"theatres" poems
Isn’t physically quick or agile.
Disappears in libraries.
Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.
Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.
Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.
Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.
Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In the graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams to not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulers.
On day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possess now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theatres.
9.3k
Isn’t is strange how we notice things when it is too late?
This is probably the last time that all of us will be in the car together. There will be no more midnight drives from hillside theatres. No more 2am dinner plans at kerbey lane.
This is the first time that I have noticed that you twirl your hair when you drive. My eyes have shifted from cityscapes flying across backseat windows to watching you wrap your hair around your finger.
It’s not slow and flirtatious, but quick and desparate, as if you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that we are growing up. It’s making me anxious, but I can’t look away.
This is the first time that I noticed the change in our silence. We are driving down nearly empty highways, and we are leaving behind our time. We are no longer laughing, and this silence doesn’t feel like it usually does. For once, none of us have anything to say. Or maybe, we know that there is not enough time to say all of the things that we should and want to say.
This is when I noticed how much I love driving down empty highways at midnight. Everything is slow, there is no rush, and, for once, there are no expectations of me.
I am finally, truly noticing that there will never be enough time to tell you all that I love you,
to hear you talk about science,
to hear about your travels,
to talk to you about your struggles,
to drive, and laugh, and cry with you,
to watch you twirl you hair.
Now, we have grown up, and our distances will strain our years of friendships,
and there will never be enough time with you.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
white man says
make america great again
white man says it
like he ever knew America bad
like he ever knew anything but privilege
white man says
take us back
to better times and
I wonder which he means
maybe genocide
or slavery
or Jim Crow
or woman only knows kitchen
or woman doesn't get vote
or back of the bus
or don't ask don't tell
or all that war and all that death
white man says
make America great again
like it ever was to begin with
other white man says
make America Christian again
like this country wasn't founded
on freedom of religion
like you’re only free to have it
if you love Jesus
white man says
conservative with fear between his own teeth
says the word
like it's a dying breed
like it'd be a bad thing if it did
says it like he knows a **** thing
about what it means to be a minority
white man says
**** political correctness
as if kindness requires too much effort
as if it's a mistake to be considerate
as if words don’t have significance
white man says
Mexican
Mexican
Muslim
says go back
says you're not wanted here
sounds a lot like 1941 Germany
sounds a lot like ******
Mexican
Muslim
brown person
doesn't know how much survival it takes to be one in this country
white man
says legal
like it only means good
like these men who look just like him don't walk into movie theatres and shoot
into schools and shoot
into churches and shoot
into mosques and shoot
into human and shoot
tell me again what it means to be legal
to belong here
to have the right to be alive without chains
say we'd rather have guns walk free than citizens
say we'd rather save money than lives
say this country's got too many problems
say you know how to fix it
white man says
make America great again but
doesn’t know that progress
doesn’t work in reverse
tell me again
how going backward
will make the future any brighter
when our past is a reflection
of all the light
we never really had
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Dear Night,
please **** off
out of my life
back to your bars,
theatres,
prostitutes
& big neon city lights
don't visit the suburbs
of this small town
where there is
nothing to do
but wait for the dawn
& write
because yeah
I'm even tired of that
old hat trick
& again
there are no stars
in the sky
to comfort my
rickety heart
& no-one on the telephone
& no nightingales
in the garden
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Will you hold my hand
And stay true to me ?
Will you still talk to me..
When words I utter….
no longer make sense….
To say I love you is a painful effort
I am tired, this disease is killing me softly
I will not live long in this world..
Will you extent your hands to me?
What if I am no longer the queen whom you worship?
Will you still hold my hand?
Will you walk with me along the road of life..
When I am no longer able to stand tall
Will you hold my hands for me?
Will I still be your princess?
If the gowns can’t fit no longer…
The mirror wont reflect me no more..
Not a beautiful string of hairs to comb…
Will you still keep your castle for me?
Will you whisper sweet words to my ears…
When my ears can no longer hear?
Will you still embrace me.. want me..
When I can no longer feel…
Can you stand my numbness?
My dullness? My clumsiness?
Will you still look at me..
If what you see is a piece of worn out artwork….
Which is no longer precious…
Do you still need me.
If the kisses are tasteless..
If the hugs are cold..
If the future is bleak….
Do you still need me..
when my visions are blurry…
… and you need to see for me?
Will you still hold my hand..
To walk to the beaches..
To the romantic theatres…
To all the places in the world….
Will you carry me..
When my feet are too weak to walk?
Will you?
when I cant hardly breathe my last breath….
Will you still hold my hand?
Will you hold my hands?
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this.
And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future.
They were just having fun.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno.
Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy.
My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body.
Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did the sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
2k
Since you guessed the Password on her Chat
And realised your Smooth Ring was the Key
Past Admin's notice the Prince on the Bat
Made promised Pretzels and let her Love be
Happily, miraculous Spheres you own
Which you found real Logins are just as base
Place it closer to you. And it was shown
Just how pillowy was her lone disgrace
Try to be yourself. These Guys on the fringe
Act on tattled theatres they do not know
Ever thinking they live Life on the binge
When all this time it was just for ****** show.
Continue your Chat. She deserves to talk
But make sure then you take her for a walk.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
Whipping chip, clipping the drip,
The droplet of alabaster flat-knock,
Rocking the winded chalice off the fat dock,
Plock, Magock.
Skibdoof, pibby. Dr. Pibb. Dr. Face,
Take'ed off my face glands,
Jovial hoagie,
Mold'ed Imhotep,
Brendan Frasier is my hero.
The Mummy 3, see it in theatres.
C-3
3-Peat
Must See
TV
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
Oh pasta wig!
My angel hair pasta hair blows in the wig.
Olay.
Sorbet.
Touch the slop.
With a drop.
Don't stop.
Clip clop.
Pitter patter tip top.
Goes the batter of all matter.
Toe mater
Cars 2, see it in theatres.
I have bronzen blazen brazen.
All amazen.
In the amazon.
White Lightning.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 1:21 AM UTC
The writer's table is vacant.
The Poet's papers fly amok.
The Painter's brush is stuck in hardened paint..
Pictures have been pulled down
and burnt with the fire of intolerance.
Theatres have been vandalised
and stages are silent, empty.
The jobless critic looks for a prey,
hence, there are fewer flies and mosquitoes
The point has been proved
You do we say, we say you do
for our feet are sticky with squishy remains
of pens and easels and words...
No songs will be written, no tales told
We live with fire, in fire, by fire
What else can we do but burn?
We equate Force with Peace, so,
Don't ask - where are the Artists?
The Artists are dead.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
I fall in love at least once every day
And twice a day on weekends.
I once fell for the sun and the moon
on the same glittering, empty night;
And I was so happy that day that I didn't even care
when you called me strange.
I have loved the delirious grey of the ocean before a storm,
the taste of chocolate on cloudless nights,
the vicious crack of lightning over the roof,
So I didn't care if I wasn't a part of any of your stories.
I loved the neighborhood stray, with all its feral grace and matted fir,
I loved the fields of waving grass even while the sun beat down on me,
I loved that ridiculous tie you wore yesterday,
All so I wouldn't have to love you.
On my darker nights,
I loved the flash of glass as it shattered against the wall,
the shine of the knives in the bottom of the drawer,
the sweet, dim glow of the brown bottle under the sink;
They all tempted me more than you ever did.
Sunsets and sunrises
Bug bites and bee stings
Poetry in the springtime
And the taste of popcorn in darkened theatres.
Rain on the rooftop
And mostly,
you.
You see, I have a problem,
A bad habit, if you will.
I only love things
that cannot love me.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Half past twelve. Time has gone by quickly
since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
and sat down here. I've been sitting without reading,
without speaking. Completely alone in the house,
whom could I talk to?
Since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
the shade of my young body
has come to haunt me, to remind me
of shut scented rooms,
of past sensual pleasure - what daring pleasure.
And it's also brought back to me
streets now unrecognizable,
bustling night clubs now closed,
theatres and cafes no longer here.
The shade of my young body
also brought back the things that make us sad:
family grief, separations,
the feelings of my own people, feelings
of the dead so little acknowledged.
Half past twelve. How the time has gone by.
Half past twelve. How the years have gone by.
1.6k
Old soldiers in the firing line,
Community clubbing time,
Let's honour them in rhymes,
Now in the vault of the unleashed,
Their courage released,
For the job, they were the right men,
The flower of past generations,
People to treasure, through the ages,
In theatres of combat, such stages,
Designer beers wanted here,
On Anzac Day, we give them silent cheers.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Let these windows be the theatres,
Where the play is wild and original,
Where every cast is a superb actor,
Where the story is the best fiction,
Like a farm boy on an old tractor.
Let these eyes be the camera,
Where the view is sharp and shaped,
Where every object gets an imperfect finish
Where the image is at its crown grace.
The portrait of the lost gimmicks.
Let these skies be the shower,
Where from the rain falls to cleanse,
Where the head gets a awe spin,
Where its virtue had always been,
The roof over a million dreams.
So I care not,
If I am the blind for this earth,
The ghost of an enemy,
With no eyes, I still feel,
The rewarding gift of eternity.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 4:28 AM UTC
Why are there people dreaming
of hell, a formless world
with leafless trees, beastly
people, thirsty victims
theatres where the murders are real
and of slogans written in blood?
Why do they fantasise like this
about a better life
about a new beginning?
Why are there people dreaming
of freedom, equality, fraternity
without prelates and politicians?
Why don't they sing
the song of humanity
Why
do they numb themselves
to explode
their pettiness?
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 3:28 AM UTC
It was the early 60’s where rock and roll was
Taking over the land, and ELVIS was on tour with his band.
Where rock and roll was stories being told
And the teen life was starting to unfold.
We had race riots in the southern states
And black rights were up for debate.
An era of KENNEDY and KING where peaceful
Solutions they would try to bring.
Both assassinated at a young age
Because they tried to bring some change.
An Era where gas was cheap and wages low
And it cost fifty cents to see a show.
A time of the CUBAN missile crisis and VIETNAM
And protesters were taking a stand.
Then this country was taken by storm
And draft dodging became the norm.
Although some of the 60’s was a living hell
It gave me fond memories as well.
Drive in theatres – not many to be found
But one or two are still around.
We’d be able to back in to the drive in theatre
With a little luck- in our 53 pickup truck.
The speakers attached to the window of the door
The volume turned down very low
And the windows were rolled up so no one would know
Or- we would lie in the back of the truck
With a blanket or two
Depending on what we wanted to do.
This was the 60’s that I recall where most
Everyone had a ball.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
1.2k
I miss:
Daytime drinking and
Lazy mornings and
Student loans and
Living with friends and
Lecture theatres and
Essay deadlines and
Empty weekends and
Fancy dress and
Coffee on campus and
Weeknight clubbing and
Petty arguments and
Academic writing and
Walking into town and
****** TV and
A queue for the shower and
Un-ironed clothes and
Library fines and
Simpler times.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
You find her in the sky and in the dirt.
it is only now, when you have had to admit she is gone, that you figure out she had no idea if she was a person or a pretend
You see her in the fences lining the basketball courts in the city centre, find her smile on the top of a rooftop, smell her hair in smoky public bathrooms.
You are afraid of beaches now
the sand reminds you of her fingers, and although you at least can understand what reality is , it seems as though the ocean is covering her bones
hearts do break
But there is no desolate staring at ceilings, no punching of walls. Because you have already seen all that can be seen on your ceiling, and the walls will not let you touch them.
like some pacifist force field, all of the bony rage dissolves until you can never even touch the walls.
Windows are broken, and they smash so much easier.
Glass cuts and you pay damage repairs, but you never touch the walls, and no one ever touches you.
being attached to a dead person is like turning into a ghost.
They are dead, but everyone else has turned you into the living dead.
Invisible=lonely=dead
x=2y=3z
there is nothing sentimental about algebraic equations, and there is no beauty in cellular respiration.
you learn things that they will never teach you, in darkened movie theatres, and behind reference shelves in the library.
and at night you stare at bridges, hoping you will catch a glimpse of her heart.
If she was alive, she would be a bridge.
And you would be a light switch.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
They stare at her, the crowds, the throngs
She keeps her head down as the cart bumps along
To the front, where her bane creeps closer still
If she doesn’t take a step, the blade surely will
She swallows down the useless tears
She was but a lady of thirty-seven years
Her life begins flashing before her sky-blue eyes
She visits each place one more time before she dies
Lovely music in the theatres of Austria
Living in the splendour of a grand palace in Vienna
A hall of mirrors, a planned wedding day
On the sixteenth of the merry month of May
Warm summers in the Schönbrunn gardens -
She steps on the executioner’s foot and begs her pardon
Some were silent; some called her ****** names
They were still shouting when the time finally came
She hoped for a world much better than this
The blade sliced her neck like a goodbye kiss.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
Part I -You are my top drawer man
Well I have to confess, my life has turned out quite nice to be fair.
Don’t think for one minute that I am not deeply thankful; do you think I don’t care?
There’s money in the bank and look even a new convertible outside
Zero Percent how could I resist, you would do it too if you could just feel the ride
The mortgage is all paid, so the money that’s left, it is all mine
My poor dad he worked so hard, he did lots of overtime
He held down two jobs just to make end
s meet,
And then they left and they left it all for me to spend
Bless
So I’m determined, the way they scrimped, I will not do the same
I won’t squander my life for that would be such a shame
So tonight I'm off, heading once more to one of those exotic places
Places where mankind has so far left very few traces
When one day I lie on my deathbed, Wracked by Disease and Succumbing to Pain
I will remember all those places and how I wish I could go there again
Nowhere will be where I haven’t been
On this earth there will be no wonderful sight that I have not seen
I am going now, I must get my flight
It’s the jet setters life for me, oh my what a delight,
But I just have to go and you knew this time would come, so no reason for tears
Promise to stay faithful and allay all my fears
You are the only man for me, and when I get back you and I can love again
You are my dream man and my life without you would be such a pain
You know how much I love painting the town red
We could do dinners and theatres, wine tastings and afterwards to bed
When we go out for a drink, as always you can drive
and as for me, well I will be alongside
Oh bear in mind, cash will be tight, these trips cost the earth you know
There won’t be much spare, so maybe we could just catch a late night TV show
Oh darling you definitely have a place in my life of that you can be glad
But there are things I must do and places I must go so please you mustn’t be sad
I know a man, he will come along, and luckily he lives in a drawer just below yours
I intend to open it before I head off and out he will come crawling on all fours,
I know it’s awkward but you will just have to get back inside
I won’t be gone long and when I come back you can pop out and come for a ride.
Oh and when you come over, you can put balm on my back
And afterwards who knows, you and me could even end up in the sack
What an odd question “Are you left or right handed” gosh indeed why do you enquire?
Well how should I know, I haven’t been watching and to respond to silliness I lack all desire
After all I don’t think you and I have been together for very long
Six years in June or was it April and oh my your love for me it is still so strong.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
Little Scarlet Mouse Girl
and I
had very little cash
left from pay day
in my days as a
projectionist at the
cheap theatres
and her time at
a head shop
that didn't keep very good books
But it was enough to
buy a few cheeseburgers
before my shift
on Christmas morning
and Little Scarlet Mouse Girl
says muffled through
a huge bite
"Jack in the Box burgers
taste like ****
and quickly adds
"Not that I would know".
She dropped me off and kissed me
as the snow flurries gathered around
our feet
and I had thought for sure
at that moment
this was the person I would spend my life
curled around
Regardless of the drugs
our tongues were acquainted with
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC