They gather beneath flickering neon,
in narrow alleys where the pavement remembers rain,
where glasses clink like distant thunder
and the air smells of sweat, stale tobacco, and old promises.
A woman’s laughter, cracked and sharp,
spills into the room like broken shards;
a man leans on the bar—his elbow’d sorrow
ordering another round, trading hours for oblivion.
The jukebox—wounded, nostalgic—
grinds out a song of ghosts and faded dreams.
Bartender’s hands shake between bottles
as shadows press against the windows, watchers wanting in.
Walls scribbled with names never spoken—
with hearts shattered, hopes pawned.
Outside, the city coughs, writhes in sleepless neon;
inside, time stands still, drunk and defiant.
We are all believers here—
in the altar of amber liquor,
the hymn of poured whiskey,
in the communion of husbands and strangers.
Midnight cracks open like a broken mirror—
edges sharp, reflection distorted.
Beer calls; gin beckons;
the bouncer counts bodies, not sins.
And when the music fades,
when the lights cut low—
they linger, some to forget, others to feel everything
in the hollow between heartbeats.
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windshields cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
a lone ancient dark night
Your engine stumbles
rumbles, coughs to a stop
so close to E
The gas pump, blocky, digital
smells of gasoline
like a primordial dance
an intercourse of machines
rape of a Mesozoic age, processed
Petrol in a tank, deep
Swipe card, digital hum of circuitry
Choose your poison, your savor
Buttons—regular, premium,
Reek of diesel
Corruption
So many fingers have touched
that white square button
almost flesh-looking
White, pale, cracked, peeling
The horror of the mundane
You need to touch it
You want to
You have to
You have places to go
And miles before you sleep…
They call it a profession.
Selling your skin is not the same
as selling your skill.
They call it a bad habit.
Nose picking is not the same
as digging dignity.
They call it empowerment.
Selling a product is different
from being the product.
They call it freedom,
Walking naked in a cage is
not the same as walking free.
They call it a choice
But selecting whose hunger to feed is
not the same as selecting your outfit.
It is what it is-
a meat market, where bodies hang in cuts of desire,
priced by the pound.
a silent auction, where the highest price
buys nothing but shame.
It's a landfill, where discarded intimacy rots
beneath the glitter of screens.
It's a plague, spreading through wires,
infecting touch, until love itself coughs blood.
It's a parasite, gnawing through the bones of society,
spitting out empathy like gristle.
It is a wound which bleeds on both ends.
the watcher and watched are both
drowning in the sea of pus.
Behind the curtains, hands grow fat,
minting coins from pain and spat.
With anguished hands, (they lie) his hands in play.
I saw him as a mad, creative type.
In pick of months, his guitar coughs dismay.
The covid creep, his voice would steal, and snipe.
Not in illness, but in rhythm of life’s bore.
For now, his hallelujah brings us joy.
Simplicity and quiet speak; we soar.
In sober strum, the guitar guards the boy.
Give me sweet rhythm’s release - I view the score.
My granddaughter looks on - repast she eats.
He’s saved - a reflection of strings on floor.
From then, until his death, how many beats?
Silent, as flurries land on sad rhythm’s glow.
On Christmas bed, I blink back tears of snow.
A scything rain crops the high reeds.
Never saw the storm coming,
too busy rowing my mind
through its own river.
The ducks and herons have all gone
they have not flown away,
they have closed their eyes,
and like children have become invisible.
My rowboat is taking on water,
mouth open, I think I am crying the sky.
A small rickety landing
crouches from the downpour
maybe, ten slogging minutes away.
I make the torrent torn bank,
the battered truck I arrived in
has a cold,
its engine coughs, as sodden boots
pump a blind escape route
beyond its drowning windscreen.
In the breadth of madness,
A silhouette twisted by illusion,
Flows the molten stream of evil,
Into the chasms of his gray dreams.
The rebellions of flesh, heavy with indolence,
And the barrenness of bleak thoughts,
Scratch at the dignity that follows sin.
The insanity of a mirage,
Rising from the depths of the soul's cellar,
Unleashes its poisonous whip,
And whispers, again and again—
You are sinking;
You are sinking.
And the threads of survival,
Somewhere beneath the roots of belief,
Are shrouded in moss.
Ah,
You are sinking,
And the reflection inside the mirror
Bears witness to a cold, bleak corpse,
With hands long past their trial.
I wander slowly,
Let the mirror whisper my name,
yet the reflection, it seems,
Has been possessed by another voice for years—
A voice that abandoned me
In a place amongst decaying thoughts,
Fighting for a belief
That was never truly mine.
And now, I hear it,
Behind leaden coughs,
And smell it,
Amid the fragrance of dried flowers.
And I see it
In a spring
That has long since spat
On the balance of the seasons.
The Lep, has washed hands of St. Pat’s, does lean
and fiddles in space, against tree, routine.
The pot at the end of sun,
was found a bit late; one won.
Lep’s blind to the coot who handles gold-green.
After his fiddling, is over and done,
Lep gets to a-counting, his coins, for fun.
He scratches his head, and blows
his stack, as he rips his clothes.
On hunt, Lep will go, round up rat, with gun.
Not fair, when the sun has gone down; coot cheats.
Now poor, Lep must find ev’ry coin on streets.
The pot, has been stirred, like bees;
emptied by the rat - he’ll seize.
Lep’s gun (is a cane) - an instrument that beats.
The fool and Lep’s money was found..tick-tock.
“If you found my gold, before snooze of clock,
then all would be fair…it’s not.
If I have a gun, you’re shot.
Instead, you, I cane, outline you with chalk.”
Old coot, parts with gold, awakens dizzy.
He coughs, and he laughs, at the Lep’s tizzy.
Next year, he must beat the clock.
and keep, in pocket, a glock.
For gold, the rat baits; the fiddler’s busy.
Mind like a square that is twisted.
I have a lime of a brain.
Squeezing but not hurting.
Four of me in my vision.
I have them.
They were like blankets with bits of fuzz on them.
You can see anything if it’s close enough.
I had a toothbrush under the bright light.
The lights are too crazy and moving toward me.
And then the night happens again.
And then the moon grows with my eyes.
The night is funny.
He laughs in a joking way.
And evil and dusty coughs in the background.
I have night in myself.
They always do.
Choking, sharp thoughts.
And the mirror too.
Two nights in a row.
If I slept now, I’d twitch even more.
Three nights in a row.
Counted on my fingers.
Then they fell off.
It’s day time, so there’s nothing to do.
Wait until night.
Turn the music down.
So they don’t complain.
They don’t like it when I sleep.
they call her kind, they call her bright
a whisper soft, a spark of light
but fairies lie, and mortals weep
when stolen dreams no longer sleep
she flits through keyholes, thin as mist
with ice-cold breath and silver wrist
her fingers pluck, her hands embrace
the dreams that drift on moonlight’s lace
a child who dreams of golden halls
will wake to bare and empty walls
a lover lost in passion’s heat
will find their heart grown slow, discreet
the painter wakes with trembling hands
his colors drained like drying sands
the singer coughs, her voice undone
the poet stares—but finds no tongue
she keeps them all in hollow glass
a thousand dreams that none surpass
some hum like wind, some scream like fate
some claw the dark, but it’s too late
for once they rest in faery hold
no hands of man can break their cold
a wish once lost is lost for good—
she leaves them hollow, where they stood
so bolt your doors, and bar them tight
do not give welcome to the night
for if she comes and takes your spark
you’ll never wake beyond the dark
dry dirt road-car coughs and sputters
what glows?
who knows?
fortune deleted
K(afka) coughs
it pains me/he/we (hehehe)
Goodbye/Hello: poetry
a Thesis
just another YouTube video
stuck in profound rain
smirking in beguiling glasses
smoking a chamomile cigar
How sweet it is (was?)!
dangerous road conditions
misfortune detected
K(afka) croaks
Where's his (my) Oscar?
Hello friends!
Failure is the only option
Hello/Goodbye: poetry
in the House of Antithesis
Hell needs help
sticking to shticks in the rain
mostly cloudy
Goodnight & good luck
Saturday on the lake
cursing out a mini-update
phoning it into the Synthesis
a horse is a horse
galloping with Superman
on a solo night against the grain
Dry mouth, air crisp, the snap on my skin,
Room dark, curtains drawn, I stay within.
Dare not check the time, I bury my head,
Excuses keep me warm in this bed.
Yesterday’s troubles left behind,
Today, my heart’s strong, peace of mind.
Coughs and cold, sugar in check,
I rise with courage, no turning back.
Pyjamas tight, it’s a lazy day,
Perhaps a prayer to clear the way.
Outside, the world waits, blanketed white,
And though I can't see, I know it's right.
Poetry Challenge Day Three
Poem Number 21
===========
Thank Goodness for the OTCs
Relieving coughs, sniffles and sneeze
Ibuprofen for the fever
So thankful for this pain reliever
And answered prayers
Through Acedominaphrin
Hallelujah, and amen
Blessed through modern medicine!
P.C. Poem #22
=========
We've rested almost through the day
But now I am quite pleased to say
This mighty mean and nasty flu
Tonight is feeling almost through
The painful throbbing in my head
Abated now, I'm up from bed!
I see a clearing
It's big enough to land in
The grass is short
No rocks or bumps
It's all clear for landing
My heart beats in panic
Tears of sweat run down my face
Fear grips my body
In expectant embrace
The engine splutters and coughs
Bangs erupt from broken wings
I hear my own screams
The smoke is acrid in flared nostrils
My flesh burning, stinks
Ah! I savour a touchdown, touche!
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