How pretty
is the motor city
under neon diodes?
I sent my heart
into its stars
exhaled my soul
into rustbelt smoke
maybe I’ve lost my mind
or rather it’s left behind
my sanity abandoned
and blighted
my memories subjected
to successive evictions
—just f***ing forget ‘em—
I guess the city could
enlighten me a bit
on resilience
ANGIE, that last slow dance in smoky haze—
you slipped UNDER MY THUMB like twilight’s ache.
The Rolling Stones crooned fate through tangled days;
I tried to PAINT IT BLACK for mercy’s sake.
But YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT—truth stings—
just loaded TUMBLIN DICE in neon towns,
chasing HONKY TONK WOMEN on borrowed wings
while WILD HORSES dragged dreams to thorny grounds.
O RUBY TUESDAY, ghost in sequin sheen,
your laugh a roulette wheel’s bright, spinning sound.
The jukebox plays what might-have-been,
where every win was loss, and lost was found.
Stones still roll… but honey, in the end,
the house takes all. Even diamonds bend.
Sundown reflects splashed tones
Her skin, blushing again --
Lamp post glows through her frame.
Our first kiss in the rain
Speaks of neon rapture
Like bright dew on the lane.
Some Kind Of Kaleidoscopic
For nette onclaud
Jul 10, 2025
Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
It flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”
It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
it warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
It signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.
We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors,
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.
The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.
Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.
Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
.
.
Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic
I do not want a neon God
Orange bright
Flourescent pink, glowing light
For all to see
In darkest night
I'd rather have
The subtle charm
With strength to hold in every arm
Or patient hope
And solid calm
I do not need
The flashy stuff on garish stage
With visuals on every page
As life rotates
Through human age
The wisdom now
To soulful dreams
Is silence it seems
That reveals
God's delicate schemes
The inner room
The heart space, clear
Where gratitude for every tear
Is soaked by love
Replacing fear
The worldly clamour
For my mind
The buzzing lights so unrefined
Revealed deception
Cruel, unkind
I neutralise
With heavenly truth
A mystery disguised to youth
Of settled soul. Of peaceful rhythm
Released control
A rhyme untainted
The ancient rule
Of beauty unpainted so old it's cool
The teacher's in...
Not classroom school
That neon fad
That tragic shouting
From soapbox square, no crumbs for birds
Meaningless pouting
Just empty words
So I resolve to dim the bright
Pull down the shade
So that there might
Be revelation by
Internal light
The last of the lights turned out,
drinks and hors d’oeuvres put away,
restaurant returned to its every-day self,
only a few candles in glass lanterns
now left on the bare pine tables.
She sits at one of the tables, and,
wincing, kicks off her shoes, removes
her cocktail apron and name tag,
leans on her elbows, inhaling the
cinnamon steam from her hot toddy.
Exhausted, with her piled-up hair
slightly disheveled, she relaxes.
The bride and groom are off
on their honeymoon to Santorini,
guests and most staff home to sleep.
The neon glow from outside
bathes her in a pink and blue haze
making her look less like a waitress
and more like a girl expecting a date
or actress waiting for her audition.
The hot drink gone, she redons shoes
and fetches her coat and purse
from the kitchen, leaving the cup.
Georgio, the boss, calls “Get some sleep.
You’ll need it tomorrow.” She sighs.
There is a shrill sound in the air
But I only hear it on neon nights
If it isn’t tinnitus then beware
Of the unsettled spirts that fly
It’s not just due to the silver season
Life and death happen every day
We feel hear things for a reason
Our bodies and senses anticipate
You know how you fuchsia feel
When someone stares from behind
Eyes devour you like a meal
And you’ve sensed it within mind
No need to fear your sixth sense
It’s good to have such a gift
It can be a warning once again
Or lead to a unique life shift
As Another July Day Dawns
Stippling . . .
The leaves of the trees
S p a t t e r i n g …Their
Silhouettes
filling my window
(Barely to be seen while stll so early)
The dark dots …
of the remains
Of the night’s
Weeping
leaving hymn spreading —
with its soft graphite gray
blanket background
Rippling
(as if caught in some
Lasting
d r e a m
Unwilling to reach its
e n d i n g
…Leaving
and so to be sliding aside
for this day’s gracing
Dawn
sun to rise
~ coaxed by the fading background grays
Now
blushing
into neon light gray/white
flakes
of dawn spattering like a Christmas in
July snow with
This
r i s i n g
Tickling
my poet’s tongue…
(c) sally young eslinger 7/2024
These city streets I know by name
The monotony takes its toll
But still I walk them all the same
Just to pacify my soul
Like a living breathing creature
The city stalks its prey at night
And each individual feature
With their neon lights so bright
In a metropolis of sin
That strips most people of their will
And though I know I'll never win
This neon jungle calls me still
My lips the vacancy sign,
my heart the hotel
You ran up room service again.
left burn marks on the mattress.
Rude to the staff
Yet you seem to always be welcomed back
With my lips flashing like a neon vacancy need for your love
air rockets skyward
uppercutting inside
plastic neon flesh
contorting at inhuman angles
what does my body language spell?
ankles anchored into the Earth
to stay grounded as the wave
of time and space crashes
a flood of stagnant flux
there is a symphony of bones
snapping and cracking
in twisted orchestrations
the act of existing for me
is a resilient demonstration
October 28th, 1965
Slumber party
Six preteen girls
They are telling ghost stories
They have tales of horror to share
No one will be sleeping tonight
I see a neon ghost in the corner
He puts his fingers in front of his lips
To shush me
I do not feel terrified
I feel intrigued, and excited
We discuss my future plans
After the others finally drop off to sleep
He might have been my guardian angel
I am unsure
All I know is,
That he made me feel safe and respected
Although I have never seen him again
I will never forget him
He is my hero
Encouraging me to visualize my future
Angelic smile so innocent
Neon soul glows within it
Green growth day by day
Emerald eyes in baby’s face
Little lavender lighthearted laughs
Smiles for miles always glad
I can never get too many signs
Said a cousin of mine named Boo Rimes.
We gave them to her every holiday.
She is stapling them onto her ceiling now today.
They are in her bathroom, her kitchen too.
She walks around them, careful with her shoe.
Wall to wall and side to side in green, red and blue.
I think you have enough, I said to my Cousin Boo.
In streets adorned with neon lights,
We're sold a dream of grand delights,
But beware, for what glitters gold,
May only serve to leave us cold.
The market's claws can gouge and bite,
While we succumb to its great might,
We trade our souls for cheap applause,
And become slaves to want and flaws.
Amidst the aisles and billboards bright,
Our hearts and minds are taking flight,
Toward a place of empty gain,
And we forget to feel the pain.
The urge to buy is hard to fight,
It grips us with its endless might,
And so we spend our precious time,
Chasing wealth that leaves us blind.
In streets adorned with neon lights,
The dangers of commercial sights,
Are clear for all to see and know,
As we watch our true selves go.
We must break free from greed's tight hold,
And learn to cherish what we're told,
For true contentment can't be sold,
Nor can our worth be bought or sold,
In streets adorned.
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