"warehouses" poems
Once upon a time
There was a man
In an apartment
With flesh-colored walls
And a perfect view
Of skyscrapers
And rooftops
He has a brother
In a jail
With a perfect view
Of warehouses
And factories
Cover to cover
He reads magazines
And newspapers
And he likes two
Sugar cubes
In his regular cup
He doesn't worry
About ends
It's just progress
And we've all
Got to bend
Less the world breaks
If the bomb comes
It'll come in a neat
Little package
And someone
Will build new
Quadrilateral colonies
For two
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:04 PM UTC
I want to live in Europe.
I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.
I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.
I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.
I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.
I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.
- Shilo
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Smash down the cities.
Knock the walls to pieces.
Break the factories and cathedrals, warehouses
and homes
Into loose piles of stone and lumber and black
burnt wood:
You are the soldiers and we command you.
Build up the cities.
Set up the walls again.
Put together once more the factories and cathedrals,
warehouses and homes
Into buildings for life and labor:
You are workmen and citizens all: We
command you.
4.6k
Walt Whitman was a ******
That's what we say when we cross his bridge
from South Philly to Jersey
and see what he would see:
the river solid waveless with trees green around
feeding from the water on the left and far beyond
the watertable real for a minute from the arched metal
and the city visible wholly with warehouses rowhomes
inches apart and glass buildings and all burnt orange
by four o'clock sun but clear on blue sky
but you know he was a ******
and the city all one in your eye if you want it to be
and the languages together between the buildings
all the blacks asians whites itlalians irish polish
moving together and talking and eating the food
working and riding cars and buses around
the liberty bell and independence hall
it is brooklyn ferry it was his prophesy
but you know he was ******
a big jersey boy *** yea
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
We all know the sound of a gun
If we haven't heard one,
We've heard one in the movies.
A staplegun
Snapped me back from daydreams
Of Matrix offices and warehouses
Hole-punched a Tarantino image
In my head.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
Here, now, is the world before me:
Women are struggling to make a living
And men struggling for beer.
The markets are full of drying-up warehouses
And market stalls pregnant with emptiness.
A woman comes in,
Calls the last goods on the shelf, indicating interest.
There are the dying smiles that echo no goodwill
Upon the naming of a price-below-purchasing;
There are the hungry laughters at the teeth of the buyer
Who seeks his own gains;
There are the welling-up tears that fill the eyes of the seller
Who needs the penny to live another day.
Poverty and want wears an ugly face
And gives hate a voice to echo its disdain.
Much displeasure fills the air but in business
The customer always wins.
Pain eats up my heart as I watch the transaction.
Here, survival matters- just as much as love,
But now even this is no more.
Abacheke-Egbema, Imo State. January 2014
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
Revisited Merak harbor one late evening
a shape of sea fairy and colorful torches
were seen from afar , chattering calls in 4 languages. 4 squalls in once was a plage
their dancing flames asked me to come closer
I hurried along the sleepy shipyards
passing massive warehouses fenced by rusty wooden doors
giant padlocks accenting (reminded me of a fancy cocotte loaded with blingbling)
stacks of oversized containers solidly sat speechless. Sleepless.
The light of each torch lifted into the sky. Seen by another eye
1883 eruption of the Krakatau crater. 130 years later the odor of its curators
I ran closer. I fell. I laid there a while , got up and ran again.
I lost my head and missed my right foot along the way. I did not care.
When I arrived the torches were there in front of me
reincarnated into thousands inhabitants who had lost their lives
bodies covered with revolting cesspit oil
For a second they transformed into torches again. One blazing in my hands.
Regretfully, I had lost my head so I did not understand.
The fairy stared . I wasn't scared.
: come, come, …come purifying Sunda strait
dissatisfying the idiots thought it could all be fixed with tax rate
I moved toward embracing fairy arms
(Possibly, this close hugging love was only for beach-sea friends)
So, I united with the torches
A bit of a breach pushed us towards the petroleum . Demolished it all. Cannonball.
Black fog shrieking that same words : Keep up the struggle . Stay strong !
The alien residents might think I was making choices
but the fairy was leading me around
the torches reshaping the ghost-town
Chattering calls in 4 voices. 4 languages.
Yet, for the officials ears , all were still voiceless. Pointless.
(Pulo Merak - Cilegon - Indonesia )
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
How beautiful the sunrise when it came ,
for I had waited so long ,
In vain,
how lonelineses. sweet tears I feel ,
down my cheek so bitter the pain .
Yet I walk were emporers once stood ,
Londiniam lies abandoned .
the Classis lit long since sailed ,
their. Masts beat against the wind .
The river Thames glistened from the morning sun ,
Past it’s banks and statues of gods ,
Monuments to Caesar and suns of the gods lie face down in the sun
broken in two ..
Why should I return for there is nothing here ?
And yet ,
the girls with yellow hoods shunned by the graceful good ,
call me back with their come to bed eyes .
and here I am ,
with ladies of wanton jewelled hair .
For now the Tudor warehouses of
Commerce swell what was once forgotten.
Matchsticks piled one on another ,
and look at them all too full of pride ,
to stupid to see .
Women with weasels in their hair ,
So elegant and fair ,
for the ladies in their yellow hoods say “ beware “
Now the suns rays that lie low ,
a ball of red ,
were quiet embers burnt and flowed ,
Only to find that ,
her Queen awaited
the suns rays of majestic glory ,
as if all of England looked to its shores .
her Golden Hind .
Monsters of the deep ,
Dragons ,
Serpents. ,
Demons from hell itself ,
yet
the evil seas could not swollow this ship ,
or return it’s bounty to whence it came ,
and the women with the yellow hoods hid their faces in shame .
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC
Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan
~~~
*the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command
by virtue of
her virtue,
who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"
reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her
unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"
this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened
by virtue
of her virtue
seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come
yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest
thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill
so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all*
***by virtue
of her
virtue***
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Give a shout of love out to Boston. Lost in translation I'll create this poem for a lost daughter or son.
A new war has been waged, well...heh heh. We've already won.
Spun out from a night of drinking wine, I'll type another line.
Killing people over selfish, religious beliefs, destroys happiness by the ton.
Are YOU ******* happy? Are YOU ******* done.
Plans to **** out weak people surely doesn't sound like fun.
Your **** stinks. No pun intended. Words on the internet should never make you offended.
Lend a helping hand for the Earth, or waste away in the dirt.
Beautiful women get slaughtered like cattle, in a dress or a skirt.
We'll have fun and we'll flirt. Still caring for others as they get swallowed by hurt.
Knowledge is power they say, so I'll take off my only shirt.
Give it to someone that needs it, so they may pay it forward to another.
My sister and brother, from another father and mother, read these words carefully, while haters turn into lovers. Hearts and minds full of love, kindness swoops down like a dove. Shove another McDonald's cheeseburger in your face and see your health drain away. Think of the animals that get slaughtered in warehouses each day.
Pray for fertile soil in April AND May. Fool YOURself into a thought that treating animals kindly isn't okay. Roam free in the grass and the hay, while slaughtering axes sweep around, sprays blood and slays. Helping each other day by day IS the new craze.
A daze of happiness turns frowns upside down with a smile and grin.
The Dropkick Murphys knows whats up.
For Boston....for Boston....for BOSTON!
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Hushed in the smoky haze of summer sunset,
When I came home again from far-off places,
How many times I saw my western city
Dream by her river.
Then for an hour the water wore a mantle
Of tawny gold and mauve and misted turquoise
Under the tall and darkened arches bearing
Gray, high-flung bridges.
Against the sunset, water-towers and steeples
Flickered with fire up the slope to westward,
And old warehouses poured their purple shadows
Across the levee.
High over them the black train swept with thunder,
Cleaving the city, leaving far beneath it
Wharf-boats moored beside the old side-wheelers
Resting in twilight.
1.4k
I.
Somewhere in a mailroom in China
is my acceptance letter to
Brown University,
fluttering in the
sticky, smog-filled wind like an
unspoken birthright,
vacuum sealed in some shoddy warehouse,
slap-banged next to my father's
porcelain wares and flasks – and my grandfather's,
and his father's. "Son,"
my father tells me,
"you've got a lot of the old man in you.
"I am grateful."
I then retch
in the dingy comfort
of our hotel room bath
before proceeding to lunch.
Dad's Chinese counterparts
congratulate me on
being able to tell them what I
want to do when I grow up.
"Wo yao dang yi ge shangren – zhu fu."
“I want to become a businessman – get rich.”
II.
"Wo xuyao xiezuo."
“I must write.”
TS Eliot once asked me,
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
I do not know yet,
but I think I have found fragments
of an answer lodged in
hotel bathrooms,
a Tianhe-bound overpass
on the way to Beijing Street,
heirloom warehouses,
And two Canton fairs.
"To get rich is glorious,"
Deng Xiaoping once said.
But I glance at
My father and mother,
And theirs,
And wonder if all their life, they have but
knocked on the doors of their fate -
chased dreams not
tobacco stewed or gold-ground
by the teeth of an Other.
As to answer your question, T.S Eliot:
Maybe, if just to find where I truly belong.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
*Riding backwards on a train
Leaning my head into the window
Seeing my own reflection – Clackity
Clack – Clickity Clackity Clickety Clack,
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clack.
What I see in the passing frames
Bridges, houses, brown fields
And rough terrains.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickety Clack.
There goes an old barn beside an Azores tree
There goes an Azores tree beside an old barn
My God there goes another one – that’s three
Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack, Clickity, Clickity
Don’t talk back, Clickity Clack.
Telephone poles all passing as one
Streets and warehouses, street signs
And red lights – green and now a nun
Clackity Clack, Clackity Clack
Don’t talk back, Clackity Clickity Clack.
Into the tunnel we clamber and scramble
Concrete walls all painted with daises
So close to the glass we go into this gamble.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack, Clackety Clickety
Are we coming back, Clackity Clack.
Deep under the bay we travel
As loud and deep as the devil.
All held back by nothing but gravel.
Clackity Clack, Clickity Clack
Please don’t crack, Clackity Clack
When all at once into the terminal we fly
We made it – me – myself and I
Slowing to almost a crawl - good-bye!
Clackity, Clackity, Clackity Clack
Next time I’ll check my Zodiac.*
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
I need a sedative.
Desperation never looked good on anyone.
But when I show a little skin and do my make-up just right,
I can make it more than passable.
I can make them fall in love with the way my body becomes music, and my hollow gaze, and my photo-shopped smile...
All before they even know my name.
Not that they will ever care to know it.
My emptiness is unbearable.
And my heart is running away with my mind,
So they can live in train cars
Or abandoned warehouses
Or maybe a nice treehouse somewhere.
If they're smart, they'll see the world before settling down.
Meanwhile,
What's left behind is walking along the streets in quiet neighborhoods,
Humming sad songs that sound like hallelujah and empty orchestras,
While the rain melts me into the cracks in the sidewalk.
I'll be nothing at all by morning.
I'm not a real girl anyways.
I'm a memory box.
Keep your best of times tucked away in me.
I'll gather dust in the garage, or the attic, or the basement.
Or maybe, if I'm really lucky, a shelf in your room,
Where, at least occasionally, you'll glance at me and smile.
But even that is aiming pretty high.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 10:07 PM UTC
A Winter Ship
At this wharf there are no grand landings to speak of.
Red and orange barges list and blister
Shackled to the dock, outmoded, gaudy,
And apparently indestructible.
The sea pulses under a skin of oil.
A gull holds his pose on a shanty ridgepole,
Riding the tide of the wind, steady
As wood and formal, in a jacket of ashes,
The whole flat harbor anchored in
The round of his yellow eye-button.
A blimp swims up like a day-moon or tin
Cigar over his rink of fishes.
The prospect is dull as an old etching.
They are unloading three barrels of little *****
The pier pilings seem about to collapse
And with them that rickety edifice
Of warehouses, derricks, smokestacks and bridges
In the distance. All around us the water slips
And gossips in its loose vernacular,
Ferrying the smells of cod and tar.
Farther out, the waves will be mouthing icecakes —-
A poor month for park-sleepers and lovers.
Even our shadows are blue with cold.
We wanted to see the sun come up
And are met, instead, by this iceribbed ship,
Bearded and blown, an albatross of frost,
Relic of tough weather, every winch and stay
Encased in a glassy pellicle.
The sun will diminish it soon enough:
Each wave-tip glitters like a knife.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Greetings from us at Homeland Security.
We hope you had a pleasant journey.
But keep in mind there's no guarantee
That you won't exit on a gurney.
You should love our border camps,
Which are still progressing in stages.
We have “subdivided rooms.”
(We don't like to call them cages.)
We strive to stifle criticism.
Please ignore our critics' lore.
Doesn't everybody love
To camp out on a cold, hard floor?
We provide you with a blanket.
What? One is not enough?
Crowded rooms should keep you warm.
Exposure to germs will make you tough!
Lest you feel our detention centers
Are too uncomfortable or stark,
We leave the lights on for twenty-four hours
Daily in case you're afraid of the dark.
What? You say you need a doctor?
Come on, beggars can't be choosers.
Toothbrushes? Toothpaste? Soap?
Those are just for wimps or losers.
We all want your stay to be
Just as pleasant as we can make it.
True, some have died, but they’re
The weaker ones who cannot take it.
If your kids were taken away,
We don't mean to disrespect you,
But since only God knows where they are,
Then we'll let God reconnect you.
Locking kids in windowless
Warehouses in our recollection
Is a way to offer the kids
Security and protection.
If perhaps you’re seeking asylum,
One little thing might give you pause:
The president is working on
Ways to change asylum laws.
We know the whole idea of camps
Polarizes, or causes a schism.
In figuring out what to call them,
We prefer the euphemism.
So, enjoy your stay until
The powers that be decide your fate.
If you’re lucky, you’ll get a shower
During your long, protracted wait.
-by Bob B (6-24-19)
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 9:00 AM UTC
The old man, grey, bespectacled, with difficulty, rose from his chair.
If he’d come to plead for mercy, I doubt he’d find it here.
He struggled to stand steady with his Zimmer walking frame
As he gave his testimony we all felt his sense of shame.
“I was there when all this happened; I saw the smoke rise to the sky.
I saw the piles of ashes that were once like you and I.
I counted stolen valuables; Money, watches, gold.
I dared not speak objection. I did as I was told.”
He asked for a glass of water; this much he did receive.
He testified an hour without asking for reprieve.
He spoke about those distant days we see in black and white.
Of a Germany destroyed by debt and burning for a fight.
He then was young and good with numbers
He was the bookkeeper of Auschwitz;
He can’t un-see all he did see.
Although he never shot a girl or stabbed a sleeping child,
He’d tallied up their worldly goods to add them to the pile.
When the Russians over-ran the camp, he and the others fled.
They left behind warehouses full of the possessions of the dead.
The Jury must deliberate about what punishment is due
For this ninety year old **** who kept track of baby shoes.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
Would anything change
if I left where you all stood
would you be doing less opiates
and making somewhat constructive conversation?
Would you go unpunished for my excuses
or anticipate someone yelling while you drove?
I can’t see why someone would miss
a savage like me
Bickering, or
******** or
slutting, or
strangling
You’ll all rest in peace
(not death, you barbarians)
when I’m not having spasms
next to your sink
Could anyone contort your face
like I can when I tell you how
filthy or gorgeous you look?
(no.)
Is anyone going to replace this void
that I’ll create in this cell
the walls stained with old *****
the rug covered in excess hair
In my defense
I’m truly insane
it should be no wonder
that I live in such a cave
When I leave
you’ll be much more relieved
I do wonder, however
how quickly you’ll age
Or if I’m the one to age
whistling through deserts and forests
and tripping on sidewalks
or drowning in corporate fountains
I cry hopelessly that I’m not
a catalyst
because I don’t want to stay here
when everyone is through
The rain will wash out
your bloodstains on my clothes
I can’t stumble through a laundromat
without feeling like a derelict
Maybe I’ll take up smoking
and deal crank to minors
and abuse my dogs
and **** my wife (or husband)
Or I’ll become a banker
and pocket your money
to burn when I’m cold
or bury under expensive food
It’ll take ten more warehouses
and a thousand more people
to chain me to this
map of my adolescence
Leaving here I’ll lose my mind
between the branches and streams
and the abundance of towering behemoths
that grew only lifetimes ago
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 5:49 PM UTC
We depress in the confines of cerebral warehouses
where freedom persists only through memories left.
But comfort can be found in the knowledge
that youth cascades down the flesh of flesh.
The sweetest fruits fleetly brush your tongue.
The loveliest tunes are whispers delicately sung.
Let your brittle bones break the malaise strung.
Just let go; let the air out of your lungs.
Reason. Purpose. Meaning.
It was when you realized that your life could be measured by revolutions of the sun.
It was the first time you witnessed the passing of someone you love.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Next time is indeterminate.
Sometimes it never arrives.
This time is the right time.
I've offered buckets of promises,
Boxes of apologies,
Truck loads of regrets,
Warehouses of chances,
But there is no next time.
The crystal's broken,
The hands are frozen.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
To start again we take a pen
create a bill of rights
because,
sermons will not feed you
in the long term this is what we need to do,
storm the walls of warehouses and and pull them down
burn the cities,burn the towns
astound the populace,face the thieves who turn a trick
and kick them out.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
This motel's coffee is weak
Even after the 8th cup
Trying to shake off the storms
Thundering in my head
Like too many days
When I haven't felt a reason to be
Out on open roads
I promised to write a letter
To you every day
That these wheels have been rolling
But you've forgotten all the curves to my script
Because it's been too long
Since my pen has scriven
And it's been too long
Since I've kept any promises
Another day and another night
Passes by on the road to another town
And I can't keep track
Of where I was
And who I'm finding myself to become
I call you up from a pay phone
On the corner of loneliness and nowhere
But when you answer
I can't find my voice
And there's a silence that hangs deadly in the air
As you ask is anyone there
I know you know it's me
But you play along like a stranger
Dialing the wrong number
And maybe I'm just a stranger to you anyway now
Because it's been too long
Since I have called
And it's been too long
Since I've kept any promises
This place looks familiarly foreign
Rundown warehouses and farmland
That time left buried deep in a past
That's become more of a dream
Than some old reality
I look around to find the same memories
Playing from the viewpoint of an outsider
Because it's been too long
Since I've been home
And it's been too long
Since I've kept any promises
These tires have lost their tread
On the long driveway
To a house I once called home
That I shared once upon a time
With a woman I loved
I see the embrace waiting for me
Behind that dark oak front door
If I could find the courage
To leave this car
And put the key into the lock
With a twist of the ****
I wonder if I'd still find you
There waiting for me
Because it's been too long
Since I have held you in my arms
And it's been too long
Since I've kept any promises
Because it's been too long
And all my promises are gone
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
We drive
out from the dark and timbers,
into humble fields glistening with untouched snowfall.
Around rim the everlasting pines and the outlines of bare maples.
Vast clouds veil the starry night,
On the edges,
mocking northern light,
are the spots of city life.
The suspense is endless with thrill
to finally arrive home.
Stables and barns
we pass by.
Footprints marked
pointing above to
extravagant mansions the keepers live in.
The road goes on,
unafraid to stretch.
Suddenly
streetlights appear,
leading us on to our modern civilization.
Factories, warehouses, and such now at our rear.
We reach the highway,
busy and all.
It's not lonely,
yet it's 4 o'clock?!
Finally,
I'm home,
Ecstatic
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC