
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
The Bus Poet
Ashley Chapman Aug 2018
These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!

But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
- and under -
Tower Bridge

     To that great gloating sight
                A crown of a billion lights
     Blazing day and night:
                And somewhere within
     In the slick oily warmth
                Our flood tides mesh,
     As over each other we wash.

Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
before their purple petals scatter.

Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
Maia Vasconez May 2018
1.He’d say anything to get me out of my shell.
2. His pupils are hard, black marbles and I want to flick him off of me.
3. He is always shuffling through women like they are a deck of cards.
4. It’s just how the dice rolls.
5. I was afraid of falling, of my arms snapping like wishbones.
6. He waits until I’m swaying like a door hinge.
7. My eyes are wide like 8 ***** and he hits me with that same click, roll, thunk of a pool ball table.
8. You are cursing me. When you yell, you are cursing me.
9. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
10. I hope the bruises on your legs turn into birds. I hope you get out of here.
This is for anyone whose ever been hurt by a man
Yo people need to wake up to break up
Stop fallin' for the same **** that's made up
Over a news spill best part of wakin' up
It's not Folgers in ya cup but exposing the corrupt
They get mad though once I talk that real **** so
This ain't a physical but a spiritual battle
most say they real but be the first to tattle
Like we back in kindergarten I'm plantin' my own
Garden of Eden yo who do you believe in?
I'm chilling off the highs of God third eye
Master the craft between a woman's thigh
Raise my consciousness to an all time high
Understand the basics of ****** alchemy
So when you see me youll see God's army
Angels to demons surroundin' me watchin' em like my closest kin to me
Most ain't who they say they claim to be
Sips of Hennessy to better glance at my enemies
In five D dimension strengthen the loosen to a  tension  that muy mind was missin'
I'll still rise over y'all still at me sneak dissin' leave no pain remission

They say Tut chill or they'll threaten your will
I feel like how X feel so I aint got time to chill
Forever holding my chrome steel roll only with the real though it'll cost me me appeal and still
I'd rather die a soldier than a coward
Times a thousand real killaz stay wilding
No smiling but I show my teeth hangin' on pains jewels like a Christmas reef
Commander in Chief of the streets it's eat
Or be eaten the ragin' beast is feasting teethin'
For the lost souls to scold in a fold I was told
The good die young and even younger
Makes me really wonder why I was made to live under
The poverty beltline envisionin' my self on the tables of the flat line
with a collapsed spine
Got **** dreams steamed  from a gory graphic design
Rejoining my ancestors in the skyline
If you count the stars you'll see my battle scars
From afar do they know we really are
I guess not the angel Michael laid me a message
In ****** scripture so I could see the final picture
Data Apr 2017
How swift the bud does swell upon the vine;
From node to plump just days its form shall take,
Whilst I who sounds the count along the line
Begins the race that all the legged must make.
So swift the days and nights recount my tale
All by a blur that whorls in wild escape
As if the seed by speed so not to fail
May thus express the code its kernel make.
In time, the bud and leaf unfurls as nature’s fit,
Thus seasoned by the structures deep within,
Entrusting all about may not admit
the fickle faults that life itself begins.
    Alas, god rolls the dice bereft of guile
    and fate not cares upon which bud it smiles.


by Data © 2017
A bud for the bard
Philip V Jul 2018
She handed me a red dice.

If you're gonna run
She said,
You better run from

You'll chase bliss,
Win your life,
Strangle fear
And conquer

But don't roll the dice
For just anything

When you're out of profit
An empty wallet
Ready to make a promise,
You'll find it
in your deepest pocket.

It will let you start anew
Like a star in a barren sky
You'll fly again
Perhaps even soon.

Just remember that
By the millions of odds
You got here in time
To be yourself.

No more
No less.

And so you
Do what you must
But you better do it right
There aren't too many dice throws,
Given here in life.

And so
I rolled.
The dice in motion,
Lucky eight ball rolling,
Poker chip flipped
all the cards in the ocean.

I got pinched
but they were far too late,
See, I already made my escape.
I quit; over and out.
Washed my hands at that
and dried them off,
Done and dusted,
I'll enjoy my dessert.

Just hope the cravings
don't set in.
Which one of y'all don't go hungry
every once and again?
Daisy Marrow Jul 2013
This has all just been a game
one you can't win,
but you're forced to play.

The game keeper has got your
beloved ones around his finger.
A king in a devil's costume.
He calls the shots and makes the moves.
And it can be 'game over' for them
with just a roll of the dice.

In a ring of fire,
that no water can put out,
I watch suicides all around me.
A jump from up high, a shot to the head,
a dive in the water never to be seen again.

In this game there is no survivors but
there is one victor.
He sits and waits for us to fall.
He sits and stays watching the heroes die.
Watch them fall like flies
into the never ending hole in the ground.

I'll be watching my own death tonight.
I'll be dead before the day is done.
I'll be running with the demons at sunrise.
I'll because a ***** to his kingdom
because that's where they all go.
Deep though the hole centered on the ground.
Dean Winchester
Mystic904 Oct 2017
Grand edifices, seem pretty nice
Hoarding up money, such a heist
Pockets full, everything to boast
All that luxury, all that toast

Curtains of wealth, over those eyes
Trapped in such a state of vice
Stockpiles of silver and gold
Deal, a sign, everything sold

Wealth in reality, zero a price
Counting em, this year x thrice
Pretending to be above n bold
The stiff heart you couldn't mould

Crawling over body, ants and lice
Scorpions too, it's nothing nice
Shivering with fear and cold
The pain, agony, all foretold

In the grave, horrendous mice
Game's over for the rolling dice
No one to tell, weren't you told
To that paper now grab a hold

May it be Burj khalifa, all those malls
The huge tall towers, everything falls
Sabotag shall suffer those proud walls
The vast stage, superior than all halls
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced his wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew my name was Neville Moore.

Neville will moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade that's practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on unforeseen saviour's floor.
Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich. His mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of ******* in indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Man with no memories blends in; my dead ringer, stunky, strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Neville Moore.

I'll  abscond so left Lysander might be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose
loser who fled being infamous in his own dinnerhour, a bore
Unto myself.  I'll abandon ship,  then life will be less of a bore,
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

And I'll meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire an idyll,
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
For if child is father of the man, Neville'll be an upbeat orphan!
Labels torn off the clothes from Oxfam what Memory's Outlaw wore,
Newfoundhometownbound Mister X such clueless clothes wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be the type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit and expend a lotta effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, tho'  we resided on 3rd floor.
Down updrafts of Fate, untempted to faceplant from the 3rd floor
Is plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore. 

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
(Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's aural chore,
nihilistening not for Neville in zen of playful household chores).
Shrug-a-lugs of numb Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Frankenstein's **** domesticus by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For unquestioning Neville Moore. 

Neville, don't be snarling ***** to snafus by another self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Nev and Sybil will have ups and downs, in facades cracks gouge frowns;
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
I don't need Sybil's mithering, I mean 'Nev' dint, thinking about writing
- did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den re Neville Moore's 
Writer's shock swan-song for Neville Moore.

And sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
than her Canoe Man old man, sent reeling by subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups,  one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' he burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad, errant soon so overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But Miltonic Satan's heart held ****, for killer within is law
Unto himself. Thus phoenix photo album of my alter ego
To ***-end before Year Zero was burnt down, act of soul at war.
Greener grass scorched earth, everyman Eden sacked by selves at war,
Lysander negging out Neville Moore.

His ship's sailed ment'lly down the toilet - can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet!
Sybil wagging her finger with ****** of a fishwives' wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
- call the toilet 'Kurt', it's flushing the dream! Behold:  tombstone beneath 
                                                        ­    a sycamore,
Man from nowhere nowhere now beneath suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed: no malaise of glory, Anon no more.
Cobania in black with ***** highlights will grieve Daddy on the quiet;
Sybil indignant that the senseless,  existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she doesn't exist - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
Scratched itself out, vestigial scythe: Neville was never alive.
But this 2.4, 2.0 narrative smelted indigo iron drawer.
Cenotaph recast as mask, new visage's vista dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
Captain Trips Nov 2018
Toxic inside
whiff of rotten eggs
sulfur and brimstone
running down my legs.

Thought it was gas
that I needed to pass
but I lost the gamble
throw my pants in the trash.
guy scutellaro Mar 2016
through an open window
when a bulb burns out
a sliver of moonlight turns
tiny eyes red
and on little feet
the dimmest of dreams
from a corner
comes crawling.

when the night comes
through eyes closed
the room turns inside out.
the heart pounds away the seconds.
the edge moves closer
and the clock smiles.

when the night comes...

on the corner below my window
shadows whispering gather.
broken clouds
rolling dice that will never fall...

and on my knees
praying into the void
the toilet don't flush,
the toaster won't pop...
i grab the smoking toaster
and throw it out the window
the corner boys look up
the corner boys
are rushing up the stairs,
me and the rat
waiting for the cops to come,
me and the rat
when the night won't leave
at 3 a.m.
eating donuts.
Commuter Poet Jan 2017
Why not
Childhood dreams
Why not
The dice of life
Why not
Upon a journey
Why not
A different life

Hold on
To painful memories
To give things up
That you can’t do it
Get stuck
Within a rut

Why not
If legs are able
Why not
If voices can
Why not
If hearts are beating
Why not
Because you can

Wait years
To beat the devil
Watch others
Take their stand
That you’re too tired
To venture through
A troubled land

Why not
If 'Why?' is blocking
All the
You want to do
Why not
When ‘Why not?’’s
A better path
To choose
25th Jan 2017
Tommy Randell Oct 2016
Understanding's not a conscious thing
Some people take while others bring
Life is more than bells and rings
It's never perfect and it's never pure

Simplicity is a yellow beach
It's putting darkness out of reach
Life has more than pain to teach
Can be pushed away, can't be ignored

Pick your moment anyway you want
Throw down the dice or play the hunch
Loosing's more that not being in front
When the penny drops you'll know for sure

The Penny drops through perfect curves
It clings to hope like a song to words
It spins with longing, yearns to be heard
But time and tide cannot be stalled

Understanding's not a thing to own
Peace can live where nothing grows
Ice can shine as well as gold
Where things happen for no reason at all

Commitment is to light a fire
Inside your head to burn a while
Knowing you can't run and hide
When the Penny drops, Futures fall.

Tommy Randell 24th October 2016 02:14hrs
Taciturno a mal acompañado,
pues el viento es fiel
y con el me quedo.

Camino cual lobo estepario,
entre las sombras
y el silencio
pero canto con grito

Mi mirada te dice te quiero,
mi lengua miente al intento,
mis piernas de espagueti,
que fingen no conocerte,
tiemblan y se quiebran.

oscuro caminante
Next page