all of a sudden passion suddenly

[4degrees]

cut it down to spec
precision pessimism
fresh out of the tar pit
fuck every mile between
and all the black flowers

my forever is directly proportionate
to the crusted footprints left
on my muddy hardened heart.

august passions and may songs
fantastic imagery or planets aligning
is all just stardust
behind my milky eyes.

 

[vampiredust]

You know you're broke

when only you can hear stars
playing their fiddle under the
railway bridge and trees start

mourning for that last penny
you gave to a man asking for
change. As if he needed it

someone deep inside you says.
Feet start kicking against wind,
clinging to yesterday's news.

This place is not purgatory, just
a stop between yesterday and
tomorrow.

 

[vampiredust]

QVC belongs to the Devil

my Nan used to say. Look
at them hawking their fake
diamond necklaces and gold
bracelets. People will ring in

as soon as that number starts
flashing. Ban them, ban them
all. Gather everyone's credit
cards and burn them. Dance

around the flames as they
are burnt. I never noticed her
slipping her Visa from the wallet,
murmuring I'll buy just one

 

[clutching_calliope]

Polly Deuces

.....

 

[wildsweetone]

One Winter's Passing

There are rainbows
in your smile, red
and orange, bright
fires that light the air
around you, that feed
warmth into the cold
and clear the doubts
that crowd minds.
I wonder whether rain
will banish the blues
or add to troubles.
I wish I could change
your tomorrow, keep
Summer glowing
upon you, but I know
that soon, Spring
will steady your faultering steps
and blossoms
will surround your heart.

 

[RhymeFairy]

You know you're broke

when only you can hear stars
playing their fiddle under the
railway bridge and trees start

mourning for that last penny
you gave to a man asking for
change. As if he needed it

someone deep inside you says.
Feet start kicking against wind,
clinging to yesterday's news.

This place is not purgatory, just
a stop between yesterday and
tomorrow.

this ..

Very sorrowful, with hope thrown to the winds. The last stanza especially, catches my breath and makes me think ... maybe, just maybe. Great poem here my friend, imho~

 

[Sara Crewe]

A writer and a mother had lunch
at the corner deli. They were hungry
for different things but settled for pastrami
on rye to keep their mouths
from trying to move the suburbs
closer to the city and avoid comparisons
between The New Yorker and wallet-sized memories.
Between bites of small talk
the mother asked the writer
where she would put her contributor’s copy
of The New Yorker and what it would mean.

Above my desk, maybe more money
and a feeling of acknowledgment
that I was good enough, she answered
and looked at the mother ready to pat
her hand but instead she felt a slap
in the face of her self-awareness
when the mother said the wall
above her desk was already full
of faces who told her every day
that she was good enough.

They finished eating in a silence
that says everyone is thinking
but no one knows what to say.

More money would be nice though
she thought as she cleared
the table for one and went home.

 

[vampiredust]

Trafalgar Square

A pack of tourists pose for the camera
on top of a lion guarding Nelson's Column.

Others sit near the fountain, watching
pigeons swoop down, imitating the hawk
that is released to control their population.

I have only seen its shadow resting near
the National Portrait Gallery, before flying
off towards the sun and dissapearing

into a blur of feathers and yellow leather
claws. Perhaps it doesn't exist at all,
just a statue posing for the square.

Perhaps

 

[normal jean]

later

crumbs remain, we must have
been here, or perhaps
solitude is the curse cast
upon me,

crumbs, tiny ones

fragments of a life reflecting
they dance like furious atoms
around one innocent eve,

as the stars' shine

announces presence
in it's own time and we
witness part of a journey
that one day we will be

 

[normal jean]

double post ghost

 

[normal jean]

her own ghost

fever set in and double doors
slammed, it is quiet now, now
rest like a little Molly should
but the fever grabbed hold
and Molly died that night

it's alright, mama, it's alright
she's up there, a star shine
a wiggle in the jet stream
more than a bubble in time
I see her, dont you?

wind devils spinning in the red dirt,
remind me of you
swirly, but t hey can be surly
slinging sand, but so can you
mama, dont you worry 'cause

Molly's standing next to you

 

[vampiredust]

I don't know what you want but it sounds good

Half eaten tractors and cars watch cornfields
wave at trains passing by. Wind and time are

their only visitors here, taking turns to erode
metallic skin and bones. Perhaps someone will

come to bury the dead but that is unlikely -
they will be scattered across the landscape,

unborn satellites lost in an unseen purgatory.

 

[annaswirls]

he tells me
there is a hawk in Trafalgar Square
old bird woman and her toppins
seem to have caused a population explosion
now there is one more bird
to feed

maybe Jackass can put that in movie number III
extreme tourism come watch Mary Poppin's birds
get the ride of their life
shake the bloody snowglobe feathers swirl

 

[annaswirls]

I love this story... thank you for bringing it to my attention with such a great poem t his morning

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamesbunton/53057428/in/set-1157036

Trafalgar Square

A pack of tourists pose for the camera
on top of a lion guarding Nelson's Column.

Others sit near the fountain, watching
pigeons swoop down, imitating the hawk
that is released to control their population.

I have only seen its shadow resting near
the National Portrait Gallery, before flying
off towards the sun and dissapearing

into a blur of feathers and yellow leather
claws. Perhaps it doesn't exist at all,
just a statue posing for the square.

Perhaps

 

[normal jean]

equipped for catastrophe

do you have any idea how many nuts it takes
to bolt up all the bolts that must be bolted
and how heavy they are, some oft hem weigh
over three pounds and no matter how hard I try
I can never be as strong as a man

bolts are heavier than nuts, as it shoudl be-
they are longer, thicker, and possess
a prominent head, but nuts are harder to carry
up two hundred and fourteen steps, but
the benefit of lugging those nuts
and bolts, is the view of the river valley
and the awe of knowing
t hat an unborn flood is waiting
behind the cement wall.

 

[Tzara]

Will the last poet
leaving Lit

please turn off my interest?

 

[vampiredust]

Band Night

Last years Christmas lights hang on walls,
blinking with every guitar beat. The lead
singer flails as he sings like a doll being
punctured with nails. Wails follow,

the gathered crowd of students whooping
and dancing with every loud TRASH made.
Nobody speaks much here, lips imitate
language replaced by body movements:

a flapping of eyelids, kisses, creasing of lips.
Drinks are spilt over lyrics nobody understands
and I am here, recording it all with my eyes
and breath, every exhale another note stored.

 

[vampiredust]

Last Dance

It is almost midnight and the band
have started playing their last song.
Men imitate fathers, holding girlfriends
close as notes give them instructions

on where to turn, where to twirl,
where to dip. Eyes look at each other,
some couples already deep in kiss.
This feels like a film but there is no

full moon outside and the only cars
parked outside are their parents'
And then, as the final chorus starts
to whittle down, eyes re-open.

There are no encores here. Heels
and tuxedos echoing the distant
song of a dance that should have
been taught and never forgotten.

 

[vampiredust]

Clouds of Prose and Ivory

Hemingway wrote about hills
like white elephants, a beaded
curtain story about characters

lonelier than railway lines hidden
in the background, contraception
stuffed in between lines of prose

and alcohol. I have never seen
that place he described, only felt
it as I treaded on footprints

left behind by my father.

 

[4degrees]

nothing is random

except these words

morning aflame, a red burn
soaking the horizon
creeping across the vast surface
time is irrelevant, an element of
man made measurement
but it ticks
down to some unseen wire
while some man dies and cracks
right in two, precisely equal halves
of steaming flesh
a generous gift for the
buzzard coasting round
circular consumption breeding
another fleeting moment of
satisfaction.

 

[annaswirls]

I folded your letters after breakfast

something in the dirt writhed and twisted
maybe a baby lizard stuck on its back
immediately drawn to helpthe little guy with an awww baby talk in m head help the helpless
until I notice
there are no arms or legs
no head
this is no baby, this is just a tail
severed twisting itself down into the dirt

bitter roots under my shovel blade
I jump with both feet

these pieces of yourself you have given to me
in my hand
I try to pretend they are whole too
twitching without heart
the best we cando

 

[Lauren Hynde]

fear will conquer all
almost all
and each through a different path
we will all come
almost all
to be mice.

yes, mice.

 

[sweetjain]

How I Wait

. . . . .

 

[Tzara]

There is no room to pace. . .

Well, that just blistered the plastic on my goddam expensive 19 inch Trinitron screen!

And, uh, thank you very much.

Welcome to the Poetry Forum. Stay a while. Pretty please?

 

[sweetjain]

Well, that just blistered the plastic on my goddam expensive 19 inch Trinitron screen!

And, uh, thank you very much.

Welcome to the Poetry Forum. Stay a while. Pretty please?

I feel so powerful now! Thanks. I am having fun here.