"penthouses" poems
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best
my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
13.8k
racing through the night
fast as light,
toward the great unknown,
the little acorn nut was
reminded of the old adage,
"hang on to your hat"
and so she did.
first stop was to the factory
where well crafted &
educated hands
stroked her smooth grain
& magnificent wood,
so long hidden,
standing so long un-admired.
at last the day came,
she was loaded upon the truck,
so very carefully,
gentle to not mar
nor bump,
as she was moved.
reaching the city,
all the brights lights,
the city trees dotted
the avenues
and huge grand park,
spurning the excited hi's
of this little country
bumpkin.
but she would not dally,
nor carry on, with
the highend bookcases,
chairs, tables and others,
living floor after floor
above the city.
those in the penthouses
holding the works and books,
those rubbing shoulders
and bums,
with the highfalutin
literary few.
the poets & artists & writers
that deign to look down on
poor you.
every night,
under the light,
she laid there beaming,
her beauty so deep
for all to see,
gleaming.
no diva, nor screeching ingenue,
puffed up egotisical baffoon,
or shrew,
could bring her down.
for she knew,
that without her,
there could be no show.
for without her,
in all her floor glory,
there simply
would be
no stage!
and the little acorn nut
was glad!
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
East 4th street heading towards 6th Avenue,
The streets more confusing than ever,
High rise buildings, the top floor i hear has a nice view,
Take the B train or D, trying hard to remember.
I see these people, they don't notice me walking around,
I wonder if they even acknowledge my presence,
Just another victim that this city has now found,
Holding back my dreams with its large fence
Let me be free my friend, let me soar up high,
I have my wings spread out all i am waiting for is a sign,
Oh beautiful city lift me up and teach me how to fly,
Just help me takeoff and i'll make sure everything else goes fine
My friend you've shown me lives, some beautiful; others amazing,
You've shown me success, prosperity and the sadness that follows,
You've shown me darkness, pain and how bad they sting,
Now show me happiness and take my dreams to where freedom flows
Those penthouses and the expensive cars,
Oh big city, I want those thing that everyone wishes for,
But more that anything I want you to heal these scars,
Soothe my pain and wash those years with a downpour
I want to be me again, you know the way I had always been,
Free of these emotions, this ******** pain that I always feel,
If you can oh city give me a beautiful dream,
So the drunken me can succeed, no matter how hard it may seem.
-Sprishya
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
What if I told you
I had all the answers.
Would you accommodate my allegations
Or assume my observations are obsolete?
Let's see.
What if I told you
There are approximately five abandoned houses
For every so called vagabond in America.
Let's pretend some simple addition could remedy this situation
And a few sets of steady hands plus a plethora of dry wall
Could dramatically increase the living conditions in these residences
And decrease the number of five year olds
Who consider dreaming on concrete comfortable.
Would you lend a hand?
What if I told you
That minorities make up the vast majority of inmates in America
While corporate crooks who believe distributing the wealth
Means purchasing penthouses in every time zone
From Ponzi Scheme paychecks
Receive bailouts rather than handcuffs.
As if felons in white collars are invisible to proper punishment.
Would you take the stand?
What if I told you
Believing in Buddha and his blessings
Or the New Testament teachings
Is not reason enough to persecute anyone
Based on their personal beliefs.
Because believe it or not
We were all blessed with the ability
To show compassion for others regardless of religious indifference.
Would you make amends?
What if I told you
I had none of the answers.
That my words were merely that- words.
That my call requires actions
And answers mean actually acting on abstractions
That most people keep inside mental concepts.
Would you hear me?
Would you help me?
What if I told you nothing?
Would you listen then?
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The birth of atrocities
Selfish pursuits of extinction
Self-fulfilling prophecies
Nuclear flooding tendencies
A few extra dollars in the wallet
A few extra possessions in the home
Happily destroyed
With smiles and bombs
Convenience of sedentary annihilation
Consumerism consumes
The reaction to the rebel’s rebellion
Nightsticks, pepper spray, tear gas
Tasers and rubber bullets
Riots in the streets
Occupying protests
Acquired wealth amassed
Hoarded in penthouses
Blinders blind tunnel vision
Foreign homeland policies
Father and Mother pardon us
Children of the sun, the moon, the stars
Absolve us
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
In my folly, of following fathers that have come before me;
I find myself lost, strewn about, and blown off course.
Teachers taught me time, in only the most linear of directions.
Yet the sins of those long past, seem to rest a weight,
Heavy upon my back.
Each of us an Atlas, on our knees before our masters.
It seems quite the contradiction, to have freedom inside a system.
Where rules are loose, in their applied use.
A game of pick and choose;
Played with loaded dice, that always seem to favor the few.
We the beast of burden, weakest first, penthouses the new-age church
Where the powers preach the verse.
Lost in our lack of direction, like southern-bound birds,
Plucked of their feathers.
Grounded in work boots, dumbfounded and resolute,
In poisoning our connective roots.
Fields of flowers and acres of pine, burning with the flame,
Stolen from us, somewhere along the line
A sinking ship, with only ***** rags to plug the holes.
Streets once paved with gold,
Forever cracked like our collective souls.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
I am speaking with a homeless man.
He got 7 dollars in his pocket.
A smile on his face.
And his heart is warmer than most penthouses.
I listen to his old voice while I listen
To music by a star who is far more poor.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
I’m outside and the air is so crisp it’s turned brittle
When I move, my hair cracks with electricity
As if with each step I take, I displace
And crinkle the wafer oxygen.
My hair, it is poised like a snapping electric halo,
And I think how many angels have also had feet
Which knew this frozen, frosty soil like mine do.
What a shame we could not have met and compared notes.
Above is a ceiling, nearer than people credit to be.
There is no navy shroud tonight,
Seasoned with the universe.
It is not even a black curtain,
But instead a piece of smoke fogged glass, graying.
Above the briery penthouses of the evergreen boundaries,
Against which the glass rests,
Is a blush of light, to the North, tattle of a city.
They call it light pollution, a lightening of the sky
Due to artificial, phosphorescent, perpetual pantomimes of noon: streetlights
And I see two electric halos,
One belonging to me
One the heavens,
And I think how funny that
Without the dry, horrid winter air,
or the residue of a wasteful city of men,
No halos would exist.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
the beast from the land
the beast from the sea
a false prophet
an antichrist
do they walk among us?
I'm no longer scared by ghouls, ghosts, or goblins
no longer do I fear the axe ****** or serial killer or ******
it's the supposedly good, god fearing, men of family that I fear
I fear the man who would see us enslaved for his profit margin to become slightly more pleasing
I fear the man who stands idly by supporting the massacre of the poor and innocent
so he can walk atop their corpses to pluck the apple from the tree of good and evil
these monsters aren't under the bed
they're not in the closet
they sit in breezy air conditioned office penthouses in the places were trouble doesn't mean the same thing as it does to us
keep your lanterns close children
and not just for tonight
don't talk to strangers
but certainly don't talk to men and women in nice suits who say they have your best interests at heart
these pigs have no hearts
all they have is hunger
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
The city was laid bare:
like a patient upon the operating table
I walked the streets with precision
I was the scalpel carving communities from the fauna
the city was alive, and so it was truly sick
concrete jungle
projects and penthouses
the beleaguered old traipsed about, silent, but not quiet
the youth, rambunctious and carnal, feasted upon the dying
With each touch, I soothed the soul
Kisses, like antiseptic.
Lectures, like stitches.
Like cumulonimbus, the raucous ramblings of crowds grew
I said to myself, "It is fine, this is life, let it live."
Youth, ablaze with carrion wings, descend upon the old
beaks barrelling forward, pecking and snatching decency
still there are some who help
swooping down like proud eagles, they shoo away the scavengers
they beat back the tide of villainy
they shelter innocence, foster truth
but they are not enough...
I carve out the **** of corruption
I ventilate the lungs of the city and plug the punctures
but the pollution is virulent and stubborn...
Still, I say to myself, "This is poetry, love is a mystery, let them be."
I will hear them cry in the rain
I will not know my place
I might extend a hand, proffer an embrace, but
they will shy back,
for man will become monster
and God will become devil... in their eyes: deluded; poisoned by hate.
I will wonder where I went wrong.
Will I try my best to turn the helm against the wave,
go THROUGH the heart of the storm?!
Of course, I will try
I will try,
but I will fail.
Man will flaunt his freedoms, those which were freely given.
Despite my grief, I will say to myself, "All things have an end. There was nothing I could do."
I wonder to myself...
How many centuries have I folded my hands against the storm.
Behold! It's patience!
It will ever rise,
It will ever approach!
So long as man lies,
It will reach for his throat!
Man will always feign surprise,
It is a sickness he cannot broach...
As the color of morning skies is calming,
The fumes of the rumbling storm are maddening!
I always let the storm build until the lightning sets the world on fire
because
I thought the storm was man's voice in an inimical life...
But I was wrong, the storm is the beast that lurks in the shadows.
It sets the table for carrion.
The beast builds the cumulonimbus, preparing the kindling for the floods of war.
The storm's pallor stains man's skin so ubiquitously
That he mistakes the storm for himself.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
Low-lit along the coast
young boys play bones upon the stone, and the elders,
waiting for the sea, conceal their interest.
