Romance revered in classy nightclubs
Harmonics in bluesy melodies & lyrics
Youth, the feeling kept alive in dreams
Teasing hearts with enchanting notes
Heaven most surely did inspire
Magic spells cast across steamy starry nights
Artists and musicians gather inspiration
Never tiring of the game
Distorting truths convoluted as they may be
Bands play way past easy midnight hours
Lessons woven into spicy lyrics
Untangling emotions from wanton machinations
Elated once the music works its wizardry
Seduction melting away unbidden blues
AP: 3rd place 2026
The partition
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts
Grey boughs stretching upward appeal to
a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
The almighty one, who goes by the name Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
In nightclubs and casinos, people are trying
not to be alone in the night and face the truth
In a black frame, seeing you seeing through you
and into an ever-expanding void.
It is October 2145 and the night scene is in full swing.
All buildings that used to house offices now house nightclubs.
Also known as dayclubs now, because people have a lot more time.
Time to pursue hobbies and interests, time to do exciting fun things.
When my grandparents were young buildings were for working.
Many people had to be in their cubicles from eight to five, making a living.
People work from their houses, huts, boats, treehouses and berms now.
Our work day is now four hours, the rest of our day is for family.
I have heard rumors that people used to carry guns and kill each other.
We do not have any of that now. People are not frustrated or angry.
Government requires brain conversion therapy that takes care of this.
We have a health care program that works for everyone.
Mental illnesses are passe’ now also; something we have heard about.
But frankly, we have never seen it. It simply does not happen now.
It is October 2145 and people are happy. We each have a dog or a cat.
Some have both; it is a requirement, mandated by the government.
So that we stay upbeat and optimistic, which we do.
the 1950 housewife wears her best dress to clean
and pearls from Hawaii with a slick dazzling sheen.
In her polished high heel shoes, she prances in the kitchen.
Making food for her family without help and never ’n.
The 1950’s housewife cleans and vacuums with delight.
If there are any messes, she keeps them hidden from our sight.
She is gloriously giddy to spend her day mopping and scrubbing a sink.
In the evenings she goes to nightclubs wearing diamonds and her mink.
The 1950’s housewife never complains a bit about her marvelous life.
So eager and thrilled to be called Tony, Larry or Dickie’s little wife.
Anticipating her husband’s needs, putting them in front of her own each day.
If you cannot find the 1950’s housewife, perhaps she has run away.
In those streets of buildings
by Frank Lloyd and Corbusier
I dreamed of my dry landscape...
In those temples of sumptuous
mystery, I dreamed of the little chapel
of São João...
On the fast High Ways, I dreamed
the trails of xique xique...
In the monumental parks,
of those megalopolises, I dreamed
of the backyard of the caatingas...
In those exploded Meccas,
I dreamed of my shotgun
of soca-soca...
In the nightclubs of
high society, I dreamed
of Zé Lagoa's relaxation bal masquê...
I confess that I lived in those worlds,
but I never left home...!
The division
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts
grey boughs stretching upward appeal to a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
the almighty one, go under the name of Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
Crowded nightclubs and casinos, people trying not to be alone
in the night and face the truth
we are mortals and infrequently remembered as a photo
a black frame, seeing you, seeing through
you and into an ever-expanding void.
From steppes remote
luxurious mink coats
Fine leather boots
tailored suits
Fancy shoppes
five-star hotels
Back of splashy nightclubs
exclusive brothels
Rolls-Royces
and Bentleys
S-t-r-e-t-c-h ... L-i-m-o-u-s-i-n-e-s
cafes serving the finest cuisine
Wide-eyed with wonder
passersby gape
Dreams of Fifth Avenue
from tottering fire escapes
Ebony thoughts of misery paint my soul
from her silent brush of leaving
and led me on a road of disrepair
where I live each lonely night
opening and closing doors of nightclubs and bars
in long empty nights of escape
from the constant drizzle of pain
with continuous small glasses of liquor
hey bartender! how about another round
the pungent scent of sweat fills the air
from bodies in motion, I can not see or hear
so I leave
and walk between the doors silent and confused
the streets are a dark lonely world of shades and shadows
melting into a black emptiness lined with broken streetlights
with no way out of my realm of madness
each time my palm feels the cool glass of a door
that reads welcome, twenty-one and over
I laugh inside from the irony
with no will to stop
each step, each night, leads to a door
where I drown in sorrow
trapped in the music of my life
Club nocturnal
In Bilbao, on a warm evening, he walked past a nightclub
walked in and had a beer; he could have gone to
a Guggenheim Museum and be culturally minded, absorb
and mention it later in a passing conversation, “the other
day at the Guggenheim.”
At the club, a group of people sat drinking affluent bubbly
wine, thinking it was champagne, the group laughed a lot
and apparently had a fine time, although, he thought they
were a bit frenzied about the fun
The people around the table didn’t look prosperous and
the women looked like office tarts, with too much lipstick and
mascara, flashing eyes and giggles.
He knew (had been there) that the one footing the bill
would feel dreadful in the morning, sensing the futility
an ice cap on sagging shoulders of hopelessness.
No, it was not the drinking, real drinkers do not frequent
nightclubs, but drinking at modest places, was about feeling swanky
a man about town.
He paid for his beer and complained about the price
the waiter pointed to a pricelist hanging high on a wall, so there!
Along the boulevard, he bought newspapers went to a café,
had some wine and spent hours enjoying himself.
I only worship at my own altar
I do not even go to nightclubs
I do not even know the Kaaba
Or kneel for a word of prayer
Not even a chant in the stadium
I do not even like talking to others
When I do
It always comes back to me, Karma
I feel stressed to see a banker
Its even worse with doctors
Unless I am dying, Nirvana
and my lips are all chapped
That's when I call for mother
To heal me rebirth me
Madonna, Miracle worker
What kind of man? I wonder
But my poems are a way to reach ya
Hold your hand, touch ya
Share myself, appreciate ya
Show my dirt, entertain ya
Heal your heart, medicate ya
Share my thoughts, Liberate ya
Make you like me, Imitate ya
It is always with love, I seduce ya
And when your are lost, Calibrate ya
So without going Further
I do this for you with care
If you find it in you return a favour
For an Antisocial Humanitarian
The partition
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts
Grey boughs stretching upward appeal to
a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
the almighty one goes under the name of Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
Nightclubs and casinos, people trying
not to be alone in the night and face the truth
In a black frame, seeing you seeing through you
and into an ever-expanding void.
I live in a city that never sleeps!
Notice people moving here and there…
Engaged in their routine activities…
Minding not their surroundings!
Those who love burning the midnight oil…
Found busy working night shifts.
Those who are pleasure loving…
Found visiting pubs, nightclubs and theatres.
At night they don’t sleep;
In the morning they don’t wake up.
Aren’t they the creatures of the night?
Creatures of the Night Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Date: 18-06-2022
place: 3rd
The division
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts, grey boughs
stretching upward appealing to a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
the almighty one goes under the name of Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
Crowded nightclubs and casinos, people trying
not to be alone in the night and face the truth
we are mortals and infrequently remembered.
Faces in a black frame, seeing you seeing through
you and into an ever-expanding void.
If you had the option to be an immortal,
would you leap at the chance, or just let that go?
It sounds like a question that’s easy to answer,
but I’d recommend that you take it real slow.
Are you the only one who lasts forever,
outliving all of your family and friends?
Do you think you would be able to stomach the
funerals of grandchildren meeting their ends?
And what of your health? Are you just like you are now,
receiving a body that’s twenty years old?
The former, depressing, if movement is limited;
the latter is one on which I’m not quite sold.
Who did you hang with when you were just twenty,
and are these the folks with whom you’d spend your time?
Nightclubs and dancing for the rest of the ages
sounds more like hell than a slice of the divine.
I think I’ll pass and just live the remainder
of the days God has allotted for me;
then when I’ve been ushered into His presence,
I’ll sing out His praises for eternity.
—————
For the If I Were Immortal Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Written on 04/18/2022
Falls flowers
On the road to Bolequeime on the way to a German supermarket
that sells proper Teutonic sausages as autumnal flowers blossom,
some of the blooms sit on white plastic chairs wearing shorts.
Sometimes a car stops, no, not a man in a white van, a big car a businessman
on the way from his office stops getting quick blow-jobs.
Best this way no need to undress an act that causes people to stare.
The human blooms have water bottles the gargle; no one here smells like rosebuds.
They used to, in the summer gone throng nightclubs and the beach
but only slow walking men fill the bars and beach.
Like a beautiful weed, they trek inland, sit by the roadside and wait.
The flowers look nice in fading light, but not if you know what love is.
the weed of autumn sits by the verge, sells despondency
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