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"I'm trying to be myself,
Understand everyone,
It's a mission and a half.

Looking at everyone,
Trying to learn something
but I am getting more confused;
It's hard being cool.

Our generation,
Have we a soul?

Techno emergency,
Virtual reality,
We're running out of new ideas?

Who is the Queen?"
Film: Human Traffic (1999)
Writer(/Director): Justin Kerrigan
Steve Page Oct 2018
The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.
Route Master = a London bus
Hackney Carriage = a black cab
Boris Bike = rentabike
Chelsea tractor = an oversized suv preferred by families who can afford Kensington & Chelsea
Jen Dec 2017
Anxiety slips into even the smallest cracks of our lives.

They tell you to be positive.
And you think that you are.

Until one day you're driving
and you realize your whole life
you've been slowing down at green lights
simply because
they're bound to turn yellow
soon enough.
Sebastian Macias Jul 2016
It's the worry you need to get in front of
Run, walk, or crawl but keep moving
The ******* is a persistent ache
But it is you who create it and make it several hundred repeating thoughts at all hours of the night or day when the sun is high and you get lost in the bright bright bright lights of tomorrow
You cultivate the stampede of words that echo childishly throughout your mind as they fiddle with you
And if you let the big bulging tidal wave of anxiety and fear of tomorrow be one bigger than the tiny sentence you yourself created it actually is
Well, it's time to get up and check your clock and hands and apartment
You created this, this thing called "worry"
And in the end, you'll get rid of it
It's figuring how to, how to be ahead of this thing called "worry"
Reading, walking, working, sweating, driving, thinking about somebody you've ******, thinking of what you'll be able to get done tomorrow or right now or eventually, and it'll happen
Think of things bigger than the thoughts of worry of life of tomorrow
Think of what you're doing at the moment
Think of the World Cup or the driving test you took when you were a child
Think of the tv shows you laugh at
Think of the faces on the bus
Think of science think of painting
Think of your height or deli sandwiches
Think of the Tuesday night traffic you hear outside of your apartment window and think, where are they going tonight? Will my thoughts go with them or will I leave them here
a traffic snarl-up,
at the middle of nowhere;
down the rabbit hole!
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Nigdaw Jun 29
Headlights, LED's, burning bright
Into my retinas, reflected in rear view
And side mirrors, a radiator grill just
Visible, almost the outline of a person
Behind the wheel, androgynous ghost,
Mad Max or just mad, determined
To drive to wherever, faster than
Anyone else, cocooned in black leather
Heads up display laid out across sweeping
Digital dashboard, vying to pass me;
But what of the queue plainly ahead
Stretching to far horizon, vanishing point,

Perhaps it is supernatural, absorbing traffic
Clearing the way by passing through it,
An alien craft with technology far
Advanced from our slow turning wheels
Selfishly driving alone in our home from
Home interiors, gathering subjects
For an out of this world experience
Or maybe a time machine
Like Back to the Future powered by flux
Capacitor, it will disappear and turn up
Ahead of all of us, or maybe my imagination
Has run riot and it's just another impatient
David Bremner Sep 2018
The M6 is slow southbound north of Lymm.
Queuing likely Junctions 4 through to 3.
Accident on the slip-road at Strensham
South. Rubberneckers slowing just to see.
Busy clockwise on the M25.
Overturned tanker - now down to one lane.
Rush-hour traffic, best avoid the drive.
M62 heavy westbound again.
Ongoing road works on the A1 (M).
High sided vehicles avoid the Forth
Bridge. Reports of a breakdown just come in
For those leaving the M5 heading north.........
  Felicity comes, I turn off the dial
  The traffic has cleared - if just for a while.
Katja P Jun 23
The life is zebra.
The life is traffic light.
Hey you just stop now.
Just stand and waithing.
Don't you see a red light?
Okay, so now you can go.
The green light on.
Walk through this lines.
Black and white
Black and white
Black and white
The walker dancing on tiptoes very slowly.
To not fall down and trying to balance among this lines.
Black and white.
Black and white.
Black and white.
The life is traffic light.
jul Nov 2018
bring me closer to you,
until i am you.
until you breathe what i exhale, my agony,
until you understand why i am
but you do not, and you never will.
because the second you realize that ive almost fallen in love with the idea of you,
we start again;
at the beginning.
ive almost forgotten how we used to be, and you've seemed to already forgotten our conversations.
we are nothing but poets lost in love, in loneliness.
ghazal Oct 2018
i never felt like this before
and a broken hearts the closest thing i’ve felt since loves galore
hours of music i heard the words you sang to me
hours of havoc i yelled the words you threw at me
and i never knew what to believe
words lost their meaning when i repeated
but somehow your name just kept its meaning
and ive been talking to god looking for a reason
but thats why he hasn’t written a book since the seventh season
and i’ve been wanting to grieve since
two years ago on early july the fifth
but i’ve been holding it in
blasting music on my drive home
i drowned you out
driving too fast
i crashed the route
took a deep breath of liquid death
swallowed my pride and drove the side
blue lights couldn’t stop me from driving fast
and as long as i can still hear your voice my foot remained heavy on the gas
but i hit traffic
and just like the red lights stopped the cars behind me
i came to a stop

stuck in traffic on 101
it took 2 hours of silence to realize you’re the one i want
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
the angel amongst us

~for Alexander, master splasher~

flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns


the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both

two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression

the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?

this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!

little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future

the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer

the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing

but he measures the degree of difference at this
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity

“time to go”

the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,

as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics

"no go now,
now go later^"

though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs

one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself

that is the angle amongst us
^Surprising as it may be to most non-scientists and even to some scientists, Albert Einstein concluded in his later years that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. In 1952, in his book Relativity, in discussing Minkowski's Space World interpretation of his theory of relativity, Einstein writes:

Since there exists in this four dimensional structure [space-time] no longer any sections which represent "now" objectively, the concepts of happening and becoming are indeed not completely suspended, but yet complicated. It appears therefore more natural to think of physical reality as a four dimensional existence, instead of, as hitherto, the evolution of a three dimensional existence.
D Awanis Oct 2016
I couldn’t help myself but longing for your existence
It felt strange to have my body wrapped and my back rubbed by someone that is not you
It felt unfamiliar not to hear you talk about the weather and the sky after you question my day
It felt odd to feel the stain of coffee left on his lips—because it ain’t the one you used to sip

I couldn’t help myself but wonder about the probability of us
Tell me that being stucked in traffic jam doesn’t make you wish you were spending it with me
Tell me that your feet don’t dance to Ella Fitzgerald and suddenly missing the tip of my toes on top of them
Tell me that when you look at her face, you don’t search even an ounce of my warmth there

I couldn't help myself but pleading for your mercy
Forgive me that I almost forget the way your laughter sounds or the way you sigh when you feel hopeless;
or the transition in your voice when you get mad but choose not to show it
or how your fingers fit the spaces between mine perfectly—and God, do I miss them
ceara Jan 2011
It is far from ******* ordinary
the music,the traffic
this full moon.
Grace Ann Oct 2018
Someday I'll learn
And to be honest I probably should have by now
But although I'm sure I've been here before
My lessons always come to me the hard way
I cant be told something
I have to experience it
The concept never truly taking form in my mind until I'm stuck right where I never wanted to be
I'm that type of hypocrite who speaks and never listens
Advice given that I never take for myself
I'm sure someday I'll learn though
Just like I have in that true happiness is in the day-to-day
And not knowing who you are or what you want to be in life is okay
Some things take time
I'll learn eventually
Noor Sep 2013
Canned latte, water, fruit punch Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, M4 right side

Talk of ***
Talk of food
It's all allowed
Nothing's too crude
Sometimes you talk
Sometimes you listen
Don't talk later 'bout what's said on mission
Check alleyways, balconies, traffic, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops

Red Bull, Gatorade, citrus Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, shotgun left side

In the distance, flashes of white light
Watch them bloom throughout the green night
Was it dust lightning? Was it a bomb?
Don't matter to us, this mission carries on
Two hours to dawn, eight hours 'til we're done
Check balconies, traffic, alleyways, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
the rain sifts through my attempts
to grasp it with mere hands:
one cannot understand
without going through its constant
shift and change of faces.
As to another, one learns
to ask the right questions,
naturally, at the opportune time.
Like in all things
Every conversation
Which pass through us
Were never truly there.
Those that do stay are bereft
of meaning.

What remains often
is the damp, moistness
of the late -ber month showers:
regret, loss, a tactless remark.
They share the same fate in all
of this, the slow, uptake for words:
closure, a second chance, a bad joke
like the heavy traffic we always have
to endure - a cartload heavy
-laden with stockpiled souvenirs
with no particular use except
for reminiscing, a flickering hope
for the last bus ride home.

One day, you will
miss all of this.
And the only thing
that is left to endure,
is memory.

14 October 2017
* *Special Thanks to Jeffrey Pua for convinving me Romantic Love is still important in writing.*
*(*There you go, I have learned well from the Kuya Ruping, I have made my intentions clearer while maintaining an arm's length persona - as usual.)*
- I write from my Rain Poems' Voice, similar to my persona in "grasslands", Storm Surge and The Question of Rain
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