"pylons" poems
Lack-luster, in dull
Clusters, tall pylons reign with
Gods that look like you.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
I'm
drowning
in light,
In blinding light:
Lights on cars; and buildings;
and lit up trees lining lit up streets;
Houses with sills all lined in gold
And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould;
Street lamps; and laser pointers; and
Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers
Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards,
With bright teeth and skin and red words
Everywhere you turn,
Telling you what you want
And never knew you wanted;
Shop windows; chandeliers;
Presents for that time of year;
Cell phone pylons with twinkling,
Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees;
Christmas trees, with stars and angels
Speckled, Frosted,
Dusted on the tops;
Disgusting glare on sunglasses,
And a smiting gaze along the arms;
Bridges and fountains with gold poured on;
Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn;
Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands;
Every window, but the ones
Being jumped off of;
TVs and refrigerators, opened
Thoughtlessly at night;
Screens shooting onto impassive glass
That used to be faces;
Cameras, going off in quick succession,
Quicker than you can keep up;
I'm drowning.
We are taught desire, in light,
We learn to read in light
and scarlet letters of fluorescence
We are blind,
Now that the road is paved for us,
To the light that was before.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I can't hear the choir from my couch
It becomes a funeral pyre in a pouch
Like the unnatural fire in my slouch
That is where I retire
To superficially admire
A world I'll never see
Placing trust in the screen
I'm as lonely as can be
Until couches set me free
From a life worrying about others
The couch becomes my banal brother
That is where I concoct my cowardly plan
To avoid my fellow meddlesome man
Living a life in silence
The couch creates pylons
Determining where I can go
Determining what I can know
This Ottoman Empire
Lights the world on fire
With cushions that fuel
Flames and drool
I attempt to stand
But life seems bland
With feeling constant comfort
So my personality I import
From the images on TV
And my brain it impedes
When I can't think for myself
I put my life on the shelf
And flee into furniture
The couch my burning cure
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
.
Enough is not enough
I want too much.
“Excuse me sir
you haven’t paid too much.
I gave you too much
and you ate everything.
I need to throw away something
and the bin’s spilling."
"I drove too many footsteps
past too many throwaways
too many pylons
water towers
possum-eaten polystyrene cups
Mcdonalds
Mcdonalds
Mcdonalds
camel boxes
and walkers
with socks as hard as coffins.”
Enough is not enough
I want too much.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
a man in a trench coat
walked though construction
after dark,
dead branches grew
from the holes in the
end of his sleeves,
the night painted
over retinas
but his skin still seemed pale,
dyed dark hair
shined without hygiene,
and his boots
kicked the road torn,
I though of columbine
when I saw his trench coat,
I saw guns and children hiding
I heard shotgun shells
breathing smoke
onto the pylons,
I saw brand new
blood pained lane lines
in the middle of the road,
I couldn’t make out his face
but I looked at a smiling maniacal,
and I was just driving by
and it seemed cold,
I had the window down for a smoke and
I smelled tired exhaust
from sleeping machines,
and it was then that I realized
he was most likely walking home
from work or going to get milk
from the convenient store,
perception will always drape over us
in a cloak no one else can see,
it will never disappear and
to the trench coat man I apologize.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
Nestled
in a gyroscope
of allotment, haybail and heath
is the scenery of
my solemn country.
The skyrise, hollows. the
dripping
fat of the land.
The cities have boomed
and they're beautiful.
Like open roses they're
garlands of wire,
pylons and street-lights.
A thorny crown
on a girl in a nightclub. They're
blistering
they drink, kiss and drink.
And all the while
we live with whispers
splashed like
blood in a gutter.
As murmurs
pumped
through the strip-lit veins
of an office block.
Its a life where
prayers
are mist on train windows.
When we walk
we check our
reflection in car windows
and we're beautiful
we run
our hands
through our hair
knowing
we were babies born with
horns for this.
When we ride
its over
railroad boneyards,
the sleepers are
metal teeth locked in
asymmetrical laughter
at everything
at everyone
at nothing.
The skies are a
psychosis of sunlight, clouds,
vapour trails,
it's heaven
and
we're bent at the alter,
our shadow on
the crypt
has horns.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Hie Yamaha Wegman ****** voyager, voted vonage valuable, unrepentant TIME Magazine subscriber. Spotify sportsman Snapchat smartly. Sleuth slenderman silences Shutterfly schvitzing. Saxby sassy Santander sais sage rues rudimentary router rotorooter.
Royale Rococco rigged remarkably regular referee reefers red reddit reeder recuperating. Reconnaissance recluse really rabid. QVC quotient quoting, quo quoi quivering quite quirky. Quisling quipped. Quintuplets quintessentially quiet. Quids Quicken questions.
Quartermaster qualified quaint quaffing quadrilateral Pythons. Pyrex pylons put purdy purposeful puny punsters punching. Pumpkin pumice publicized prudential protean pros properly pronouncing prolific prodigies.
Proletariats professors' problematic. Pro privileges prioritized. Principle primates prevaricate. Preppy pregnant, praying prattler possibly Porgie. Poseidon pooping poodle ponders poppycock. Plum? Polite poison pods ply pitiful pinterest.
Pinhead Pillsbury pillager Pi. Pigskin pierce petsmart pests permanently. Perdition percolates peppered PennState pedigreed PearlJam Patagonian. Pastor pastes passion passably. Papas' paginated orbitz okayed. Nutty node needs money.
Next netzero nee naugahyde. Nattering nationwide nabob Moxie Molly McGee. Monosodium livingsocial joyus je kickstarter. Identityguard Huffington GMO. Gluten Glutamate footloose fancy free footlocker. Fingerhut fetishistic fabrication Cingular.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
And opposite,
In the electricity fields,
Sit rows of hollowed-out shells.
Now in-land,
Though out of place,
The lightning whelks generate Hell.
And parallel—
Conducting phantasmagorical light—
The pylons coil around them:
Reverberations from the industrial fields
Where the blood lines coagulate and dwell.
And the blood lines—
They feed the hollowed-out shells—
Form conglomerate veins.
And in their hands—
Great fires they weld—
Ever-surging, moth-coaxing light.
Apr 1, 2023
Apr 1, 2023 at 7:49 AM UTC
Deserted streets at dusk,
Grey skies and lowering cloud,
Trees and hedges shrunk like a model train landscape
And pylons that could snap their wires, tuck them under their arms
And walk away.
Lego houses with lids to lift
Releasing smells of Sunday lunch chicken
And tea time bath salts.
I could pluck the towers from the power station and roll
Them down the dual carriageway.
An Alice or a Gulliver.
A non- participant;
A reluctant participant;
A can't participant.
Roads and trees and factories and pubs
Retreat
And shrink.
God- like in stature only-
Clumsily stepping,
Not wanting
To crack the road
Or gouge out windows
With a misplaced elbow.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
i hand you your things and flee the driveway,
wind up at the site of a gas leak
firetrucks and pylons and
hazmat suits and me in
my ’85 corolla
declaring
myself
king
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
in my eyes im fishing the pylons,awed by the sunset, inspired by the sunrise.one with nature and its pure beauty,firmness in body and spirit: Alive.pure and simply energized by the elixir of lifeLove. with Love comes serenity.my spirit expounds Joy to the extentthat one couldn’t contain it inside himselfthe pureness and simplicity in which I can be pleasedis identical to the pureness and simplicity of love
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
What will haunt me until my dying day
is electricity pylons on motorway verges
for mile after elongated mile
and crash barricades, ebbing and flowing
with nauseating regularity and the
inexplicable sadness of the north circular
because believe me, purgatory is real
and its the central reservation of the A406
a haunted island where time is suspended
where days are ruined, dreams shattered
and lives ended
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Fire storm gave you a cleansing hand
cajoling not unlike a rabbit breaking through fences.
I feel more for foxes
but don't let that guise serve as something else.
Sheild my dignity by the pylons
deeply electric
azure as a dream
the bugles will surely entertain.
can closure be provided?
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
…the dream sequence
plays like vaudeville
in the peephole
of a kinetoscope
my drunken subconscious thoughts
undulate in murky waters
and slurin the visions of specters past
infrastructures and pylons
formed from childhood homes schools
skate parks friend’s houssand churches
faces familiar unfamiliar
mold and mend in wicked contortions
and diaphanous ambiguity
what obfuscates me from the truths
of my mind
I stumble through the chambers
haunted by childhood nightmares
and tickled by ancient fantasies
my arms
and legs
are like
rubber
I
feel
torpidity
overcome
and the words
are like alphabet soup
in the director’s commentary
splashing around aimlessly mingling
in the waves of broth
what will be revealed
in this phantasmagoric phenomena
wax figures coming to life
and panoramas dancing on the walls
my body somewhere in time
waits with pen and paper in hand
eager to counter the façade
with the utmost coherence
just you wait til I wake up
and reveal all your secrets
oh wondrous mind…
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:23 PM UTC
Fields of green is surely a lovely scene
unspoilt of man's vision!
Which seems build on everything
plus adding pollution!
In between swaying trees plastic bags
lot's of cans and rotting rags!
Any idyllic view fly tipping is common
saving money the priority!
With a touch of pylons and mobile masts
and those wind turbines to.
Land spattered with concrete and steel
in despair helpless you kneel!
Completely drained at what's being done
over two centuries plundered.
That's detrimental to earth's natural order
continuing to **** the resources!
Certainly will take it's toll on civilisation
like the Mayans obliteration!
Has this happened before and now replaying?
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 10:16 AM UTC
I thrive in silence
These mental pylons requiring void
I need all of my neurons to be employed
Modernity calls…
Undulating waves lambast the structure
My zigs start zagging when they should be zigging
The course turns inward
Noise so noisome, I then soil the blank
Cursing God, myself, and the bank
For such a hideous, heinous, everyday mistake
This arsenal
This armory
My six-digit word bank
Fall all out of order
Twenty-six slots, filled in with haste
The instrument bears air greedily in
My fingers can’t trace the holes amongst the din
So I issue out garbage
And pretend
This new edition is
Just another win.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
"...FOR GREED ALL NATURE IS TOO LITTLE..."
first the city
ate an adjacent town then
put out a suburb
like a great paw
belched
a factory
devoured a well known
beauty spot
that was soon
forgotten as such
ate a field and
ate another field
the city's hunger
fed by greed
sent out pylons
striding across countryside
like giant
alien beings
vomiting asphalt
so that green was as if
it had
never been
its scenic magnificence
now only available
in an out of print
1930's guide book
even its memory
dying now with old Joe Hart
who managed to make it
past the hundred mark
the town he was born in
no longer to be seen
except in sepia
or Kodachrome
a picture postcard
(3 for 2)
in the bright new
museum.
***
The title is supplied by one Seneca the Younger (c. 4 BC – AD 65) that well known and renowned Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
to the fore, no dilly dallying,
no words wasting,
I don't write nursery rhymes,
just relay tales re the peoples
I have met journeying on this
natural good earth
I know, I have met,
Little Bo-Peep,
no fiction she,
she has counted my sheep and I,
hers
she pins and pylons,
her tales on my heart,
beetles, bugs and little boys,
crumbs in the bed,
no bleeding hearts here,
maybe a bandaid
on a boo-boo'd finger
this shepherdess tends her flock
and records their history,
the little foibles that make
life's little tantrums into loving poetry
when I think of her escapades,
I recall well that old Yiddish proverb:
*God could not be everywhere,
so he created mothers...*
and when not tending her babes,
she can bake one hell of a good word cake,
on her island~continent kingdom
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Strangers packed into the subway
through the guts of the city
they ride thigh to thigh, eyes velcroed on
thick lamplight, flash mobs drowning
the stop at Powell Station.
It’s not only night but the inside
of a piston badly lit
and always leaving someone short-changed.
River of yellow between
the platform and the train
makes everyone take sides
and rearrange. Girls who had wandered
off, stayed stationed on knobby-kneed pylons,
holding their skirts to the wind
to anyone who’d take them.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
FOR GREED ALL NATURE IS TOO LITTLE
first the city
ate an adjacent town then
put out a suburb
like a great paw
belched
a factory
devoured a well known
beauty spot
that was soon
forgotten as such
ate a field and
ate another field
the city's hunger
fed by greed
sent out pylons
striding across countryside
like giant
alien beings
vomiting asphalt
so that green was if
it had
never been
its scenic magnificence
now only available
in an out of print
1930's guide book
even its memory
dying now with old Joe Hart
who managed to make it
past the hundred mark
the town he was born in
no longer to be seen
except in sepia
or Kodachrome
a picture postcard
(3 for 2)
in the bright new
museum.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
The rusted pylons
the endless rain
the drifting soils
spoils of war
spoiled, spoilt
remember the illuminating fear
soldiers of war
Baby laid flat unbreathing
pillow cases ajar by the splintered doors
eye sore, the sadness in your I's
when the plane touched down and you knew I was home
where the wind blew gales
over all these fields
and the way you thought of them,
brought tears to my eyes
or just because I was thinking of our child
- who died
My deer lay down, right here
this time
its different
this time it ends
Stray bullets with names etched out
it didn't matter, the importance of the target
green grass turned red
should have been safe until the end
lowered now into a manifest grave
Now the moment had come
now the songs had been sung
now the dirt it is ground fine
and so now is the time
- He who watched them descend
will be here to the end.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
I can still see the bulbous lights over the courtyard
How they hanging there resembled a December holiday
And when the night could no longer march forward
I'd lay me down and meditate with the soft glowing rays
I can still remember the old cracked fountain
When the swells of spring where all full of strife
It would overflow down the mountain
And join another person's life
Do you remember the electric lines entangling the sky
Their poles rising up to the matte sky like pylons
The dusk would burn out our eyes
And my shoulder was for you to lean on
Life was so much more back then
At the apex of humanity
At childhoods end
We are met with insanity
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC