Poetry competition CLOSED 25th October 2021 6:32am
WINNER
Anonymous
Anonymous
RUNNERS-UP:
slipalong
and Calamityofgin
Brutalist Architecture & The Bleakness of Life
Anonymous
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Anonymous
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Anonymous
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London town
Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops
with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.
Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.
Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
non-stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly rock to London's beat.
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops
with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.
Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.
Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
non-stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly rock to London's beat.
Written by Razzerleaf
Go To Page
Best Interests
All hail this capitalist perversion.
Where everything has it's price.
Consume it all and don't think twice.
It's all part of the diversion.
So frail, this democratic delusion.
Where people vote to have a voice.
Believing that they have a choice,
But it's all just an illusion.
For sale, is a nation in division.
Where politicians tell their lies,
With hopes that you won't realize
That it's never your decision.
It wont be safe to drink the rain,
Or use the plants from fruited plains.
They'll own the water and the food
And soon enough,
They'll own you too.
Where everything has it's price.
Consume it all and don't think twice.
It's all part of the diversion.
So frail, this democratic delusion.
Where people vote to have a voice.
Believing that they have a choice,
But it's all just an illusion.
For sale, is a nation in division.
Where politicians tell their lies,
With hopes that you won't realize
That it's never your decision.
It wont be safe to drink the rain,
Or use the plants from fruited plains.
They'll own the water and the food
And soon enough,
They'll own you too.
Written by PoeticInjustice
Go To Page
Broken utopia
The modern gothic withering
sun that shines, on its pox ridden skin.
B movie moonlight
from slightly bent streetlights.
Patchwork of potholes,
silently waiting for the unwilling wheel
the IED that can cripple steel.
Parading graffiti, artist's fading handle
long gone, on his BMX bikes saddle,
like some Chinese lettering
identity smudged and degrading.
Impudent weeds grabbing a foothold,
the victory of thorns freehold.
Brown rust eked on by the trash cans,
thoroughfares in desolation and envy,
Prostitutes and pimps,
cracked red lanterns glint,
the ATM where desire lays pinned.
Clink the lights from the liquor store
A sign on the church, it hangs
"Faith is the ever giving hand"
chained and padlocked,
pigeons its only flock.
Smell of fast food, Doner's stuck on wooden skewers,
fat burgs choking Up the sewers.
Aspirations of the 1970 mall,
waiting for the wreaking ball.
Architecture its esteem
decay, as time worms, its ragged frieze.
Dirty finger nails of existence,
and hope, sipped from a brown paper bag.
Commerce is the grunt and thrust.
The crumbling edges blurred
come, black crows that peck the cracking kerb
The ghetto sits like a tattered hobo
just small change in its begging bowl
sun that shines, on its pox ridden skin.
B movie moonlight
from slightly bent streetlights.
Patchwork of potholes,
silently waiting for the unwilling wheel
the IED that can cripple steel.
Parading graffiti, artist's fading handle
long gone, on his BMX bikes saddle,
like some Chinese lettering
identity smudged and degrading.
Impudent weeds grabbing a foothold,
the victory of thorns freehold.
Brown rust eked on by the trash cans,
thoroughfares in desolation and envy,
Prostitutes and pimps,
cracked red lanterns glint,
the ATM where desire lays pinned.
Clink the lights from the liquor store
A sign on the church, it hangs
"Faith is the ever giving hand"
chained and padlocked,
pigeons its only flock.
Smell of fast food, Doner's stuck on wooden skewers,
fat burgs choking Up the sewers.
Aspirations of the 1970 mall,
waiting for the wreaking ball.
Architecture its esteem
decay, as time worms, its ragged frieze.
Dirty finger nails of existence,
and hope, sipped from a brown paper bag.
Commerce is the grunt and thrust.
The crumbling edges blurred
come, black crows that peck the cracking kerb
The ghetto sits like a tattered hobo
just small change in its begging bowl
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
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Anonymous
<< post removed >>
HERITAGE
windows boarded
and roofs caved in
this town
choked on itself decades ago,
resistance a thorn in its musty craw,
that southern sheen of kindness
hiding a cancer hot and roiling under its pale skin,
its history dark, bloody, and proud
and goddamn if i couldn't feel its sickness
rising through the concrete
and smell it at every turn,
us proud southern boys
still waving our stupid flags
our poor ol' fathers' fathers
shackled by the same strange hubris
willing to die for a planter's cause
thus as much a slave as any
only white,
relishing their privilege
but standing just a hair's breadth
from the whipping post,
a heritage
better forgotten
and roofs caved in
this town
choked on itself decades ago,
resistance a thorn in its musty craw,
that southern sheen of kindness
hiding a cancer hot and roiling under its pale skin,
its history dark, bloody, and proud
and goddamn if i couldn't feel its sickness
rising through the concrete
and smell it at every turn,
us proud southern boys
still waving our stupid flags
our poor ol' fathers' fathers
shackled by the same strange hubris
willing to die for a planter's cause
thus as much a slave as any
only white,
relishing their privilege
but standing just a hair's breadth
from the whipping post,
a heritage
better forgotten
Written by javalini
Go To Page
The Throwaways
Another block of new luxury homes just went up
As the farms are getting further and further away
And the freeway overpasses are getting pretty large
The city seems to be expanding every single day
The rental buildings around here go on for miles
I’m guessing some folks are raking in a lot of cash
America, one of the richest nations in the world
As I watch the homeless search through the trash
The nice cars pull out of the nicer neighborhoods
While the destitue walk aimlessly in the boulevard
Pushing their carts with all their belongings
Some hungry, some high and some mentally scarred
Somewhere in every city and every town in the nation
Secret labs are cooking up their crank
And the addicts fall deeper into the spiral
While politicians worry more about what’s in their bank
Call it an eyesore, call it sad, it should make you mad
The imbalance in the system is destroying many lives
While homes and buildings go up every single day
The throwaways of society are helplessly trying to survive
Written by wallyroo92
Go To Page
Eureka Springs Arkansas
This one wears
A Victorian smirk
Like layers of an uppity bitches petty coat
(Idk if they wore petty coats in the whole Victorian scene, Idc either. This place seems like that, is what I’m saying.)
I cannot imagine
The resources
Vs. the undertaking being anything other than ..
a whole Marie Antoinette kinda vibe
But fuck it’s pretty
Fuck it gathers them in
All the pedestrian people come to dig the scene
Get lost in the bricks
Pry them up with bored and exhausted fingers
I served food to an elderly couple celebrating a 42 year anniversary today and a newly wed couple on their first night out since their baby was born.
I gave both couples Jell-O shots and Sea salt caramel cake on the house.
The house band was playing Turn the page by Bob Seger.
It was magical
I let them eat cake
It was magical for them for a moment..
tomorrow they go home.
To comfort and concrete
Or dirt roads that seem endless in some God forsaken town, Texarkana or some place where their cousins go noodling (google it, it happens, I’ve done it, it’s terrifying) or their Moms side of the family is Pentecostal (also a little terrifying)
But the streets are familiar..
and home.
And they can recall moments that kinda mattered at every corner.
The corners around me, new to me. And as I described, present an uppity bitch vibe.
I’m finding my home here though
The scene looks hip to me
A Victorian smirk
Like layers of an uppity bitches petty coat
(Idk if they wore petty coats in the whole Victorian scene, Idc either. This place seems like that, is what I’m saying.)
I cannot imagine
The resources
Vs. the undertaking being anything other than ..
a whole Marie Antoinette kinda vibe
But fuck it’s pretty
Fuck it gathers them in
All the pedestrian people come to dig the scene
Get lost in the bricks
Pry them up with bored and exhausted fingers
I served food to an elderly couple celebrating a 42 year anniversary today and a newly wed couple on their first night out since their baby was born.
I gave both couples Jell-O shots and Sea salt caramel cake on the house.
The house band was playing Turn the page by Bob Seger.
It was magical
I let them eat cake
It was magical for them for a moment..
tomorrow they go home.
To comfort and concrete
Or dirt roads that seem endless in some God forsaken town, Texarkana or some place where their cousins go noodling (google it, it happens, I’ve done it, it’s terrifying) or their Moms side of the family is Pentecostal (also a little terrifying)
But the streets are familiar..
and home.
And they can recall moments that kinda mattered at every corner.
The corners around me, new to me. And as I described, present an uppity bitch vibe.
I’m finding my home here though
The scene looks hip to me
Written by Calamityofgin
Go To Page
Anonymous
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Anonymous
<< post removed >>
The winner of this competition and any runners up were decided by public vote.
Thank you to the following members for voting:
nutbuster, Marks, ANATNOM_GNIREFFUS, applepieand_books, Honoria, Bluevelvete, Phantom2426, lepperochan, cold_fusion, MadameLavender, _feral, javalini, Sweetlovin76, DanielChristensen, ReggiePoet, wallyroo92, PoetsRevenge, Vamps
Thank you to the following members for voting:
nutbuster, Marks, ANATNOM_GNIREFFUS, applepieand_books, Honoria, Bluevelvete, Phantom2426, lepperochan, cold_fusion, MadameLavender, _feral, javalini, Sweetlovin76, DanielChristensen, ReggiePoet, wallyroo92, PoetsRevenge, Vamps