The waves are far enough to ignore
but the salt mist has lingered:
blurs the tracks about the strand made by creatures whose names you once knew;
lost now amongst the streaming lists and orchestral sounds that drown the young before bedtime.
for some time prophesy or tradition,
the journeys tracing symbols down to
the sepulchral cities that rust under water –
Sometimes bring droughts,
reveal spires and penthouses, weathervanes and aerials.
lose a notebook and die elderly gardening temples.
fear life in sustenance.
fear primordial words
that chime like glass honey traps
dull and shallow.
fear
the panoramic shots of cattle
, a great still herd shivering breakers of light,
the temporary herder, you weren’t permitted to see, chasing away baboons with long-ish strides behind you.
poetry is always chasing
and each step will always chase better,
transcribing the soughs of the meadow (or other inhuman acts)
to speak with running subtitles:
in the translation of a voice
to be some natural thing singing
like the humpback corrupting the grace of the older song
whilst tootling along the coast
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
We've let fear become the novacaine
Like whiskey for the wounds
Swallowing denial pills
For truths that lie ahead
Injecting hopelessness
With needles of realities too real
For optimism's foreign policy
Behind our walls
We alienate the cure
To division's disease
A contagion known by many names
Ignorance is uttered most
A sickness in the veins
Of cancerous medical costs
A pestilence set upon
The amber fields of grain
A plague quarantining classes
In prison-bars and penthouses
A famine on the families
In this minimum cage
Where once we flew with eagles
Now we wallow in the dirt
Born into a dying world
Grown from selfish roots
Watered on pessimism
Bending to the will of hate's
Axe of opportunity
Cutting down the other trees
That dared to share the light of our
American dreams
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
The gleam of the skyscraper is like sunlight on
a pond glimpsed through trees or a free
and joyous river
I am thirsty, yet I have no desire to drink. The well
is poisoned.
The towering architecture opens to the marvels of modernity; their shining windows reveal
the revered throne rooms of CEOs, and workers tapping away
an army of ants to ensure order, according to their rules
and handbooks but above all
by uncertain individuals watching those around them.
And the violence of their tapping keyboards and polite emails
and the penthouses to which they aspire
the life of a bank throbbing
through the steel skeleton of a building that is larger than life,
larger than
those left to die
trying to get some sleep in the streets
kicked in the ribs by police
a different kind of life haunts their heartbeats.
The city has swallowed its own streets and sidewalks
and spits out skeletons
bones dry from its desperate extraction
****** to dust to coat that shining cityskape, the sweat and blood drained from pores to make the steel and the glass
drips away slowly, revealing only dust.
The well is poisoned -
I am dying of thirst -
I wonder which death
will be less painful
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
BY A BOY WHO CHOSE SOLITUDE
I never craved penthouses kissing the clouds,
nor mansions where silence feels cold.
I worked through storms,
not to rise above the world—
but to step away from its roar.
All I ever wanted
was a wooden hut in the hills—
where rivers laugh like children,
where the wind hums forgotten songs,
where rain feels like the sky washing off
what hurt the most.
The sun…
a father’s hand on my shoulder.
The moon…
a mother watching over dreams.
In cities, I wandered,
craving their lights,
but never their noise.
I loved them—
the quiet ones, the old ones,
where people moved like whispers.
But even there,
I couldn’t find the silence
that lets you hear yourself think.
So I built it—
in my mind first,
then in the earth beneath my feet.
Why?
Because I needed a place
where my voice echoes back to my ears,
so I know I still exist.
So I know I still feel.
I am tired of competition.
Of proving.
Of performing.
I want a life like a straight line—
not because it's boring,
but because it's honest.
And love?
I stopped chasing it.
Because no one holds hearts like I do.
And mine—
it’s not made for games.
It's fragile.
Like sunlight on still water.
It breaks quietly.
So I gave it back to the only hands
that never dropped it—
my own.
In solitude,
I found my teacher.
My shelter.
My self.
Now I know what I want.
Now I know who I am.
And when I sit, alone, under the rain,
I don’t feel empty—
I feel home.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC
Rough spoken men with hands like shovels
Overbearing women full of laughter and cuddles
***** brick mills and deserted old pits
United and City and kids with zits
Redundant old docks where boats used to sail
Now luxury penthouses for the rich to prevail
Finney, Kingsley and the great Robert Powell
The Hollies, the Beatles and the Gallaghers scowl
Tony Wilson, Factory Records and his rebellious acts
Hadrians Walls reveals many artefacts
Strangeways, gangsters and criminal ways
But our streets are safe as the government says
Tramstops, trainlines and buses fly along
Taking the North West’s finest to the places they belong
Canal Street, China town and the Northern Quarter
Scarily high death rates in the cold bitter water
Pride, Eid and diversity through the streets
Down the motorway lies the Cavern where the Liverpudlians still meet
Tragedy and solidarity and the beautiful bee crest
This is my place of birth this is the North West
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC