistic laughter aimed to beguile others,
he, for whom his relaxants are stresses.
Dealing with the Devil himself,
power tainted and ill-gotten,
the realization that humans are not beyond sale;
in markets, mergers and acquisitions.
Recessions, Inflations, cruel overdoses
of risk, of danger unspoken.
And when he surfaces again to consciousness,
profits, losses both taken and broken.
Lost in the sewers filled with;
stock brokers and agents alike: the pawnors,
a haughty expression with green bills,
to score his ecstasy, capital owners.
Another dollar, another hit
never enough to sleep remembering the day.
A Corporate ****** scouring for riches,
a high, a trance not soon before long will sway.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
Jason had this penthouse apartment that was centrally located in Beverly Hills.
He was incredibly clean, but in an overwhelming kind of way.
The carpet and stuff were spotless, the cabinets were plastic, and the paint was not chipping. I felt like I was in a Doctor’s office waiting room.
He was snoring loudly, and just at the right moment he opened his eyes.
"Ha! You are dead! This is a dream, right?"
I felt a bit offended, as I was obviously the one snoring.
"No, no!" He pointed at the clock. "It's 4AM!" (Lucky number 8!).
"You're a zombie! You're dead and you're dreaming!”
“I’m a zombie, alright!" I yawned and started to hack up zombie gore.
"Watch out!" He screamed and jumped out of the bed.
"All right, you monster! I'm dead and I'm dreaming! I'm dead and I'm dreaming!"
He chased me around the room.
"You're not dead, you're a zombie! You're a zombie, that's just what you are, a zombie, so it's a dream!" He threw up his hands. "You can't win!"
“I can't win, yeah? That’s right, I can't win. That's my luck, ha-ha!”
I hope you like midnight horror flicks." His face crinkled with confusion; the zombies smile that I was always afraid of flashing on.
"Well I didn't say I was a horror movie person. Oh, that's right, but you said, I'm dead and I'm dreaming, so that's a horror movie, right?"
I thought about it.
"Okay, I guess it's more like...like if a zombie comes to my door..."
:: 09.24.2020 ::
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 2:49 PM UTC
I'm back, you rowdy rond boys.
Got me rowdy rond rhymes, and me rowdy rond noize.
Kick back in me ol' spot, smokin' me spliff.
Sit up in me chair when I hear a sweet riff.
It's Marley on da bass, slappin like he do
Head bangin' back and forth like ya know ya want to.
Reggae is back and me life in on track.
Got baeties in the penthouse and they cookin' up crack.
Can't believe me stopped writing. It was hard to say no.
But I'm back to smokin' mo' ***** than ever befo'.
Me poetry's like sirup, open ya mouth, and I'll pour it.
It's clever, it's dank, it's reggae. I'm glad for it
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
The sky is so polluted but it's beautiful, isn't it though?
Feel bad, so to relax, sit outside 7-Eleven with a smoke.
With the way I hold my head you can't even tell I'm poor.
Or maybe you can, because "What's that?" You ask. It's
the loose change in my pockets overfilled to the spilling
You hear me walking, it's no-cash, it's no-wash, the half
blood broke *** All the bad habits, no natural habitat.
Clothes from the Village feel almost as fine on your flesh
as the high class new tags from the corner off 5th/Saks
What makes you happy? What makes you happy?
With just a little more coming in you could finance your
fantasy, or get more freak and nasty. Green is the color
on top of the clouds that catches you falling before the ground.
Shuck corn, remorseless, you can get it paid. Mesmerize
at the numbers rising higher and higher, coerced too
easily to enjoy your stay. What makes you happy?
What makes you happy? The view from the penthouse
on top of the city. Pity. There's no love in the home you
built. There's no cause no effect no affection waking
you up to touch the world with the passion igniting
your eyes and pulsing out your fingertips. One step
from homelessness without one hope, but faith is
a better replacement in the end and I've got faith
in code.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Never look from a penthouse believing that you are immune to the slums.
Lest you
Find yourself in a dark alley of opportunity
WITH NO INTENTIONS
Believing the current trial was as permanent as the penthouse.
Balance
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
A man wore silk designer suits
Rolex on his wrist
His shoes were made in Italy
Had trillions in his fist
He had the perfect trophy wife
Kids in private schools
Drove Bentleys and Mercedes
He was no one's fool
He had mansions worldwide
Shopped Paris on the Rue
His address was a penthouse
On 5th Avenue
-
There was a man without a dime
Who lived upon a grate
Where warm air from the subway
Could share in his "estate"
He wore the rags which he had found
In shelters on the way
He sat and watched the rich man
Who walked by that day
His groaning and his mumbling
Annoyed the wealthy man
Who took care to walk around him
As he went about his plans
-
The rich man died a hero
His widow & kids drew hence
His many friends came round about
They spared no expense
The poor begger had no one
Had no money saved
He was thrown on a dungheap
They call a "pauper's grave"
-
The rich man had been lavish
He'd fared well every day
But he was a corporate mobster
So he had hell to pay
The poor man was redeemed of God
That is why he lost his job
He wouldn't serve up to the mob
And so his end was like a sob
He thanked God with his last breath
With grace endured ignoble death
But it had no strength to sting
The angels bore him on their wings
*Eternity in everything*
So which was the human being
Who had greatest gain?
This is an age old story
But the fact remains
The rich man saw the poor one
Again after his death
In heaven... joyous... *SINGING!
While He could not draw breath!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/17/2016
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Kicking pine cones , hands in pockets with my favorite scarf on ..
Outfitted like a business man with something important to decide ,
a lawyer testing a juries intellect , like an important subversive agent with a clandestine government ...
Walking the fence line , dressed to save the world someday , my flashy duds turning heads , yet their only clothes , and clothes never did make the man so they say !
Fancy leather gloves , gold cuff links , cashmere sweater with well planned schemes ..
Upscale hero with a prominent address , four star restaurants , high end assets ..
Caviar and red wine , penthouse vista .. Fancy cigars and first class tickets ..
I'm still Cocoa Cola , cheese and crackers , homemade biscuits ..
Forever overalls , laying hens and sour mash whiskey ..
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
perhaps I was twenty-six
she looked me over and soon enough
the walk to her place was zip, zap, zoop;
meaning, although the barman called
me over to tell me she had recently stabbed
or had tried to stab a bartender from
down the street,
my only concern was another mandrax, a
joint of kashmir hashish with thick ***** streaks
and, most certainly, a new escape; a new woman
the floor (a penthouse apartment, mind you):
much water from an overflowing sink...then, there's
the layer of dust on the dishes of the dish rack...and, not
to forget, the four or five
frightening knives, all very reachable
then, she introduces me to her first
jumping up and down episode--hollering,
"you're my father! I must **** you!"
how I spent two or was it three days with
her dumbfounds me these days...the fool, me,
I remember, first turned off the water
and mopped dry the floor...the miracle of
how my hand awoke and grabbed her wrist,
with the blade's tip an inch from my heart,
will have to wait another session with Harmony
--that She may reach into my mind and
pull out a more clear version of the epilogue
of this is-it-a-poem which I've written
in numerous other versions over the years
~~
..(C)2011/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching into the poet's heart
~~
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
Getting pretty for no one.
Standing in
the bathroom mirror
and the clock
ticks backwards.
Mascara smears
on painted hands and
that hair
will never
shine
so bright as it does
as on top of a cold city.
High in a penthouse
but, still
no one
can sing the sky to sleep
the way you
used to.
So,
Let’s continue to pretend
we are people
we are not,
wearing clothes that don’t fit
and tucking our wings
into our suits.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
I wanted so much to like you;
I had heard so much about you.
Your show sounded like fun
Sadly, too soon I had begun
To listen between the lines
To know you, see who you are
To know behind the shallow mask
To see the ugly stained star.
I forgive myself for a bit of it
Because I know that it was
The method you always use.
I would later guess the cause.
Perhaps myself and others
The countless clueless mass
Mistook the rich and famous
As people with any real class.
I had to see the gaudy penthouse
With gold used instead of chrome.
I needed to see the fake opulence
That you chose to be your home.
I saw you hobnob with famous
And calling them your friends
Soon I would be let to see
The photo was where it ends.
So, I packed away any care for you
And chalked it up to my youth.
Little did I know right then
I only guessed at half the truth.
Because you put your skanky ****
Into the presidential race
And this latest **** of your ego
Means I never stop seeing your face.
Running for the highest office
The leader of the free world
Sure seems to have given
Your screwy hair a different twirl.
Suddenly you dragged out speeches
Of Hiter, Mussolini and Stalin.
You shouted the policies of the KKK
And thew your vitriol all in.
Since too many fools in America
Started chanting Trump, Trump
You seem to want to turn DC
Into something like the town dump.
As for me, I have trouble sleeping
Worried your fans might be letting
And idiot in charge of the nukes
So he can bring on Armageddon.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
My morning is simple; It always starts the same way.
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, repeat as many times more
as I need to repeat; 365, 24, 7, I can take it. Because at the end of the day,
I hit the sack, and then like clockwork; like a broken needle record on replay
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, and I'm out the door.
I work hard all day; when I'm not on the clock, I clock my punches at the gym.
I measure a punch-card for holes, or a punching bag for holds,
and I take pride in either; I forsake neither; I breathe in the aether
and breath out blood sweat and tears... but mostly sweat, truth be told.
My sweat is a constant, and I'll tell you; sometimes that gets old.
That's me though. I'm a fighter on the mat and in the cubicle. I write words so musical people say "That's beautiful," and it fills me with pride.
Words, fists, ink.
It doesn't matter; I give it my all every time and never stop to think
about the consequences it takes on my mind and my body; I don't blink
at the cracked knuckles bad punches provide.
at the cracked mirror that I look into after a bad review.
at the crack-pot asshats that talk down to me from their penthouse view.
at the minimum wage pockets full of pennies and dimes.
I don't blink; I don't think...
because if I did, I'd realize this is it. This is Hell.
But... I still wake up,
and put on my leather shell,
and then take it off when I hear the factory bell.
And I fall into bed with a smile on my lips;
Because one day life is going to be better than this.
The voice in the back; the one I don't listen to...
The cracks; the cynic's view, it screams "Life isn't fair! Life is just this!"
But I don't listen. I close my eyes and I make the American wish.
Life and liberty; with both I'm blessed.
But the second ones the one to bring a smile to these chapped lips.
Pursuit of happiness: Hell yes! I can get behind that wish...
So I'll Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, as long as my clockwork heart ticks.
Because I trust in justice,
even if it's only injustice. Even if life's only just this.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
i saw the hindenburg disaster unfold from my penthouse apartment
a real man doesn't drink before noon but
a fifth and two cigarettes made me see more clearly
i know the truth
i saw it happen
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
sometimes you can't only
rent space in your mind
to the ones you want to be there
this landlord
cannot control every tenant's
presence
but I think if you once leased
a suite
maybe even penthouse
I've got you in a
cramped studio
jacking up the rent
some people even own property
but you're on the way out
until maybe the last trace
of you
is a mis-labeled buzzer
or a letter
that never received
your change of address
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Unrewarded again
Was the helmetless knight
For a hero is nothing
Without mask shining bright
Or courage of steel
To keep evil at bay
If he's not looking right
Then I'll send him away
If great sea monsters drown
And dragon eyes turn to stone
What fun if it's done
By a shrivelled old crone
Who could save thieves a bullet
And few years in jail
there's no sign of her
In this fairytale
So where is the saviour?
The galant, the wise
The hero who kills
With a flick of his eyes
Well he's feeling tired
And wanted A treat
So he moved out of town
To a new penthouse suite
But he's still a hero
just sits around having fun
He's Got all his teeth
And his heads nice and dumb
Or maybe the authors
Just got carried away
And lost sight of the message
They want to convey
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Your desire is the fire that ignites my most dormant inhibitions
The routine flummery that we call foreplay
The hiricine intimacy that bounds me in a state of monomania
Our vicarious experiences rival those of a penthouse fairy-tale
Our edacious appetite burns like the leaves of a fine cigar
Ready to take my breath away
Our part-time counsel is like the fullest moon
It only comes out at night
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC