"signage" poems
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange
that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park
the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song
flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags
hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
Ok, I didn't want to do this
but there's rules that you must know
Etiquette to be followed
A line that you must toe
Listen very closely now
I think you all should try it
The things that you will now learn
About a protest and a riot
Firstly, have a purpose
Just random shouting, that's persay
If you do not have a topic
Then all the new folks go away
Throwing bricks at coppers
Breaking windows on the street
Is this a sign of protest
Or is it idiots in heat
No signage, and no speakers
Just random yelling for a cause
This isn't a good protest
Just breaking random laws
A protest has a purpose
It presents a point of view
A riot is an ugly thing
Which one is right for you
MLK could run a protest
Make a point and get things done
All without a mob forcing
A cop to use his gun
The rules really are simple
Keep the young ones all at home
For people in glass houses
Should really not throw stones
A peaceful resolution
From a protest is the goal
But a riot is just aimless
It puts the city in a hole
Victims of a riot
Are not the ones who are to blame
They're just owners of the business'
Who get caught up in the game
Next time that you protest
Protest rioting instead
It will turn out for the better
And nobody will end up dead
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
In my Thirty-Fifth Year I juiced this Remark
The Crisque-Plaque Hotel named after a Tree
Sturdy, of Signage enhance the Grade's Bark
Wishing all else their Best Service was Free
If not the Years to Good Degree advance:
Fruits, Pasta, Meat, Veggies and Japanese
Mix the fricasee to match that of France
And serve it on a Platter, if you please
Only if the Staff were shy; But informed
How noted the needs of their Clients were
One Gesture made, took the Meaning lost cause
Pour some polished Suggestions done on here.
Thirty-Five Candles blown, all without Flame
It was still my Best Day; All just the same.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
I have only one layer
I'm about to strip it bare
I'm about to submit to your desires
Of *** , **** , and hair
I'm giving in to inhibitions
As I spread myself before you on the bed
You better save some pocket change
Cause I intend on breaking
your wooden bed head
I'm about to lift my knees
Arch my back and beg please
I'm about to ask you ever so nicely
To make it harder
And hold me tightly
I'm about to try positions
A body is not meant to form
I'm about to make sure
Your ready to preform
I'm about to put signage
"Take care , slippery when wet"
Ready , set
And I'm gonna beg for more
You can bet
Harder and more forceful each time
I'm gonna have you gagging for breath
As hell meets heaven
And life measures ****** death
You say "oh how you look like heaven tonight "
As I guide you through hell
On this wild ride
You say I look somewhat like your wife
Maybe this morning
But I'm nothing like her tonight
Move with my body
And you'll get it just right
I am the officer in charge tonight
So shut your mouth
And let's go round for round
In a different type of fight
Let's keep it going
Until we break through the moon light
I'm not from heaven
Nor a mother
Tonight
But for these few dark hours
A ***** ***** housewife x
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
The streets were paved with hawkers
Flamboyant sunshades
two dollar sunglasses discounted from
twenty thousand pesos.
I couldn’t walk past the conversation of skytowers
Underwear hanging precariously
Off high ledges where it was hard to read
The designer labels
A man with a small monkey
Was reading fortunes
With an ape like face
He certainly saw the future!
A delicious woman with pushed up
***** beckoned me away from boredom
I walked into a valley of sinister looks
For looking away.
At night the sky shed its diamonds
On the sidewalks of ecstasy
And the digital signage
torched the front of buildings
With blue and red flames bursting
Invitations to your wallet
I carried a six pack Lion
Home to watch the night sky
Dance till dawn with necklaces
Of neon.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
What I love
the most in the world
is packaging
like how the fine companies
who sell us
their product
protect us from evil bacteria
and how the icing
from Toaster Strudels
comes out of the plastic
in neat little lines
and also
what I love
the most in the world
is signage
like how do you know
where you are
without the signage?
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 2:31 AM UTC
There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.
I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.
I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.
Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.
****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.
I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.
Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
Sitting in an abandoned lot,
listening to the screeches of
seagulls and freight trains.
I am staring at a condemned building.
Condemned to have more windows broken and
be marked with unoriginal graffiti.
YOLO and RIP TGB.
Bricks crumbling onto broken glass.
I guess you really do only live once.
Construction tape blows in the wind and
it is strangely terrifying.
This forgotten lot where
there is "absolutely no tailgaiting."
An owners car will be towed
A police car drives by and just stares.
I'm just doing my part.
Forgetting about this lot and all the events that took place here.
The asphalt hums with the highway traffic.
Click Clack goes trashcan
rustling around the fenced-in area in the back forty.
Progression marches on and
the picture fades away to ***** signage and power lines.
If there is beauty in this lot.
I have forgotten.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
I was limping the edge of the pond so as to confirm in the world my clearance given to me as before by frogs. my punched nose was warm and my grief melted from it and I cupped my hands together for the blood and what mixed with it and when the cup was full I halved it and my already thick shoelaces thickened. soon into this drama one frog jumped from the pond and I was startled. startled too that indeed it was no frog but a toad or some form of toad. I followed it woozily from my father’s land onto the land of my enemy. the toad was dull save for its hop from water and save for its courage and save for a sickly orange spot on its back that was a star when the toad paused and a mangled star otherwise. a couple times I lost the toad, the land was new, but I knew to stop and the toad knew to rustle or in my more desperate moments to come wholly back. everything had been planned and my body wanted to be generous to the toad and it was hard not to run or use my hands or ruin this paradise that I knew then as vengeance but now as existential plagiarism which is nonetheless vengeance. I would not rub the toad over me and I had to convince myself repeatedly. the boy was no doubt inside the house as his dog was not to be seen but his sister was sprawled on two towels put short end to short end as she was very tall and her sunglasses were cocked enough so that her right eye could see mine. the toad was in her mouth immediately and then her throat bulged but was back to its original in no time. I lost the toad forever then but its orange star surfaced on the right and then the left of her belly button. I told her I would see her at school and I would but this was the last time I would see her in anything but an overcoat and the boy would try and come close but never again pin me down.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
I'm not in love
with your words
I'm in love with
the way you think
not just
delighted,
entertained,
endlessly curious,
sufficiently bewildered
and longing to climb inside
the gears tick-tocking your mind
but that your brain takes me
into a state of utter awe
blissing me still
it's looking into
this distorted hologram
mirror where I'm seeing
more of me, but from
different perspectives
than the usual 2D
similar to me, yet,
inversely intriguing
it's live and undulate
reflective truth serum
rooting me in now
that's why I slid
right down your throat -
I speak your language
and apparently intuitively
know how to crack you
allkindsa open
(even if it takes a
white-hot light year
and unprecedented doses)
it's like with you
I'm the me-est me
I can be
it's so
magically delicious
I don't try to escape
inside me anywhere
you make me want to
be more here
with you
on the outside
share all the parts
I learned it best to hide
on the in
though I know
it's a wee bit ******
if these treatises become
merely the sheer prologue
to The Most Unbelievable Tale
of Mystical Love Perhaps Ever Spun
the fact that
seeing you is
seeing me
means
loving you is
loving me too
this could be
- so -
healthy
like shots of
marine phytoplankton
chased with green smoothie
and my ponderings
keep meandering
around this one thing:
what happens when
it gets to the point where
your pictures painted of me
completely override
my false stories
- forevermore -
when I eat
so much of the mirror
I become - fully -
the me I see
through your
Windexed eyes
I daresay
that’s levitating off
the porch of full potential
outside our diamond-cut pyramid
with the gold-engraved signage
hanging in front of our
intergalactic portal
where one
might have
once
looked for a door
that now seems
completely archaic
and unnecessary
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
Ok, gimme me your best day, take your best shot at perfection.
Our minds take experiences and press them grape-like,
into the intoxicating liquor of memory.
The vivid ones linger - unaltered - like youthful Internet mistakes forever posted.
Someday to beckon us back, teasingly - like bright, neon signage.
.
Peter’s off again to job interview (second round, in Geneva), he was only here two days but something of him remained behind. Oh, fingerprints for sure - but memories too - like scattered Christmas wrappings - or a poem.
Aug 6, 2023
Aug 6, 2023 at 3:42 PM UTC
I’m not good with words and worse with expressing. But, I’ll try.
We all are searching for something, someone special. We try to search for dots, squares- shapes that are our similar kinds. We fall innumerable times and sometimes that leaves us questioning our faith, our beliefs, our potential- overall, maybe ourselves. And we stop trying. A hand reaches out to us. That hand stands with you, for you, some times even slaps you while you’re losing yourself again. It hugs you, comforts you in those lonely winter nights and feels the raindrops falling upon its palm through the grills of the window. It guides you, pointing out like a signage and it never fails you. That one person guides you, holds you, loves you for no reason comprehensive whatsoever. They make you look at yourself with hope, with love.
And more than some times, we fail to realise that while we were busy searching for more than something that’s ordinary love, that love had been standing beside us all this while and maybe, more.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Contorted reports of important reviews
The people can't keep with the lead on the news
The lady betrayed us, her graces abused
By signage confided my mind is confused
Sincerest endearments by tears are replaced
The fears I loathed feeding now filling the space
Where fondness of bonding once dawned on my face
What's left is a rift of disgusting disgrace
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 9:40 PM UTC
" The Gentleman "
Say cheese....because sooner or later
I'll be fine writing this header
For i will let you come first
Before i care about my thirst
Let me hold your hand
and together we'LL stand
unshade my sun glasses
eye to eye feel our senses
Undress my hat
Nose to nose
We'LL communicate
Like a lovely cat
Once you capture my image
Every angle of mine serves as your unwanted signage
By that time... it was i, that you don't deserve!!!
Unleash your flash upon the light of your calm!!
And you'LL ever know how gentleman i am!
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
The Year Was 2017... Globalization and Relocation thru Financial Incentives had been occurring at an Increasingly Rapid Rate...for 4 years
Human Sorting thru the Spheres Program had accelerated, and Talent Acquisition and Identification was Rampant in the Building of Ministry States, and Six Nation Civil/ Financial Armies....
Ownership of Brick and Mortar Businesses in Each Free Country by Aggressive Interests Had become Maximized
Psychological War had been expanded
Martial Law Is Declared:
in the event Civil War Breaks out...
1) physical fitness at military Grade necessary
2) able to read color based code and signage without computer
- Rank and Order; For the purpose of Martial Law Leadership Positions/ Ruling Standard: Royal Dictatorship
- Order of Social Value in the event of Planet Drought and Overheating, Mass starvation
- Human Potential Project Government assisted for rapid acceleration of Skill to combat business collapse, acceleration pop Intuition and Physic listening ability
- Disaster Training and Skills organized
- Passing of Fake Wills and................... for redistribution of Wealth
- Fake......., wikipedia installs, and Search engine Lies to alter World Voting Perceptions for Tech endorsed candidates in UN positions
- Fake NGO's , Subject Matter Expertise Areas based in Branding and advertising as Influencers,
Conflict of Interest Rampant throughout; Corruption Widespread,
Secret Hostile Foreign Influence mixed with Oneness Agenda of Globalists
Interference with mail (taken over by Foreign interests
- arranged ****** partnerships/marriages for maximum efficiency of family structure in loss of familiar Central Government, increase of wellness and rabid growth of NEW potentials
Prepare: physically fit, for operation
eat organic foods
Elliminate all debt, minimize expenses
ORDER, reduce clutter, attachments
ID primary relationships
At Risk: Forests, Farmlands, National Parks, Utilities, Water
At risk: Cultural Artifacts(Psychological War Target)
At Risk: Kids of Philanthropists, Leadership
At Risk: Family Businesses
At Risk: Planet, All Life
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
Signage won't matter
Nor the road paint that you lay
Love is not one way
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 10:56 PM UTC
Heed tetchy static, roving around McArthur.
I can feel the steady impulse breed flaxen flumine.
Songs tumble notes as ladies sing blunt-mouthed tune.
You croon with them, mindless of the force that tries
to break free past the console. Your voice is analogous
to reticence. I hear nothing, feel everything underneath the lazy glow
of the sign that says Yield plastered to a decrepit signage past the
posh city buoys of Jupiter. Everything comes to a halt
in the remote red light district. Somewhere behind those thick walls
that enshroud the fumes of tantric body heat, I can feel the ground
stop in that disconsolate delineation: morose and encumbered,
outnumbered by the cognoscenti that filled the streets unwilling
to give us directions to whereabouts we rarely have knowledge of.
cigarettes rammed deep within their mouths, masticating the cloud
of nicotine as though it were tender meat, I hear the radio go
ballistic past the sign now that reads Exit.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
break down all the walls
that you've built
and give yourself a reason
to return to this world with a purpose.
you are nothing but a carcass
that has decomposed
into ashes of black mold.
you poison yourself into thinking
of spontaneous loving
and more so bright futures
where as proof shows none but
troubled breaths
and stutters in simple sentences.
if one thing has given no hope
it is your signage and composure.
none of your worth gives reason
to believe you are whole
and gives no life to your dead mind.
return yourself to where
your comfort lies
and leave us all with our intelligence.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Ever since you left
I’ve been wondering
what it’d be like if we
were just parallel lines
never destined to meet
instead of two rusted cars
with broken brakes at a
crossroad without signage.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 5:59 PM UTC
This poem was written on a cold winter morning in the North.
winter sun
written february 5th, 1995
laying stretched in bed
after sleeping all night
all night in my head
with the walls up
i open my eyes
to the winter sun
winter sun burning bright
bright and white and pure
winter sun is such a contrast
sparkling off the cold snow
cutting through the crisp air
brightness the only thing left of its heat
i feel the walls go back down in my head
i shut my eyes to the blinding brightness
and let the sun make its way unaided
into my self
can it make its way around the walls?
find its way through the maze?
discover all the secret places?
winter sun doesn't have vision or reason
it isn't confused by the barriers i put up
by the false walls that i have built
or the inaccurate signage
for a few minutes
on this cold winter morning
in spite of my defenses
the winter sun illuminates all of me
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
Half moon high
In a deepening sky
The clouds like spider cotton,
Like blue ivory husks betwixt
Umber grey misty fog,
The diablerie of dusk
Dark sky and stars
The streets flooded,
a river of headlights, flashlights,
Sidewalks’ pedestrian traffic,
An Armada of munchkins, crowds
Strolling by Chinatown’s
Crisp neon plazas,
A necropolis bright with
Cartoon sharp signage
Accessorizing restaurants with
Jade And gold, foot spas
And red doors…
Horrors of hangings
Roast ducks and pigs decapitated…
Yet the evening is dressed finely still
All eyes lurking
Shadows floating by
Not to be forgotten tonight
Dias de las Muertos
En espanol…
While down the road
Neighborhood way
Skitters Lilliputian creatures
In shells of Saver’s costumes
As squeals of laughter festoons
Boulevard life with
Tiny tintinnabulations
Like baby rattlers
Against the dark
(Maracas for chupacabras)
Timorous parent folk
Encouragement as company,
They Scurry past
Down dim spatial street
In demand of what is given freely
From each and every door
Treat and sweets
Caries galore
All their tricks cached in grins
Of baby teeth
turn candy corn…
Mischievously the meek milk
All Hallows' Eve For
Hallowed be the glee
Even tho' beneath
The web of grey cloudy sky
Life is precious
To deny
The thirsty as it rains
Misery’s loss deep dismal graves,
We should live in celebration
Childlike everyday
Sing and dance
In the October rain
In this wonder
Like rattlers against the dark
Far from wastes of
Hollow wind and pain,
Chilling cries, bleeding eyes,
Undead the unseen
From this cirque city of sins
Offsprings on the strip
Fearless on the boulevard
Treating & tricking
With ole candied lies…
All done up in bright disguise
Happy Halloween.
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
Half moon high
In a deep navy sky
The clouds like spider cotton
Blue ivory husks
Umber grey claws / webs
The deepening dusk
In the navy sky
The streets a flood a river of orbs
Armada of effulgence / suns
Headlights
Streaming pass
Crisp neon plaza shores
Cartoon sharp signage
Accessorizing concrete
Floors
The evening is dressed fine eyes smyzing
Shadows floating to be forgotten
While down the road
Neighborhood way
Skitters Liliput creatures
In shells of costumes
As squeals of laughter festoons
Live tintinnabulation
Like rattlers against the dark
As they Scurry cross dim / spatial street
In demand of what is given
From each and every door
Treat and sweets
All their tricks cached in grins
Of teeth.
All Hallows' Eve
Hallowed be the glee
Even tho' beneathe
The web of grey
Life is precious / breathing
Fear forgotten with dismay
We should live in celebration
Childlike everyday
Our wonder
As rattlers against the dark
behind the masks of face
In our eyes there is
The spark
That lights all life
From wastes of
Hollow wind
Chilling cries bleeding
Undead the unseen
From this cirque city
All done up in bright disguise
Happy Halloween
Death as one with life...
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Lucky I am, as no one walked before me.
But I had to go, so what I walked became the path!
When I walked for the first time, it was not easy,
The course was coarse and the team was unwilling,
Challenges were many both physical and psychological
Milestones were few, if someone not traveled, would never know!
I pushed ahead, one stretch a time,
Learning the terrain and conquering simultaneously!
We had to walk on it, through it many a times
We created a lot more milestones and stopovers
Others also came, put on signage's,
Thought aloud, how this path could have been better!
Some even asked, 'Where does this path lead to?'
There were many onlookers, travelers, part-time travelers
Many such people were wondering,
'Why are we walking on this path?'
Few team mates wanted to settle down along the path,
One or two launched out on the mission to walk their path!
Travelers poured in and so do the administrators,
Experts came in broadened it, added platforms,
Beautified it, levied tax and even named the path!
Criticisms were plenty from the first step that I took,
But I know people will follow this path!
People after people, ages after ages, will follow this path!
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
5 years of closing, like a shop in permanent clearance. Slashing prices on pieces of yourself, giving away the best parts for a fraction of their worth.
Frustrated and resentful for not being accepted at full price.
You’re too much, too cold, too sensitive, too uncaring, too… ‘not ‘the type’’.
Not into small talk.
Nothing in common.
But at least you don’t disgust them… right?
5 years of closing - the shutters grinding down heavier every day.
Once full. Open. Lit from the inside.
Now the shelves are bare,
the signage faded,
the windows covered in the dust you’re desperately trying to wipe away.
Feelings? Dismissed.
Truth? Twisted.
Vulnerability? Weaponised.
5 years of closing - not all at once, but inch by inch.
One lightbulb burning out, then another.
One shelf cleared, then another.
You used to know what you stocked.
There was clarity in who you were.
There’s inventory somewhere, maybe -
but no list, no labels.
Just shelves full of things you can’t name,
and no one left to tell you what’s worth buying.
Intentions? Questioned.
Needs? Inconvenient.
Silence? Safer.
5 years of closing - they say you meant to do it.
Meant to shut those shutters hard.
Meant to leave the shelves empty.
Meant to make them feel unwelcome.
As if the boarded windows were part of the plan.
As if the silence behind the counter was customer service.
As if becoming another abandoned shop front was a choice -
not the result of too many days with nothing left in stock.
Unseen in plain sight.
Unheard in full volume.
Unheld, even when breaking.
But hey - at least you don’t disgust them… not quite…
right?
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 8:08 AM UTC