"scoring" poems
Are you the one?
Whose words can soothe my soul;
The one with the heart of gold.
Are you the one?
The restless fowl in the night sky;
Scoring over the clouds up high.
Are you the one?
Who can bring me back to life;
Cause I am dead of being alive.
Are you the one?
Will you set me free?
Or, will you bind me to an eternity?
Are you the one?
Whom I have been seeking all my life;
Teach me, teach me how it feels to be alive.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
the concierge of dystopia fnording *******
messing around with the octopus
cyberpunk nightmare with blue sky
expect a deluge and then wonder what happened to it
evaporated anxiety due for a downpour
catacombs rented by the hour
she typically cares about those
who don't care about her
abandoning me without consequence
don't ever come back
ungrateful swine of nowhere!
loyalty exists only in a parallel universe
where they locked themselves up
and destroyed the key
they feed the rich and ignore the poor
in the end the strugglers will prevail
and the ones who had it easy will suffer
game shows that punish the ignorant
rage that never ends
scoring infinite points in basketball
and still losing the game
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Ask me,
Ask me now daddy.
What I want to do when I grow up.
I want to be happy.
No, not happy
I want to be happiness.
I want to be joy and cheer and admiration
Confidence and peace and optimism
I don’t want to be like others, no, I want to be love.
The smile that comes across your face when they say your name,
The look that makes your heart skip a beat,
The song that makes you rethink every second you spent together.
I don’t wanna be the poem, I wanna be the emotion behind it,
Not the first kiss, let me be the nerves,
Not the dance, let me be the excitement,
Not the Officiant, let me be the vows.
When I grow up, I don’t wanna be a doctor mommy.
I want to be the feeling when someone’s told there’s a cure,
Or when a parent finds out their child will live to be a teenager,
Or maybe I want to be 3 in the morning when a mother holds her child for the first time.
I want to be affection and adoration and passion
Oh, I want to be passion.
Let me be passion.
So that you cannot do without me, because nothing without me has meaning.
So that when you are playing the final strain or scoring the winning goal,
Or writing the last chapter or finishing the last paint stroke,
You will think of me.
Maybe I’ll be allegiance or devotion or respect.
I won’t be the soldier, I’ll be the loyalty.
Or the surprise in a child's heart when their dad comes home early,
Maybe I’ll be the feeling when a father meets his baby for the first time,
And the child already knows his name.
I want to be piety and faith and worship.
I don’t want to be the pastor, I’ll be the lesson.
Maybe I’ll be the obligation behind the first baptism or first communion.
Maybe I’ll be the words when someone so low is told someone loves them.
I’ll be the salvation of the gospel,
The redemption to the guilty,
The forgiveness to the sinners.
When I grow up,
I want to be the opposite of sorrow,
The antonym of misery,
The reverse of fear,
The contradiction of rejection,
The antithesis of disappointment,
The inverse of insecurity,
I want to be the alleviation of anxiety,
The ease of pain,
When I grow up,
I want to be happy.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
The whistle is blown
The ball is thrown
Up into the air
For anyone it's fair
Grab it up quick
Get ready for the pick
Here it comes, there you go
and now it's two to zero
A few seconds on the clock
The other team is in shock
I can still move faster
And blow right past 'em
Scoring right before the bell
We say farewell
To the worry we had
Of losing too bad
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
Lily Kesha Gump
Sittin' on the curb of Bronx and Main Street
How I wish I could wrap my arms around you
Sweet little lady, lookin’ grown with a picture of her mama’s stare frozen on her face
Wrists slung through the spaces of her thighs, waiting for a daydream
And she sees me as I’m twirling by in my ruby reds and thigh high leather grace
There you go darlin,
She says to me
Scoring on my indigo smile
She bites men to sleep
With the crevices of her curves
As her voice weakens wicked
she pulls me out of my gloom
There you go darlin,
She says to me
With a time bomb ticking
On my pain pain pain
And the pen is in my hand
Before she even leaves my sight
I love this city
I love these women
I love their shoes
I love their smiles
Cheeky little laughs
Someone once recommended
When I was dancing under the shades of a neon lamp
From Homeless to Harvard
by a woman named Liz or Marie
Or maybe I read the title off of a screen
when I walking with Maryanne on north Peachtree street
And I remember
Lily Kesha Gump
How I wish I could wrap my arms around you
And give you the life some white woman
who doesn’t even know you
Thinks you desire.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 12:15 PM UTC
Hey young man, wanna join a frat?
Cool wife beater and a backwards hat?
Come with us, be one of the "bros"
And help us pull some cute little hos.
All you gotta do is follow our rules
Play along and we'll provide the tools.
To be one of the coolest kids here.
Just take a shot and slam a beer.
******* come your way as soon as you join.
All over you like you got loads of coin.
Scoring ******* left and right.
Getting ***** every night.
Frat boy Brad must have forgot since he was drunk.
With this kind of attitude, you'll surely flunk.
But if you don't care about your future, stand up and say:
"I compromised my morals, but it's O.K.!"
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:08 PM UTC
Glacier,
Flake
Time
Crystal
Collective
Mass
Gravity,
Flow
Breaking
Celibate
Monastic
Oath
In
This
Cathedral
Tower
Bedrock
Cracking
Groans
Moans
Under
Exponential
Cave
Crush
Crevasse
Plowing
Scoring
Tearing
Mush
Melt
Calving
Diving
Block
By
Block
Headlong
Into
Wave
Reflecting
Clouds.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 9:04 PM UTC
AUSTRALIA DAY, BY THE BBQ
CHEER CHEER FOR THE CROWD YS SEE
THE PEOPLE WHO COME TO YOUR BBQ
YOU SEE YOU COOK SAUSAGES A VERY NICE COLD COKE
AND EACH MAN HAS BEER
YEAH YOU SEE EVERYONE YOU SEE WILL PARTY YESEREE
YEAH IT’S ANOTHER AUSTRALIA DAY BY THE BBQ
I BRING OUT 6 ESKIES WITH 400 BEERS
THIS WILL MAKE THE MEN HAPPY
OH BLODDY ****** DEAR
YOU SEE, THERE IS A FEW WELL DONE STEAKS AND A FEW EGG AND BACON ROLLS
OH YEAH, ****** COOL
YOU SEE WE SIT BY THE LAKE IN OUR BLUE AUSSIE GEAR
AND WATCH THE LOVELY FIREWORKS, YEAH, LET’S GRAB US ANOTHER BEER
DON’T FORGET, THERE IS OUR THEORY, DUDE, LAMB LAMB LAMB OH DEAR
YEAH LAMB WILL PUT IN THE A IN AUSTRALIA DAY, YEAH IT WILL OH YEAH
THEN A MAN CAME UP TO ME, AND TOLD ME WATCHA DOING
ARE YOU ENJOYING AUSTRALIA DAY, LIKE IT’S A DAY WORTH CELEBRATING
I HAVE BEEN TO CITIES, THAT HAVE A LOT OF PENANG
FROM FLORIDA, CHICAGO AND THE GREAT BUDAPEST
AND NO MATTER HOW FAR OR HOW WIDE YA ROME
YOU CAN ALWAYS CALL AUSTRALIA
A PERFECT PLACE TO HAVE BBQs, ON JANUARY 26TH
AND WE CHEER COME ON AUSSIR COME ON, YEAH, COME ON AUSSIE COME ON
YA KNOW EACH BOWLER IS COMING DOWN LIKE A MACHINE
THE OPPOSTION IS PLAYING NUMSKULL GAMES IN THE GREEN
WE ARE SCORING RUNS, THROW OUT YA CHEWING GUM
AQND THIS IS THE GREATEST AUSTRALIA DAY, THAT WE’VE EVER SEEN
GO AND HAVE LAMB ON AUSTRALIA DAY
AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE, OI OI OI
HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY DUDES
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
I lock myself in places - so no one can see me crying,
So no one can see my tears
Or my pitiful face.
My mind explodes as my thoughts torment me
It all gets so overwhelming
And I can feel the tears prickling my eyes
I close them - and they sting
But no tears fall - although I can feel them,
Scoring their way down my cheeks
Outlining my faults,
Outlining my weaknesses,
And forcing me to atone for them
By keeping them suppressed in my ****** up mind
And not permitting my tears to fall...
These are my restricted tears.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
I break my back again;
a gymnast I never was,
scoring a 6.5, never a perfect ten,
putting myself through hell because
being flexible for your needs
has always been at the top of my priorities.
but you never were a chiropractor
and my desires were never
even considered as a factor
when you chose your next endeavor
so I just keep bending backwards for you,
nearing my demise
as the life drains from my eyes
and my face turns a deep shade of blue.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.
Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.
This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.
Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!
No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.
There's no sending it back for re-writes.
There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.
I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
It’s a contest in Fitness talent that one has
But it is a competition to see if the competitor has pizzazz
It’s a matter in showing your body shape off
Being determined and destined of course
As part of the fitness competition, one must dance
It’s a matter in putting the audience into a trance
But it’s the scoring in how you advance
The razzle and dazzle being in the spotlight
It’s about showmanship in becoming a champion
Perfection being great
How your diet and exercise come together in relate
But one must pay critical attention and watch carefully what you eat
This is competition of shape in how you will compete
Having the right routine being the regime
Nutrition being nice and clean
Not cheating, but having a theme
Exercise and tone all combined
But in the winning circle, you can’t drink any wine
It’s about becoming Mr. and Ms. Everything Fitness
The audience is there to take it all in and witness
One must have the right positive approach
There can be humor and jokes
But it’s a combination of exercise, shape, commitment, dedication and smile
This is the competition during while
One who is caught in the Fitness Sting
However, it is fitness being entertainment having the right swing.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC
Sprawled out across his back.
Contouring the bean bag chair into something shapely beautiful.
Knees expelled in opposite directions,
Expelling my imagination into a furious sea of frenzy.
Silence.
Except for the constant clicking of the video-game controller.
The constant flicking of his fingers soon lead my imagination
Elsewhere.
The traffic-jam of words inside of me soon slip uncontrollably to thoughts
As I sit behind him.
My heat undecoded.
Legs crossed, just as a lady should.
Girls from all over must tell him he's beautiful.
But beauty in itself is a limitation.
I'm not sure if he is aware that he is beyond
The liberal definition.
I find myself soon forgetting the awkward of the situation,
Instead savoring the surreal reality of such a moment.
"Are you winning?" I shortly ask him, breaking the heavy incredible silence.
But I had to know.
He can miss as many goals as he likes. Laugh it off.
Because inside of me he's scoring.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
I sit
Helping my mom
Sticking stickers on various ribbons
I look back on today's swim meet.
During freestyle, I was put in a heat only with a girl who hardly knew the stroke
I touched the wall over five seconds before her, scoring a new high score for my freestyle time; 42 89, which is 42 seconds and 89 milliseconds.
Next, I had backstroke to do with a friend of mine a lane over
Although I was placed for success, I barely came in last for my heat.
Then, all I had to do was read.
Pretties, by Scott Westerfield sat open in my hand, with me absorbing all of the words as if I wrote them myself
Tally was watching her former friend Shay become a monster. Nice story.
After awhile, I started helping my mom put identifying stickers on ribbons.
How lovely
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Lie back think of England
Tuck into toad in the hole
Cider with Rosie, peaches and cream
Juggle dumplings scoring a goal
Oats in the nose-bag, flip-flop away
Doggie do in the park
Scream shout, dip in and out
On the side after dark
Wellies squidgy in the mud
Carpet burns tickling trout
Marigolds in the soap suds
Eyes askew, up the spout
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
strangers hold up scoring cards as I pass by
6
4
8
3
i pretend not to notice them, but I do
I try to pretend like I enjoy talking about myself
when people ask me stupid questions about my life:
"where do you work?"
"how are the wedding plans coming?"
"are you going to school?"
all of which hold very little importance
so I shy away from them
perhaps it is because I do not feel worthy of such attention
cannot grasp that some people genuinely wish to know
I don't show love or interest like that
sometimes I am afraid that I am not capable of loving at all
but that-
is a silly notion
scrawled up on Lucifer's drawing table
he wishes for me to be miserable, as he is
why do I succumb to the lies
I feel incomplete sometimes (always)
and I wonder if Pacman feels like an incomplete ball of sunshine, too
"Sunshine," he calls me.
and I shrink from my lover,
because I don't know what to do with my darkness.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Access to excess
holds you tight
in its vice.
It starts off
it always feels so right
filled with promise and abundance
walking into that casino
loaded with cash
scoring the bag at Christine's
weekly motel
one more dab will do you.
She knocks on your door
and only wants you
the night is filled with promises too.
Is this any different
then gluttonous
billionaires hoarding what they can
it's never enough
while the rest of us drown.
The waiting, waiting, waiting
for it to come through
there's that too.
Access to excess
has this advice:
"I'll deal with it later"
and
"One more time. "
Drip, drip, drip
blood
triggered rush
images and cravings
euphoric memories
kaleidoscope
in
one body rush
after another
until there is no more living
in
your own skin.
Rubbing your self raw
to get back to that moment
when you first walked in
when abundance
was real
and
access to excess
was all you could feel.
What a moment of exhilaration.
Of course there are these bonuses too
ending up
with total deprivation
"incomprehensible
demoralization"
Locked in a porta-potty
with a guy and a pipe
out of money
out of time
out of consciousness
Access to excess
what are we gonna do
now.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
I.
Sunday mornings in Vancouver
even pigeons sleep in till 10 A.M.
Undaunted, I walk down Granville shortly before 8
seeking lox bagels with capers, red onions and cream cheese,
two breve lattes, and a newspaper. In truth,
panhandlers on the corner of Robson
have far greater chance of scoring.
An unexpectedly sunny February morn
suffices to spur me on. I am attuned to all vibration.
Breath of the awakening city
exhales manna upon the shop awnings.
Bagels rendered superfluous,
I scarf images instead ---
trolley buses, an umbrella shop, falafel stands ---
delicious Canadian visual cuisine.
II.
Vancouver is a nymph. Of that I'm sure.
I hear flirtatious giggles trill
from darkened alleys between hotels.
Spotted her once across the street on Dunsmuir,
seated on a walk bench reading a Margaret Atwood novel.
Bus passed between us and she vanished.
Caught a later glimpse through the window
of a walk-up dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.
Flew the stairs, only to find an empty table and
discarded napkin smudged with candy pink lipstick.
She watches me.
III.
Turns out there are no Sunday morning papers in Vancouver,
but I locate the bagels and espresso backtracking on Helmcken.
The barista smiles as I approach, sets down her Atwood novel.
I leave a Toonie in gratuity.
B.C. wind pushes hard on my turned back,
as I rush our breakfast back to the Executive.
A nymph goes roller-blading by toward False Creek.
The Gastown Steam Clock whistles that it's 10 A.M.
A flock of pigeons lifts in flight.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Being in gymnastics
Is like being in an abusive relationship
Everything just tells you "NO"
But you still stay
From the bars,
And how it releases the grips of your hands
To the beam,
Which only aims to make you wobble and fall off
To the vault,
Running full speed to it only to make you miss the vault
To the floor,
Wherein you try to flip and twist only to be defeated by Newton's law of gravity
With the stupid scoring system
Pointing out every flaw
With a deduction
Just cause your bra strap is showing
jeez!
And how we are trained to achieve the unachievable —
How every move is supposed to be precise
Every muscle squeezed and tight —
Perfection
And the fact that
You'll never actually be the best
There's always a harder skill
After you've achieved what you may think
Is your "hardest"
It pushes you
To your breaking point
Forcing you to be
This perfect formed strong gymnast
Which pays so much costs
Literally blood, sweat and tears
It tells you that
Every ******* time you fall
You just gotta get back up
And try again
That no matter how much sore you are
You gotta **** it up
And do it again
And again and again and again
Until you finally get it
But there are these magical moments
those little moments of pure happiness
When you get a skill you've been working on
When coach praises you for your improvement
When you get over your fear
And when you stand on top of that platform
Knowing you gave it your all
These moments
Are what keep us going
These moments
Are what we come back for
Time after time after leaving the gym saying
"I hate training!"
There's just something about
These moments so special
That keeps us wanting more
And I will never
ever
Stop loving gymnastics
No matter how many times it hurts me
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
When I first met Skully,
I was an ingenue in a silly fragile plastic body--
a nursery flat, a starter bed,
not yet Anne Of Queer Gables
magnificently not giving a ****
Back then,
I believed that Skully was stuffed like a bell pepper,
jammed to bursting with thoughts, dreams and
wisdom on every subject;
I didn't know, as we lay together under the ceiling fan,
that he was as vacant and distant as outer space.
He PEZed me kisses, bought me roomsful of useless junk,
and twisted me silly like a bonsai tree.
I let him.
Daydream starlets and archery targets both have curves,
and sit still for the incoming--
I spent a decade with Skully that way,
as if I'd done it with a porcupine and was proud of the damage.
Now, he sits like an unfortunate date brought to dinner--
big-eyed as a girl, smiling too much,
and adding nothing to the conversation.
Still, I can't bear to throw him out,
and so the dogs lug him around like a trophy,
scoring and striping him with their joyful teeth marks
and losing his mandible under the fold-out sofa.
My girlfriends tolerate him.
After all, he's dead, and won't start any stupid crap about threesomes.
The next door kids ask for him sometimes,
and they bowl him at empty pop bottles in the driveway.
I confess, though,
that late at night, when it's stormy, and I'm alone,
I pause before bouncing him down the basement stairs, and I say,
"Thank you, Skully,
for keeping me from having to be alone
in the years before I bloomed into my need for heart, flesh, soul,
and not just solid bone."
Then I lay one on his grinning kisser
and even add a little tongue
just to tease him
for the lack that made me leave him like a southbound bird
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 12:07 PM UTC
Mondays are like when the cops come to shutdown a party that is approaching the highest point of the night
Mondays are like when you found out your prospective prom date is interested in going with you
Mondays are like when you find out your other half is splitting themselves into more than two pieces
Mondays are like when you find your savior for the first time
Mondays are like when you fail a test you spent all weekend studying for
Mondays are like when the leaves change color on trees in autumn
Mondays are like when it rains on a day you planned a picnic date that you could not reschedule
Mondays are like when you find your purpose for breathing daily and using that as motivation to constantly progress
Mondays are like getting a broken ankle after scoring the game winning touchdown
Mondays are like when you find a pond of fresh water after traveling by foot through a desert
Mondays are like talking to your celebrity crush with spinach stuck on your tooth
Mondays are like buying your favorite pair of sneakers
Mondays are like waking up early for a class that was cancelled
Mondays are like when the flowers bloom in the spring
Mondays are such a buzz ****
Mondays are like a fresh start
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
ЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖ
*Mystical Goddess of Night times
Queen of the caliphets
Daughters of the Caribean blue
As days did mark quarters
As lilies did spark waters
As rain lit the hydrosphere
And green fit the atmosphere
As oceans falls beckoned on MĔ*
And open floors endowed the ŚĔÁŚ
*And the moon thrilled a beguiling dark
And the beam filled a bewildering black
I call on the gods beneath the seas
Heed me to a wavering ŦÁĹĹ*
*Mystical daughters of the hereafter
I become the waters that flow endless
I become the rain that melts the patch
I become the tussles of a million ŴÁŤĔŔ*
*I swivel and swim through an unseen world
And when darkness falls,
I stand
I watch
From a scoring cosmos above
I render the sea blue
Glowing from an encapsulated moon
Tearing all obstacles
I am Luna
Queen of the Moon
I bewitch the night with my mesmerizing glow
And when time flips away,*
Ĩ ßĔČoMĔ ŤĤĔ ŚĔÁ
* *
ЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖЖ
*
ĔVŃÁ-ĹÚŃÁ
ĎĔČ 11 2016©
*ÁĹĹ ŔĨĞĤŤŚ ŔĔŚĔŔVĔĎ
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
A Stirring biomass, a grim river
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
Dumped over the slow years -
'And we saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked and open,
we prised her from the mire, and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer,'
The Lady from sludge,
your toady skin broke
as you flopped, nymph-like on board
Caved-in by the tumbling sky,
And air like leather. Dry in the throat.
The sweating walls spun his head,
And the cogs whirred to fast
To bite back. Space and time-blind,
He turns to the sepia city.
Like new life,
ready for the fall of man.
Through the river of time elapsed,
Churning up memory.
And there's the glitz, the cracking lips.
that bet on goodness.
'I remember being a girl - and my mother -
smiling but never sad -
I waited for her every morning'.
The forgotten root scratches out life
Underneath vast and forgotten hangers.
The lungs of the city shed their skin
To keep pace with the smog.
See what we all don't know.
And live where we all can't see.
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.
Dank Amazon.
the roots are wires,
sprawling for grip for the sulking trees
In the great ape eco-system
'I'm a cruel joke, don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled.
'I'm sorry'
As her fists unclenched
'Im Sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm Sorry'
Belted by un-silent night
And below gridlocks of light
An I.C.1 male is being chased
By screaming vans, run rabbit
Down the hole and off you go.
And the hiss of 'one eight seven,
one eight seven' from the radio,
is scoring his run - as the pools on the floor,
neon-flashed burst open
in a booted shatter.
'And the time went by,
And I looked at your form
And I looked at your cuts
And you are the river
And one of its secrets, un-watered'.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
Matches among other things that were not allowed
never would be
lying high in a cool blue box
that opened in other hands and there they all were
bodies clean and smooth blue heads white crowns
white sandpaper on the sides of the box scoring
fire after fire gone before
I could hear the scratch and flare
when they were over
and catch the smell of the striking
I knew what the match would feel like
lighting
when I was very young
a fire engine came and parked
in the shadow of the big poplar tree
on Fourth Street one night
keeping its engine running
pumping oxygen to the old woman
in the basement
when she died the red lights went on burning
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