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Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
slow time on the escalator
easy baby;
a life of leisure
and idle moments...
tra la la la li

head held high and proud
one foot on one step
and one foot lower:
it’s the picture of grace and ease;
it’s cool baby

stand leaning
with no care in the world
chatting with your friend
and let your new floral skirts
wipe clean the glass sides;
life’s a breeze
on the escalator,
fashion baby

hands on the handrail
and the other waving at friends
waiting at the end;
shake hands when you’re down
and pass the germs on
to your cheerful buddies;
O life’s a breeze
on the escalator,
bouncy baby

it’s like a slow-motion movie
this chic life on the escalator
as still as when you stand window-shopping
gazing at new lingerie on display
like admiring a field of flowers:
O live the moment
baby,
this escalator life’s cool and easy


slow time on the escalator
easy baby;
a life of leisure
and idle moments...
tra la la la li
Jacob Demlow Dec 2010
As Kids
We run up the down escalator
And down the up escalator
Enjoying
Playing
Living our days happily
Now
As adults
We walk up the up escalator
And down the down escalator
To get places faster
To do work
No more joy
No more play
But sometimes
If you look closely
Once in a while
You can see a flicker of joy
Across an adults face
Hurrying to the almost departing train
Doing their own little victory dance
When they make it before the doors close
Then they sit
And get back to the office
To get back to their desk
To get back to life
And it’s gone
And it remains just a glimpse into their past
As they sit
And make a future for themselves.
Written while riding a MARTA train. Fall 2010
Zelda Jul 13
“What do you want?”

I am
the double braids;
the sunshine in the tutu dress
The linear path
The yellow line
Didn't lead where it was supposed to
(where I thought it would)
I was just trying to catch up

From the McDonald's to the escalator
From the escalator to the McDonald's

I am
An ever-changing labyrinth; A sunflower
Caught in the dead of winter
Suffocating in a sea of strangers
Home isn't where it's supposed to be

From the McDonald's to the escalator
From the escalator to the McDonald's

I know
I can't afford to;
I know
It's best I don't:
Lose my ears
Lose my head;
Lose my feet;
Lose my breath;
But they're not where they're supposed to be
And I can feel myself lose my eyes;
What happened to the linear path?
Where is the yellow line?

Third time’s the golden ticket
Get me out of here
Please

From the McDonald's to the escalator
From the escalator to the McDonald's

Ears heard you call my name
Head spun
Feet pushed against marble
Deep breath

Into your warm, comforting embrace
Lift me off the path
Show me the yellow line
Take me where I'm supposed to be

I am
The path less traveled
The yellow line unwinding

“A Happy Meal”

Epilogue
______

Little Miss Sunshine
Sit awhile
Happy Meals turn into ice coffees
We'll wait
No need to worry
We'll be found
Eventually

"Can I steal a fry?"
Rob Urban Jun 2012
Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11
MonkeyZazu Jul 2014
It just dawned on me.

This whole time
I've been trying to go up
unknowingly walking,
on the escalator that takes you down.

No wonder
life
has been at a stand still.
How else
could a person
walk in the same direction for years on end
without going anywhere.

Then
you have those people
who barely take two steps,
and they're there...
Makes so much sense now.  

Word to the wise -
walk a path
that's a little less
hi-tech.
Sunita Prasad Apr 2012
The escalator of despair
Was waiting with her normal nonchalance stare
Her teeth constantly in motion
Offering the tip of a landscape below
A place of not knowing, not a place one is keen to go

I stepped on her teeth with huge trepidation
Leaving behind what was once was a friendly station

I rode the escalators down to this place
Reading posters, signs of things that
Were going to take place
Theatre, drama, the musical of my life
A pantomime made of my own strive

I followed the tunnels deeper they fell
Marking out pathways and other people’s  roads to hell

I found myself on a platform
Cold and Bleak
I looked around me in the hope
Of finding someone to whom I could speak

But I found no map of the line I was attending
Instead just a blankness and huge hole, darkness and fright
That looked unending
Looking for direction, for the interchanges that my destination
Was depending.

I could hear the sound of the train approaching
I could feel vibrations and and see rats encroaching
Encroaching on my light now lost, glimpses of my life beginning to rot

Don’t dance over the yellow line they said, stand back
For the train approaching is just ahead
Its lights dancing on the tunnels walls
Announcing its arrival, big not small

The noise is deafening, screeching and loud
The voice of my own despair now hidden in its vacuous cloud

A smashing sound as it brakes through
The blackness into light speeding through
Hugging the platform really tight
Reducing space so as passengers can alight

Doors part open and people descend
On to a platform that appears to have no end
This is not a place to stand still
The body of people is a perfume despair wants to distill

So move down the platform and keep shuffling along
Belongings of your heart held tight moving to the  rhythm of the throng

So I enter the carriage quickly and sit
Next to a man clutching his pit
The pit that comes to close to me
Smells rank and ****** and full of hypocrisy


Off into a place that is forever dark
Momentary fireworks the only sparks
That give you a glimpse of another line
A line perhaps to happiness or somewhere else sublime

Out of nowhere a train caresses, moves so close
and  brings aboard  a message

For other people are traveling too
To places that were not on their list of ‘to do’’
Riding parallel down darkened tunnels
Moving to their own rhythm, humming their own song
Rocked by a train, speeding hastily along
Turning a corner and now that train is gone

So we are not alone on the darkest rides that we take
We are not alone on the escalators that we think I taking us to meet our fate
For we all have a choice an opportunity to ride
Alone or with travelers by our side
MJL Feb 2019
Joy ride spotted
Keep cool
Don’t run
Concentrate
Here we go...
Riding
Beaming
Ear to ear
Five and flying
Total joy
Up or down
Every time
Every f-ing time
Thank you Charles Seeberger


© 2019 MJL
OnlyEggy Jan 2011
Moving at the speed of slow
comfortable in this minor pace
Approaching my ultimate goal
mesmerized at the escalator's glow
green lit stairs on this moving staircase
taking me up with its mechanical soul

Being coddled my entire life, this is normal
no need to exert any unneeded energy
following the fast track without intent to stop
parents paid for a school that is formal
educated privately into the business synergy
gray suits and fortune await for me at the top

With a screech and a ****, the beast halts
accidents happen, but how do we react?
With my escalator stopped, how do I proceed
Without trial by fire, conflict, or faults
Unprepared and contemplating this life impact
I sulked in anger, blaming others that I won't succeed

I see the goal at the top, but its distance is intimidating
How do I reach for that goal if this escalator is broken?
I've never moved forward one complicated step in my life
The terrain is not difficult and the path isn't winding
Then I heard a voice, (my own thoughts?), softly spoken
'It's a staircase you idiot, take a step, you're hardly in strife'
(AIP)
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
On a trip,
to Thailand,
from Egypt,
to an island,

had a layover in Dubai,
so I decided to visit a friend,
a beautiful traveler such as myself,
in Dubai the Hyatt was her residence,

I got off my flight,
and cleared customs,
took the Metro to Palm Deira,
then emerged into the thick Emirates air,

felt like I’d emerged into a tide pool,
the air was damp and salty,
as if I’d submerged my whole body,
into summer sun heated waters,

walked a long short walk to the hotel,
and entered the oversized lobby,
Dubai lives off of air conditioning,
and the climate control was welcoming,

my friend came down to meet me,
dressed as beautiful as ever,
a flight attendant she was very attentive,
we hugged and she invited me to the rooftop pool,

on the rooftop I changed into my swimming trunks,
because even though it was just I layover,
I bring my trunks with me everywhere,
because you never know when you’re gonna swim,

she stayed poolside,
gazed at me apparently amused,
after a quick dip I emerged refreshed,
toweled off and we talked,

she asked me why I write,
she asked me what my goal was,
I told her I didn’t know why I write,
or really what my goal was,

she pressed on,
and insisted there must be a reason,
so I answered her question,
with the following reasoning,

“I guess I write,
so that our collective humanity,
has some sort of documentation,
of our emotional history.
But I don’t have a goal,
and I am not flattered when people compliment my work,
because I don’t really consider my writings mine,
I consider them the world’s.
So when some says my writing saved their life,
I feel awkward because God wrote it not me,
still I say thank you because I don’t know what else to say.
The books I’ve written are bigger than me,
millions of people have read the poems I’ve penned,
but most people that that have read my poems,
wouldn’t recognize me on the street if they walked past me,
see it’s not me they know it’s the writing I’ve written,
which means readers think they know me,
but they don’t know me at all.”

There’s a moment of silence,
on that rooftop,
all the lights of Dubai,
reflecting in her dark molasses eyes,

and I ask this,

“Do you ever feel trapped?”

She seems a bit perplexed by the question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,
here you are,
in The Emirates.
You are constantly on call for an airline,
you could be called to go any minute,
so you’re in a constant state of defense.
Plus,
this whether,
I mean,
it’s unbearably hot here,
and people here are completely dependent on A/C,
plus there are cameras everywhere always watching,
and to open almost any door here you need a key,

it seems there’s so much security that nothing and no one is free.”

“No I don’t feel trapped.”

Her answer comes too fast,
as if she doesn’t want to take the time to think about it,
and speaking of time,
my flight to Thailand is quickly approaching.

I change out of my shorts,
put my ‘normal’ clothes back on,
khaki shorts and navy shirt,
so that I can cruise through without being bothered,

but I am bothered,
because I can’t even touch her,
this is Dubai and despite the pretty lights,
this place is not Liberal it’s Conservative Islam,

and everything is forbidden.

We make our way across the rooftop poolside,
walking on plastic grass under canvas canopies,
we get to the outside door she slides her plastic key card,
and we enter back into the climate controlled insides,

we reach the elevator,
she taps her key card again,
the elevator opens,
and we start to descend,

inside the lift I can’t help myself,
she’s too attractive,
so I try to place a kiss on her shoulder,
she pulls away.

“Aaron no!”

“What?”

“We can’t,
not here,
I can get in trouble,
seriously.”

She nods discretely to the close captioned camera,
recording our every movement in the corner,
I guess the only thing we can exchange here is glances,
the system still hasn’t found a way to stop us from making eye contact,

and eye contact is the only contact we’re allowed to make,
everything else is forbidden,
heck they’d probably even outlaw looks if they could,
the elevator opens,

we’re back in the lobby,
she offers to walk me to the metro,
I obviously accept her offer,
I would accept any offer she ever gave me,

We emerge back into that thick Emirate air,
that damp and salty tide pool,
back into that traffic and incessant noise,
back into the smell of the fruits of the sea,

I ask her why it smells so much like fish out there,
she tells me there’s a fish market across the street,
she tells me the Pakistanis shove fish in her face during the say,
and have absolutely no respect for personal space.

we reach the doors of the metro station,
already we can feel the cool artificial A/C breeze,
and I’m again reminded how fake this city is,
fake people fake air fake grass fake plastic trees,

seems she’s the only thing real here,
and we are about to say goodbye,
we hug quickly before we depart,
don’t want to catch the attention of the camera’s eye,

she waives goodbye,
as I descend back down the escalator,
I want to tell her that I don’t like goodbye waives,
because that’s exactly what I saw before I lost my sister,

in other words the last time I ever saw my little sister,
was when she waived goodbye to me,
before she drowned in the fish pond,
actually that’s the only memory I have of my sister,

but that’s another story for another day,
that’s a different trip entirely,
that’s something that happened long ago,
something that now’s a distant memory,

anyways that’s why I wanted to tell the girl in Dubai,
“Please don’t waive goodbye,
because that makes me worried,
that we’ll never see each other again.”,

but it was too late,
the hands of time had already pushed us away,
the escalator was already creating too much space between us,
I guess I can hope that we’ll see each other again in another time and place,

but for now,

I’m on a trip,
to Thailand,
from Egypt,
to an Island,

and the planes coming,
and it’s almost time to board,
and you can’t go back to a passed moment,
because the only constant is change and the only direction is forward,

so be forewarned,
if you love someone tell them right then,
because even when things are just beginning,
everything and every one is only a moment from the very end…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
A lesson in Time and a Reminder to Love
Lana D Apr 2018
Life is one long escalator ride
We step on at birth and keep riding up to the unforeseeable top
Packed like sardines into one aile
As children we let our hands glide across the moving rails
Until we notice others shunning the handles and we let go
Surrounded by TV screens on both sides
3D glasses letting us see different things
See the events, the moments, the accomplishments
The sorrows, the pains
It sends some into a panic.
You can see their faces go slack
Their legs wobble and shake
They try to run down on stairs moving up
Pushing and shoving  people  just to try to get away from the events witnessed on LED screens
Why don’t they realize?
There's no one waiting at the bottom
But those who wait, who get  through the screens that send chills to new meanings
Those who reach the top of the escalator ride
reach the top floor to eternity
when an angel loses its wings they have to take an escalator. nobody points and laughs. nobody cries either.

its probably the silence that hurts the most. just like when i had to take an escalator.  i felt like a teachers pet transferring schools for a military parent. hell i almost felt like the class pet fireball the splotchy hamster dying overnight.

all of you paying your respects

downraining the playground flowers

all because we shared the same battle or discomfort or inconvenience and then we had to part ways and maybe you’ll think of me sometime

because when an angel loses its wings and they have to take an escalator it seems like a really really empty department store at the bottom
c Mar 2018
The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism.
The audience: a sea of **** jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me.
They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance
and say nothing. This house is for
wallpaper women. What good
is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence
will these boys rest their feet on?

These boys…
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am ashamed
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or woman studies classes.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
Once I forgave a predator because
I was afraid to start drama in our friend group
two weeks later he assaulted someone else.
I’m still carrying the guilt in my purse.

There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
and lipstick shaped mace and underwear designed to prevent ****.

Once a man behind me at an escalator
shoved his hand up my skirt
from behind and no one around me
said anything,
so I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t wanna make a scene.

Once an adult man made a necklace
out of his hands for me and
I still wake up in hot sweats
haunted with images of the hurt
of girls he assaulted after I didn’t report,
all younger than me.

How am I to forgive myself for doing
nothing in the mouth of trauma?
Is silence not an active violence too?

Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.

Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. “You think you can take
over the world?” And I said “No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.”

Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another component of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that
not all of our guy friends have to do the same.
You could literally saw a woman in half
and it would still be called a magic trick.
Wouldn’t it?
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies that
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.
Credits to Blythe Baird.

Blythe Baird is an affluent, rising young slam/spoken word poet from Minnesota. She has a book out already, "Give Me A God I Can Relate To" and is making gains in the world of poetry. Regularly performs with Button Poetry. You can find the performance of "Pocket-Sized Feminism" on Youtube. Inspiring and firey on the mic! Check this one out.
Great professions
Great foundations of thy nation
To them we *look up

A brainwave for every *aspirant.


Beggars, unemployed
Criminals and those who are sick
Bed-ridden and with counted lives
They, who are in need.

If we look up to people
Do we also look down to others?
If we are great contenders,
Are we also great in making others feel low ?

We choose to upgrade lives
While in the stairs, our views are on pinnacle
The hub was to escalate
At times, forgetting to where we came from.

What's the point of attaining positions ?
Or even being the crest in the nation's list ?
We indeed are people with the same blood
The same dreams , yet with mixtures of line ups.

To be great , one must serve
Great leaders starts from being great servants
For He who saved us became a servant first
He didn't boast His power and authority
He didn't look down to others
Instead, He lived with them

To those who are oppressed ,
Abused and neglected
By the ever-judging society,
You are the God's centre .

We must have the eye
To see things the way He sees them
The heart that feels
With compassion and sympathy* to others.

Love God
Love others
Show mercy and care.

7/9/14 (@xirlleelang)
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey

sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms

side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****

sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others

******* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ******* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others

sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty

sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
they (yeah, the paranoid pronoun, esp. in how it's used for abstract coordinates, concretely? conformists) decided it was easier to fill a psychiatrist's gob with my presence, and for psychiatrists to pay the mortgage with someone who they termed schizophrenic, forgetting the fact that the person in question was bilingual - odd how humanists confuse bilingualism with schizophrenia, maybe a coin flip later and we'd get biphrenic? that's pushing it, but it just might work to describe an atom evolved into a human form... basically in two places at the same time: confederacy of archaeological theology - and by being in two places, behaving differently in each stated sphere of observation... that's it though! theology translates as archaeology in science, excavating the designation of the argument of the spider and the spiderweb, the perfect yoga instructor, one position fits all... because scientific positivism is dead... it's dead... we're experiencing a transition into scientific negativism, mainly because there's a plumber's conundrum of a blocked fact-machine... which turned out to be a fat-machine... we're just hearing the same ****, over and over again.

i never knew it, but when humanism was born
it came across the challenges of
Darwinism (Aristotle's footnote),
with all due respect for humanism
though,
             humanism gave us
the most apathetic formulation of
any faith at all...
and do you see a rebellion happening
anywhere concerning this?
i see a bunch of ****-naked Amazonian
nomads singing the huh? huh?! song...
esp. when they see safety-hats and
tractors... me? i live in the
outer suburbs of a Greek city-state...
when you're walking down the
street and see a bare chested driver
of a tractor, and a loser (me) drinking beer
while the police pass by in their cruiser
and don't give a ****... well...
welcome to the Fe (iron) Fe Fe feral land...
(almost a sneeze, but not quiet)
metro-****** pinkies anywhere?
no... root that **** into your brains
you urban wankers... stay there,
rot... keep up the debauchery of
Beckton's recycling centre...
oh sure, keep the theatres open,
with Simon & Garfunkel applause of song...
like ballerinas and fat operas needed
an exercise regime...
Darwinism is brutal enough,
it's brutal, it's not pretty,
looking at it from a creationist perspective
you'll only get brutality from it,
only an Zimbabwe born englishman would
care to champion it... oh look!
a monkey ******* a ferret!
i cried today... my female cat was inspired
when a squirrel started doing gymnastics
on my garden fence, one paw tucked against
its chest... i haven't seen a squirrel in my
garden for a while, i've shown her a hedgehog
once, but a squirrel? try catching a squirrel!
it's like catching the ******* of a mosquito
wearing boxing gloves... or Zeno...
i cried my eyes out, by a squirrel...
acrobatic rats that hate throngs...
the simplest of things bring the greatest of joys,
and a consistency in thinking about
death make the simple assurances of mortality
so much more appreciated...
of course i think about death... why wouldn't
i? so this homeless man has a tent...
they're dragging them in, he says:
i haven't done anything wrong...
the military-industrial complex isn't secular at all...
psychiatrists are the complex's priests...
they're looking for subjects to ensure they earn
while giving oral *** to pharmaceutical companies...
and that's the *cul de sac
truth -
no, wait... humanism's religious doctrine is
Darwinism, can't deviate from that,
keep a kettle and a sun on the same timescale,
i'm Caribbean lazy though...
you with beer and joint, me with beer and another
and another beer and an Apache echo impression
of echoing-yawn,
we have evolved past mating calls of animals...
all we have are warring calls... la la la for simplicity...
or in verse of new Zealander Haka:
                           ****, have no funny lyrics...
where was Darwinism when mating calls became
subtle and we exchanged mating calls for warring chants?
where was Darwinism then?
you telling me i have to own a watch, a mansion,
a nice car and enough money for a child's private
education to make one at all? pretty subtle
and all the more less colourful... you can ask me:
where was god when the Holocaust happened...
i'd reply: where was a decent joke?
apparently Moses died from laughter...
now i'm stuck with having to proof read
the first print of my book... that's going to be
agonising... i hate rereading my work...
and aren't we in a standing still position,
on an escalator, or the journalists are gullible,
i mean they're worse than pigs, they're eating
regurgitated facts... they're the ones that always
end up saying: if it ain't broken, break it...
that's their magnum opus fixation, and
the recycling bin... that's what they're there for,
i bet you a hundred quid that Putin's tears
would have turned into diamonds if they fell
on St. Basil's onion domes...
all these ****-incubating-real-emotion
calculators of the English parliament are worth
a psychiatric sketch show... punchline?
you ain't ever ever getting out, ha ha!
Darwinism is cruel, and people sort of like
the whips of a static history, sometimes they come back
to the 17th century and make a television program,
sometimes they have a chance encounter
to cite something from the only century that can
be experienced with anatomical dissection skill:
namely the 20th, or to be accurate, the 2nd half
of the 20th century... most of the time they haven't
the foggiest about history these days,
they're either electron-clouds of electron-orbits,
ping-pong between these two conceptions...
they're always pro-neutral (proton-neutron
centre) - and indeed the tetragrammaton invested
in Ke$ha... ka-ching! sz sh sharpener of wit...
got to love tactical pop, or the caveman ontological
obituary of buying alkaline batteries...
i bought alkaline batteries last year,
which technically makes me a caveman...
compact disks make me a caveman...
books make me a caveman... i'm a ******* caveman!
drag my woman by her hair...
what a great Darwinism provides,
we're all comparatively stone-age...
i love how we just made all history between that
into cf. snippets, and how the caveman attitude
is supposedly a ****** pill to supercharge our
attitudes into beastly thumps and gurgles and
elbows up the **** thrills...
Darwinism is cruel, Darwinism is currently the
theology of humanism... but once upon a time
the religious aspect (or in humanism's behaviour prescription)
was ascribed to one hour on Sunday...
now we're sorta stuck in a church, 24 / 7...
now we're all our own ritual makers...
we have the holy communions of buying a certain
type of coffee in a shop, or it's called curry Friday
and Saturday takeaway randomisation,
gathering the ready-meals Sunday to Thursday...
everyone having the busiest of lives...
if religion is dead, then i must be a nun.
i don't think Darwinism actually attacked theology...
some people are proper pranksters with
the notion that Darwinism attacked theology,
some get to play Jesus in some biblical theme park...
what i think Darwinism damaged, primarily,
is history... if journalists keep spanning
historical references from here & now and
that greatest ontological excuse: caveman once,
Chanel model no. 2, we'll surely sell many
more shaving equipment tools and sanity pills as we go
along into 24h / insomnia society...
me? i'm out... i'll be keeping my imagination
honed toward the Faroe Islands, along with my sanity.
Sacrelicious Mar 2012
Saturday Night.

I have no need to explain myself,
I am what you created.
As the artist who painted this canvas,
you especially should understand
the portrait I call myself.
If you find me to be a disappointment,
it’s your own **** fault.
I catch myself forgetting the
little things about you,
My puzzle is left unfinished.
Secretly, I believe
that I am somewhere in the middle of
Life
and
Death.
Just waiting until
I get the courage to close my eyes
and take the escalator
up and away from
Void's emptiness.
Into the heightened arms of Love.
Catch me, if I fall.

Sunday Morning

Time flies by
and I'm still here lost without you.
I am someone that
came from nothing at all.

All i can remember from that night
was,
running home to the Sun.

I found myself passed out beside a toilet.
I got a hangover and fresh start.
sunday Jan 2023
Put down the taco. Eyes close. Then - Zooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmm!

My body at this point - already melted into the chair - head whirling cold - loozing touch hehe

Oh! Don’t leave without saying goodbye! - I said this to the infinitely expanding black void that-

“I’ll be back. I have to unlock the final triforce. It is locked behind a backlit Pluto.”

Clearly we were in a Mexican restaurant

But

The gods were clearly on his side with that pink **** and all so this chromium dude was on to

something - ope! My powers disappeared! I guess my time is up in heaven.
DMT Acid LSD Shrooms Psychadelics
Looking at a beautiful piece of work by Kei
YUKTI Mar 2018
I was waiting for him on the escalator on one side of the road 
My Heart pumped at the highest rate when all at once realized abode.

Saw him looking generously dashing riding a scooter
He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and his hair were messy but modish.
And here I was standing in my usual tank top and jeans,
hair tied in a messy ponytail
just then He saw me, waved And parked his vehicle near my usual bus stop
I walked to his way with my bag full of books.


We sat on the bench and started random talks about everything except what we thought about.  
He then started using his phone and I was beginning to feel ignored. He on a spur of moment stopped and stared me and mentioned about our chats and phone calls
"How it started"
"How it became more Frank and comfortable"
"How good friends we became online but never met in real life" strange isn't it?

Then I told him I have to leave and the 'awkward silent moment' and he finally spoke "yeah"

We shook our hand and he refused to let me go
So I smiled and left his hand and eye contact and stood in the row

The bus started moving and I saw him standing there only, shrugging his shoulder and leaving that place.

That was my first and last with him or anyone!!
Your comments are always appreciated.
- Sep 2023
I took the escalator today.
It felt like I was flying
ascending to my destiny.
"Why would they walk"
I asked myself
"if one could choose to fly?"

I took the escalator today.
It felt like I was being carried
effortlessly to my finishing line.
"Why would the climb"
I asked myself
"if one could choose to be carried?"

The escalator was out of use today.
"Why would you wait for help"
they asked me from the top
"if you could just use the stairs?"
But I was paralysed
for I have forgotten how to walk.
King Panda Feb 2016
I was flying home from Denver
and the man next to me ordered 3 double vodkas
slipping the stewardess a hundred bucks
by the end of the flight he was asking me
to come home with him
he had a sheepskin bed throw
that would keep us perfectly warm
this chill winter night
I refused
called him a drunk freak
and giggled when he stumbled down the escalator
and split a **** in his forehead
that cracked like
like Easter
smothered in chocolate frosting
Lost for words May 2014
The goo-goo gaggle gobble grammar
New eggs standing in a roe
Alphabetting the Blurb is Cuckoo
School kid robots on the go
Fopdoodles questing for an ology
Dilly-dally on Patagonian trek
Mead-merry escalators of industry,
Or dudes who lakh in debt?
A billion ****** bridegrooms
In taffeta take-away
Cherry-picking for the species
From the matrix DNA
Muggles meet at midlife
For a Royal English tea
Swapping apps for homemade yogurt
Just a wee bit too PC
And so the dames riddle their speechcraft
On the doublespeak roundabout
Before Alzheimer's wicked edit
Skirts the bone-house bounders **out
This poem was written as an entry to a Telegraph newspaper competition: a poem of no more than 100 words which includes at least 25  from a list of 100 chronicling the history of the English language. The selected words are in bold. It didn't win :)
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/8824676/From-Riddle-to-Twittersphere-David-Crystal-tells-the-story-of-English-in-100-words.html
ximri Nov 2012
I fill my life in a suitcase
all my memories lay
headed for the higher ground
this migration leaves me questioning
will all the others be found?
I don't dare look behind me
a pillar of salt I'll be
if you don't walk with me

I'm brave, I'm for certain
that I'll make it there
we will join them
where they live care free
finally, rejoined with others
our lost sisters and brothers
come home.
Daylight 4U2C Jan 2014
A wicked woman told my love, "**** him and you will be free."
My love paused, and the wicked woman's old twig of a finger pointed off to me.
Love walked to me with tearful eyes, as if she had no choice.
I smiled wryly and told her in the softness of my voice, "Let it be done, and be free.
No sword is long enough to show my love for thee. No dagger, short enough to match my heart's beat.
So please my love, take your choice of my death. Choose what would be fit."
She didn't hesitate, just cry. She, slowly lifting a mirror from the dust.
I don't know why I felt I must, but I wiped the tears away just to savor her touch.
I looked into her sad blue eyes, just for one more glance. Then I shut my own.
I could feel her lift the mirror, this was her chance, let it be known.
A crashing blankness came down on me, soon after the last things I heard.
"I'm moving up, and you're moving down." These were her last words.
I didn't understand them then, but now I think I know.
She will one day be in the warm light, while I'm still stuck in the cold indigo.
I'd always run up the down escalator, like a crazy kid.
She always said, one day I'd trip.
And now I finally did.
This is a conversation I had with God.
In which I told the silence of my room
that surrealism is the only ism in which God makes total sense.

I could see the chalk whites of his teeth trying to bite down on his words
but before they could be derailed his tongue caught wind and his words assailed
as he said, "I hate surrealism."

As if his words would never be caught dead in an urn
sometimes his mouth looked more like a jail in an Old Western
and his thoughts fought like criminals desperate to break out
until they finally found a way to use his tongue as an escape route.

"No, I don't hate surrealism," he says
"I just hate surrealism as a movement."

Upon hearing this my spine coils like a wine-corker-spiral-staircase
upward; where my brain plugs my cranium like a cork
and my eyes drip like blank canvas,
I am one hollow statue decaying in a melting structure
with wax in my ears I feed landscapes to winged insects
as I drown in pools of water/color.

Behind me is a sky so burlesque it actually looks like the clouds are crying.
Under me is a ground so vast it has nine horizons wrapped in a double helix.
Reconstructed beside me is a tree so old it could be the same wood as The Crucifix.
Nested inside me where my spine should be is a coat rack made crooked by the weight of all-nighters.
The texture of my skin makes it look like god paints with typewriters.

"No, no," he says, his voice turning melancholy, atomic, uranic, idyll,
"I don't hate surrealism as a movement,
because hate's such a strong word. Oh god, I guess I just don't get it."

Now I'm overcome with a sincere desire to light an entire herd of giraffes on fire
and sip wine beneath the light as if it were dinner by candlelight,

"Seriously?" I say. "Under giraffes, in this light
I can't tell if you're Lincoln or Jesus.
In fact, we all look like swans with elephant reflections.
Your trunk is a trumpet.
Don't even get me started on where we derive our visions of god
from where I stand everything casts a shadow in the shape of where it's heading
and the sky, vast and pale and open, the sky is the only all-seer
and the truth is far less surreal:
if your demons are ants then your god is an anteater."

I can see the chalk whites of his teeth stall door,
squeaky hinge, his mouth-
occupied with a realization he can't pronounce.
A pause as pregnant as a desert landscape,
ornamented with butterflies.

His head is an empty room with an evaporating skylight,
his ears, hang like clocks on a half-wall, melting.
The escalator to his brain is a spiral staircase moving in reverse.
His eyelids peel back like the last page of a two-dimensional book.
I can see with my Spellbound eyes, we are finally on the same page.

When his tongue curls back into his saloon jaw
like a bee sting rifle shot back into the mouth of a lunging tiger,
swallowed deep into the wells of a fish belly.

"I'm sorry" he says, "that's not what I meant."
Derrek Estrella Aug 2019
Within the daily treads of modern traversal, there is nothing quite as soul-crushing as the escalator; its narrow scope and design, its unknowingly malevolent operation. It is such a cruel wonder it performs, consigning all existence upon it to one premeditated and mandatory path. It is the string drone of the modern orchestra; the hushed machination, a persistent contender in the cacophony.
An excerpt from the series, "Modern Exaggerations".
Robin Carretti May 2018
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
*******
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -

Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone

Wait!!

Don't rush me
I love everyone
*

Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))


Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray
_ speed lover
No homework

All game
Sunday_

Candles burned
The House flamed

"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress

He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!

Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit

The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology

So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday

The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling

Mad Men hungover

Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower

Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night

Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday

Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free
_

She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low

Times Square

Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
All the day os the week and the weekend should be the most relaxing. But its all crazies and cabbies give me my Starbucks of sugar daddies
Thrown forward from the past to break upon the bread was cast the scattering, if that's the word,
that was the word.

I heard it not so far away
as if I hear words as
I lay
asleep.


Dreams, they told me, but I know  dreams can hold me tight when all is certain to be lost and in these dreams from far away when words are ripening like hay I make them all my own.

My home was always home to me, no castles there for I was free to wander through the cornfields which led out to the rushing brook where once I took the vow that somewhere some day somehow I'd find the way to hear the  words thrown, wish I'd known then what I know not now and yet ignorance though no defence is the only one I have.
Another ramble down the tunnel.
WA West May 2019
Sometimes his attention seemed to split apart. His consciousness seemed to visit different dimensions simultaneously. He felt like, at times, he was living inside a kaleidoscope. Although he often lacked the means to describe his lived experience to others. When he tripped over the old Dutch woman; her hair disordered and her body cramped up like a day old hot dog, he experienced his head hitting the last step of the escalator, but his mind was also elsewhere compiling a shopping list. His thoughts were still something briefly as his body became nothing. His eulogy mentioned his numerous professional accolades, but nothing of his trivial end.
JR Falk Sep 2018
My dad would always warn me to be careful when falling in love;
I fall too quickly for my own good.

So on the days leading up to the moment you arrived,
I made sure I steadied my footing,
readying myself for the moment I would.
I could tell I was going to.
I wanted to be prepared.

But as I stood in that airport, my knees were already trembling.
It seemed as though the moment I saw you coming down that escalator,
I lost my footing.
All of a sudden everything around me had disappeared.
All at once, I was falling.

I wondered if skydiving rivaled that thrill, and the fear.
My heart never stopped pounding.

When we got back to the car,
I kept staring at you as though you'd vanish.
My mouth grew dry with dread.
I worried I would wake any moment and all of this would have been nothing but a dream.
But I didn't, and you remained.

We stepped into my room and everything blurred.
I heard nothing but the air rushing by me as I fell harder each moment.
I turned to you, begging for clarity, and was met with a kiss.
For a moment, I could see again.
I warned you I was petrified.
You held me.

I saw the pieces of me I had lost when falling in the past come hurtling towards me as I fell.
When I woke up to you, your chestnut irises were still closed,
yet your breathing stabilized my rugged heart rate.
I was completely unaware of where the ground was,
or how hard I'd hit it,
but I savored the sight as though it were still all just a dream.

Each and every moment with you,
I feared the outcome.
I prepared myself with every aching hour for the impact.
My breathing was so unsteady, I felt on the verge of collapsing.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't let myself see what was coming.

As we sat on my bed, and you held me in your arms,
you begged me to open up.
You insisted I open my eyes,
and I fought tears as our breathing synchronized.
I could see the ground now.
The panic clawed its way out of my heart, up my throat,
and I felt my body shake as the words finally spilled out.

I braced myself.
I winced, expecting the pain.
I had anticipated every bit of me to shatter.
I was ready for there to be nothing left of me to break.

But I didn't break.

I could tell the world around me was still again,
but I wasn't on the ground.
I was not broken.
I was pieced back together, carefully.

You kissed me, breathing into me the life I thought I'd given up.
I finally opened my eyes, and as my vision focused,
there sat every piece of me I thought I had thrown away for each and every heartbreak before.
The parts of me that I had lost so long ago, that I assumed nobody would miss or remember,
sat upright, polished, and presented like precious gems.
The feeling in my body returned,
and I turned to those perfect orbs in disbelief--

you caught me.

You never let me go.

It was then that I realized that all the while I had readied myself to fall,
I had already spent my life preparing my heart for you.

So when my dad reminds me to be careful this time, I'll let him know:

I was, but I never needed to be.
You were right here all along,
waiting to catch me.
2:09am
9.29.2018

oh my ******* god, i love you.

a month from right now i'll be in your arms again.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
Having lost her forever,
he steps off the escalator
into hard sunshine, drops
to the sidewalk and caves—
a troubadour whose songs
have been dismantled
by the sadistic hands
of a subway conductor.

Guitar strings slip his fingers,
and nothing will bring her back.
Not a song. Not a psalm. Nothing.
Not the angelic back
of his leather jacket,
spanned by a score
of safety-pins formed
into silver-studded wings.
Not his listless body,
tattoo-inked and wrecked,
blue quarter notes slinking
down a tight treble clef,
wires stretched across his neck.
Not his mind, spinning
in a head blue-veined
and stubble-shaved.
Not his angry steel-tipped boots.

He lost his love because he looked.
One by one,
the silver pins
have come
unhooked.

Meantime,
far below
the sidewalk,
banished forever,
she slumps cheated
and dispossessed
in the vinyl seat
of a hellbound
subway car crawling
with scorched graffiti,
spray paint-scrawled
filigree spelling her doom.
Ghost of a snake bite
below her knee.  

Mohawk depressed,
she leans against
the train window.
Dead glass reflects
a chorus of piercings,
steel threaded through
skin so translucent
her veins and arteries
glow blue and red:
mapped subway lines
circulating misfortune,
coursing with dread.

The train rattles along rails
encrusted with gems and bones.
Disgorging sparks and smoke,
it thunders into stygian gloom,
ferrying her to a heartless god.

What if her shadow
had made a sound?
A backward glance was all it took
to squander a lavish second chance.

High above his beloved,
awakened by moonlight,
Orpheus regains his senses
and gathers the guitar.
The case flung open
at his boots awaits a drizzle
of tossed dollars and coins,
piteous currencies of loss.
Hard pick between thumb
and finger, a downstroke
strum delivers plaintive
waves of power chords.

The song ignites
a crowd of women
in tight band t-shirts
and skinny jeans,
smacking cherry gum,
their flaming hair
casting embers
upon night air;
radiant specks
suspended
like lighters
in a sunless
stadium.

Spurred by his song,
the covey of maenads
coalesces and attacks,
enraptured, enraged.
A rush of bodies,
the crazed crush tears
him limb from limb,
splits him to close to cipher,
until what remains of the star
on the sidewalk is his heart:
the four-chambered *****
held in a hundred hands,
picked up and packed
into the red plush lining
of the grisly guitar case,
golden hinges snapped shut.

Entombed in coffin-black
chrysalis, the heart pauses
like an untouched drum—
a dormant instrument
awaiting metamorphosis
that, like Eurydice,
will never come.
my dream house



you see my dream house is just by lake burley griffin

and as you walk in there is a coke machine at the top of

a big escalator, and at the bottom of that escalator there

are two doors, 1 door is the offices where people work and

on the other side there is my front door and i know it sounds like every

young persons fantasy, but as you enter, it was like, well the first thing you

see is the hat rack in front of the first door to the gymnasium which had a treadmill and a rower and a bike

and as  you walk further you enter the lounge room where there is

a nice comfy corner lounge and a LED TV and a big stereo where you can

listen to your favourite music and as you walk further, there is an internet station

where the computer is an apple with iPads and iPhones  and the internet server was

iinet wireless broadband, and as you walk further on, you see the kitchen where they had a built in

dishwasher and stove and fridge, and it had all the latest kitchen gadgets that money can buy, yeah

that sounds so cool and it has built in hot and cold water jets as well as normal tap water, and as you

walk further you see the bathroom with a shower sink and toilet with a clean air contraption, to get rid of

oopsy smells, and the bedroom was right near the other side window looking over the wonderful startrack oval

but i can’t see in because of the grandstands around it, and there was a walk in wardrobe which rarely got

messy, and i had round the clock help with cleaning and cooking, yeah this is absolute paradise, but it will

always remain just a dream house
little girl, you better hold on
hold on tight to the charcoal
sturdiness of a railing, to the
warmth emitting from the
barrier of your father's arm, for
the bus would bring you there
once, twice, a hundred times
to the first turbulence of a
flight you are onboard from the
very start, and like that tedious
twenty-two hours to america
like the cousins who followed
the eldest, coolest brother up
hanging on an escalator track
turbulences come one, another
until the odyssey sews to a close
along with your shredded dreams
your corrupted perceptions, your
wrinkles, your bruised, weary heart
which would thus lay within your
burnt, soulless corpse

— The End —