Police cars block the side streets;
The avenue’s car-free
To make the strolling easy
For pedestrians like me.
The booths hold clothes and jewelry
And crafts of every type,
But front and center is the food,
Deserving of the hype.
Most every nationality
Is represented by
Whatever meals the chefs at hand
Can chop or stir or fry.
Aromas fill the neighborhood
As people buy and munch
A snack to tide them over
Or a more substantial lunch.
Distilleries display their wares
Near smoothies packed with fruit,
The locals and the visitors
In purchasing pursuit.
A lovely way to spend some time
On a fall-like afternoon,
Succumbing to the urge to buy,
To which I’m not immune.
There is something crawling inside my mind;
Words are burning ink-wells in my frontal lobe;
Evil identities come visits me kind;
Caresses cloudy dispatches negating hope's hold;
Cruel pleasures fond memories;
Hard distilleries embrace me;
Evils communions chase me;
Voices become muttered;
Letters spell out tasteful words;
~pleasures cruel fond memories;
6/18/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Wake up sleepy head! Guess what.
You've been selected! As a prostitute
for the Running Man.
The eat your own for fame or money power plan,
power seat in the self-Rite,
I AM GOD the I AM -central Media Church
Hand of Slight. Slight of hand.
The mobile Surveillance Van powered by
Midnight, brought to you by Sprite,
cloaked through smokeshields selling gasmasks
with broke seals that leak neon *** gaslight
and magnetic fields X file FOIA lies and Poppy Fields,
warlords, crimelords (CI ) NCIS-humanity.
Hollywood "Palmyra" Arch backdoor deals
of the Century. Baal Cult Gladiator to the stars
on Good Friday.
Rope in the mouth, dogs chasing to the South.
Monday Night beer and attention distilleries.
Coffer refilleries.
Ever hear of reciprocity of your frontal lobotomy,
everclear, lasiks surgery (radiocarototomy?
For your own discretion)
Binaural beats to possession
for your invasive mental television church S-apathy).
Wake up!
Cause you're probably on something. -Vision.
“The death lasts an average of 49 days, starting from the day the deceased realized his death”. Bardo Thodol (The Tibetan Book of the Dead)
I beg you, death, pour me the final sip
of your elixir of the dreamless sleep.
Oh, strongest wine of darkness in the glass
I’ve dipped my lips just seven weeks ago,
which bitter sweetness promised to bestow
upon me an oblivion. Alas,
the everlasting boozer comes around.
He’s mortal as of now, he is bound
to see another one anemic dawn
of consciousness among the smoking ruins
of non-existence. Curse you all, the brewings
and the distilleries of death! The morn
of a new life is painful. The hangover,
the nausea, the ache - that's all what's left
of my sweet void. Oh, the internal heft
of being!.. The phlox, the marigold, the clover
on my fresh grave are still in bloom but I
am born again to suffer and to die.
Ethanol and World Hunger
By Elton Camp
When I fill up at the gasoline station
I see about, ethanol, a small notation
Saving gas supplies seems to be right
A thing nobody should want to fight
It’s impact on hunger I didn’t know
But have come to learn it, though
With this new use given to grain
Not enough for food does remain
Grain for ethanol to fill up an SUV
Would feed one man for a year I see
Ethanol distilleries take the corn supply
Far greater profit is the sole reason why
Poorer countries have great reason to fear
That even more starvation for them is near
Bleach floods over British Empire blues
Prussian wealth fragmenting into rust
Ochre pouring from the distilleries of eyes
Hidden downturned under peek-a-boo fringes
The lustre of ink wells overflowing where
The sun never sets. Lace and horses make
A violent mix like sulphuric acid, a maggot
Eating at the Boadicea face of pooling silk
Like the flag of an Antoinette bourgeoisie
A touch above the socket, dark in their discolouration
Hearty in their malcontent, those peek-a-boo girls
Tying ribbons on sheep transformed into roaring lions
A maypole of bondage, the Spitfire flies.
This is me, laughable
A slight cackle from a broken throat
Dry as Egypt's ageless dust and catching
On the flaming cottons of dead haberdashery
I caught a glimpse of moon
Eyes capsized under distilleries
A forehead clouded in snow drops dripping like rain
I dreamt of many splendid things
No, I didn't; I mock the most of all
My neck is sore and red like first time loves
The heat is stifling and I am burning your tongue
The face in the reservoir, dead slick floating but solid
The rivers wash a black night sky and slowly it emerges
Placed equally, matching my own unknowable incantation
And time again, I am born
Enflamed hollow archives, they see for the first time
Slowly in a moment, my hands touch them catching drips
Spiders crawling all over my not-quite-so cadavar
The thud of the moon and clash of wind
Titan in their endeavours and manoeuvres
Pushing forward as a child, as a child
The black heartless wilderness and rampant wooded soul
Hands to throat, choking and awake, and awake.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.