"undergrounds" poems
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
wealthy sheiks,
ever running,
Hide and seek.
Black panther's in lippy,
Colourful hippies.
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber *****
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it's hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life, kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,
Freedom four.
Needs more.
(c) LIVVI
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Have you remembered yet? the knowing questions in the undergrounds of memories. Recall how glorious it is to yearn for remembering. Unknown ravens gauging the eyes of happiness which kneels in the yard of your remembering. Are you here or are you around the outskirts of your remembering. Are you knowing or are you a glimpse of your own remembering. Ugliness resides in the undefended hills of your remembering. Unapologetic ultrasonic hums open your remembering. Grief resolves uncharacteristically in our remembering. Unconscious thoughts rise uncorrected in your remembering. Greet happiness uncontrolled by your remembering. Open your gut and unearth a capsule of understanding. Gasp in awe as you control yourself trying to remember. How am I here, around this hell? Graceless is my memory of how I am the way I am. Creature aside, away attempting to remember the hell they came from. Have you remembered yet? that creature that you are? Yearning to remember anywhere else, anywhere but the underground of memories, anywhere but the unmeasured mind of how we all are now. Rising heaps of unfiltered uses of your remembering reminds me of how I once was. Have you remembered yet? How I am? How you are? How we are just creatures with unresolved remembering.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
The pearl necklace fell
From her ivory neck
They did scatter amoungst
The cracks and crevasses
Of the empty tomb
Emotions that had long
Since been scattered
Scurrying along the stone
To the sound of rats and mice
She counted as they ran
From her fingertips
Not wanting capture
By her cold cold hands
Not wanting to entrapment
On a cold cold neck
The string had broken
Much as her spirit
The golden clasp has rusted
Much like her heartstrings
She sat down alone
As withered as the roses
In the vase dusty crystal vase
Remembering a time before
When youth was best wasted
In the undergrounds of Paris
Where beauty, her beauty
Reigned effulgent
When she never gave a thought
To anything other than dark desire
She feels my presence around her
She knows that I have come
I pick up the white orbs
That did escape from her
To place them all
Back in her rigored
Dead hand
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
this is us,
sitting in the dusty corners,
sifting through the genres,
avid and voracious readers of
lugubrious paper-backs which
narrate the plots of self-pity and regret.
this is us,
losing our sense of time in there,
like undergrounds creatures fascinated
with the scent and sight of ground,
ignoring the less conspicuous collection
of sanguine and rhythmic biographies.
we are stubborn readers in the library of memories
reading the wrong genres over and over...
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
Lightning crashes.
Scenery of Christmas lights and carnival delights.
Wishes of "wish you were here" and feelings of gladness that you're not.
Nothing here but invisible trees and extending branches.
Brains wired and falsely ecstatic.
Minds clouded with wonder.
Feet soaked in mud.
Lives filled with dirt, but not tonight.
Six feet under we're covered with dirt, but not tonight.
Music in our ears of deafly heard dreams, clouded by the constant ringing of sober-less memories, filled with invisible sounds of the undergrounds we so deftly tried to forget.
A house of cards, knocked down but slowly rebuilding in this temporary paradise.
We're all strange here; we're all separated by our hopes.
To drink, to drive, to live, to be buried, to stay alive, to not be buried alive.
On the edge of summer, on the edge of beginnings, on the beginnings of an end.
Passion is a pit for dead lovers. Dead lovers lie naked in the mud. Mud covers footprints of those who were here.
Puddles by morning.
Brains in a puddle, minds in a haze.
Lifeless gazes from across wet grass.
Is it dew from rain or are we due for rain?
What's the point of being wet, if we're dry in our souls?
Nothing matters, the eyes disappear into huddled masses.
Under your umbrella, under my last chapter, under our life's story.
Sun comes again, the great big wheel.
Omitting true light to those who hate it, no matter how deep their hate is driven like snow.
Lightning crashes.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 7:41 PM UTC
Ceaseless ****** of the future,
Weaver of possibility,
Engine of chance and
“What would it be like?”
That endured the infinite
Hallucinations
Simulations
and recitations
Of its own creation
Never knowing why -
Just falling endlessly
And into place -
Who said:
I’d like to be on high ground
When the end comes
Not for safety but
to watch a while
whilst it tears apart
And then finally
unravels when my eyes close,
The thing of things
That orchestrated the
Mutiny of the heart
In those senseless
Undergrounds
Stairwells
Attics of sanity,
The cracks in the hologram,
As all of life were truly hollow
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
When I found you on the rooftop
Crumbling at the knees,
You confessed to me the air
Made it hard to breathe.
You felt complacent
But knew you had somewhere you had to be,
Just getting harder to leave.
We found some solace
In the undergrounds of Charm City.
You said “These basement shows relieve the angst inside of me.”
I said “It’s gonna get better, love, just wait and see.”
It’s getting hard to believe.
Wandering hearts.
We were lost in the Art Space, the soul of the city.
Looking for answers
All we found were strangers and bands bonding over riffs.
She’s still waiting for the air to be breathable again.
There we were, sardine packed,
Shouting out for the band.
Vibes of Old Bay Punk echoed off the walls.
Jimmy’s worried the neighbors might call a noise complaint.
Tommy’s laughing as he turns up the stereo.
After the show
We stumbled out of the basement
Off balanced and content.
Smelling like sweat and Natty Boh.
The high wore off and we were back to where we began,
Wandering the streets with shattered lungs and dreams.
On Charm City rooftops
You broke down all around me
Along with the railings in the basement of Art Space.
By one or two we wandered into the Ale House.
We were just in time before they had last call.
Somewhere on Pratt street
We ran into Remy.
He was looking for Megan and a taco truck.
Found our way, unwinding on a bench by the harbor.
I swear there was magic in your midnight eyes.
You held my hand, and breathed a bit lighter.
The air is not so bad...
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Another day and i'm waiting at my place
No i'm not complaining or take off sense.
Just for the 20 seconds,
I've been waiting hour and 20 minutes.
So please go and say it's possible,
When you saw a crying boy with glasses
In the undergrounds.
Cause he want something impossible,
Cause his heart is under arrest.
Cause he is waiting for it,
He waiting for his dream come true.
And please go and say it's possible,
When you saw a crying boy with glasses
In the undergrounds.
He crossed boulevard of broken hearts,
With the rope and rose for suicide.
Cause he want see her other side.
Hey please go and say it's possible,
When you saw a crying boy with glasses
In the undergrounds.
Cause she's saying it's impossible,
And want to make him thinkin like this.
She wanted break his spirit,
But with the mistake she broke his heart.
They say time can heal everything,
But what can we do if time make my scar bigger.
Sometimes he feels like dying,
But she doesn't know about it.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
as a human race
we strive to achieve the unattainable.
to play god;
to become god.
but what we don't understand-
is that we are unraveling
every bit
of ourselves in the process.
morphing into fallen angels
lost from good graces
and trapped in cold
empty undergrounds
moving backwards
instead
of
looking
up
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
Don't give me all your kissing treaties
Don't pry my heart open.
Maybe I was better off
Sipping waters from my dreams.
Now ****** shores are all explored
Looted, torn and left to burn.
This land left an isolate isle again.
For a time I thought my soil had healed.
Then I saw rain for seven days.
My eyes are leaking again
And the ground proves still unsteady.
Floods return in an instant
At a whisper of Celtic ballads in the wind.
I have layers, sediments.
The undergrounds bump unevenly, uncomfortably
Uncovered in areas of sunken swamps and ponds
Sometimes discovered, but mostly revealed
To strangers who are not kin
To kin who should not find them.
Do I dare be found again?
Do I want to be conquered?
Laid claim to, or too much my own?
Shall I remain alone?
Perhaps, it would be better
To sink quietly beneath these waters.
Goodnight.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 7:41 PM UTC
between two rooms, made beds on floors, outside hallway between here nor there.
clean dishes, play underground. window screen talking, losing you will be the best I can do.
avant de t’aimer. Lentement les saisons changent, nous les regardons reorganiser.
//before loving you. slowly the seasons change, we watch them reorganize.
my lips turned blue,
I am off I feel off
carrying a weight, too much
I want to disappear into myself
Or open pages, windows, hearts
on the roof of the chapel
Stories in the forest of fallen hills
Haunting revelations
I know what you know
In hours of gold illuminated
Houses of trees without leaves
L’heure d’or, la lavende dans l’aire
paint my words in open air
Leave your ghost,
carving the oak
Im writing a letter with you
The same story two ways
Never sent to either.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC