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a group of poems, which often expresses a vice. |
Impressions
Cloth stretched. Beige. Blank. Purple, yellow, and Rose, goo-gobbed To canvas. SPLAT! Angry assailant hovers Above, "You're a gooey mess What are you going to do?" Speaks her attitude With contempt. She then attacks it Wretchedly using brush- flips, patting and Smacking; like wielding a flailing fish in aqua blue. Looks fishy to me. A side eye, Then a rush of aggression. Small pails of whites, ochres, Violets, pinks, reds soar. Colors drop, and droop, and drip, And swirl, and curve. The madness ensues with feigned purpose, False passion, rage, and many scrapes Of ferocity.
Another one. Shallow breaths. They'd buy it. She'd make them. Her round bum thuds against the floor With exhaustion. Another night of trading her tears for sweat. No one need ever know. She embraces herself, she's cold and Lonely on the linoleum, Amongst a massacre of color
displaying her filthy life.
N.Y. DRAIN I.
Down the drain,
down the city sewage.
Amelia's black mascara and tears,
chicken gristle and wantons and
rice from Chang's.
Rust color from the
performance artist on
34th street,
determined to literally
paint the town red.
On this rainy, rainy, eve,
let there be reprieve.
Let there be purging and burgeoning
to a city that never sleeps,
unto another eventful tomorrow.
N.Y. DRAIN II.
Down the drain,
down the city sewage.
Every penny and every dream.
Every American pyramid scheme.
The tale of a million Wall Street woes,
needeth not hyperbole- filled pathos.
Money down the drain,
liquor- filled blood, passions.
All dissipating in the murky puddles
of anguish and fear
and sorrow and regret.
N.Y. DRAIN III.
Rain. Rain.
Down the drain.
Take the crime and filth away.
Down the gutter
blood and rats.
Appear clean to me---
pitter- a- pat.
N.Y. DRAIN IV.
A pet. A skunk.
A reminder when
mornings are sunny
and rain- filled days are few.
A reminder of the
stench of the gutter,
and why we leave things there.
Salt I.
Wandering waters,
waves of the sea;
wisdom of man's mortality.
Teach me your tales
of celebration, love,
of woe,
hither and thither,
to and fro.
Salt II.
The water breaks waves to shore,
needing no introduction
to their arrival.
I want to live like this:
strong and free.
I want to wash like a wave to
the world's shores petulantly,
saying, " Here I am."
Untitled II.
Clang, break, clash! Twisted street metal Collapses against the yellow awning of a cheaply designed lemonade stand, in the lesser bustles of brave New York. An ambulance siren Howls, and the two Pert whistles of a Policewoman signaling And walking backwards Can be heard. A catch of cash in a hat For a vagrant. A hiss spits from a raccoon scuffling Trash nearby. Two catcalls from the scaffold Can be heard, one for Carmencita And one for Ramon.
These are the scenes of a City life, of death, of danger, Of charm, opportunity, and action. Here lies a city of rights and wrongs, Hopes and dreams, and Just as strong as it is weak. Here lies a city of lights and shine, Entertainment, and charisma.
So come with me to Studio 3, And make of this city a fantasy. Forget your doubts and leave your reasons. Jump high, jump far: Make grave decisions.
Vortex Flirting with disaster, With every reckless word. Flirting with disaster, Each verb, article, and noun: Weapons in pursuit of sovereignty. Flirting with disaster, My words will do the deed.
Bent upon destruction, Worlds spinning like plates atop An incised, irrational, temper. Bent upon destruction.
Bent upon destruction, Lighting the rams of relationship and opportunity. One more word. Coup de grace. Bent all upon destruction.
Clouded by illusion, My apology is all it takes. Clouded by illusion, My words will light the way. Clouded by illusion, My words will light the way. An engineered illusion. A hypnotized illusion.
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