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#1
Vote for the best PAIR of poems.


Electricity.

In a furnished concrete box of indulgence,
number seven (side entrance), anonymous square;
sitting down in the darkness of unpaid bills,
watching the veins of the walls, revealed
by old, peeling paint and a streetlight
that shines on them through the window.
I am suddenly independent
from whatever it was I used to be.
I am no longer me.

I am electricity,
running through the walls,
I’m the blood of the pipelines.
I am the water down the gutters,
the waste of the sewers,
I am the city.
I’m the broken down playgrounds,
I’m the broken hearted kids that play in them,
the billboard advertising holidays
and the cardboard sign that tells you that the world is going to end.
I am the streets.
I am the city.
I’m the bane in the eyes of the bum,
I’m the bane in the eyes that look down on him.

I am the streetlight that allows him to write these lines.


Averting a Blind Eye

I once saw a couple kiss,
one like no other;
their sentiments exchanged without the need
to spoil the moment,
or by breaking a centimeters breadth.
Not a word was whispered to stoke
their flame,
nor should a word be written to capture
their fire -
but as one does when stirred
by impulse, an antilogy
was born -

They held the durable hands of clocks
steady for just a second,
so much so that no one would ever know.
They ignored their need to breathe
for twice as long,
leaving no gape to let the passion
they shared to pass
between their lips and back.
Their intentions sheltered behind fastened lids,
damp with expression,
not needing to peek to witness
one another picturing each other.
With expectations met,
he rose, and together
defined the extent of their separation,
by remaining hand in hand
for a moment more.

They - not wishing upon them death,
just as one might when scarred
by vivacity -
ceased to exist in my eyes;
captured by my imagination.
Because we are all blind, you
just see what you want to see.



Cereal, Itttt'sss GRRRRREAT

I write suicide notes with Cheerios,
gluing them to a purple piece of
construction paper.

When they find me dangling,
they'll be shocked,
appalled,
staggered

and then they'll coo,
"Well isn't that note just the cutest
thang you ever did see?"
and magnet it to the fridge next to
my brother's report card.


Vinus Veritas

I straightened my tie and put on my tweed suit, the one with the smooth worsted collar: it was time for my annual wine tasting tour that lasted most of my summer and frequently into the fall. It was a truly ascetic and remarkable lifestyle, it cleansed my soul, letting a load off simply, sipping wine all across Southern California. Most critics perceived me as an immutable and unchanging individual leading a very sedentary and overtly easy lifestyle. Some often accused me of unconcealed vivaciousness as well, for wine has a bad reputation of making parties quite rowdy, but I beg to differ: I attended sophisticated gatherings and followed my passion religiously, or my religion passionately.

My map was on the passenger seat of the car, highlighting the trek across the various counties, and my palette tingled with the remembered flavours and aromas of my most common stops. A particularly superior variety came to mind, a traditional Falernian white, as white and pure, almost as snow, diaphanously clear like the wineglass that held it. I locked my apartment door and strode towards my car, remembering last year’s Falernian, wondering vaguely whether the Romans had ever honestly appreciated the light and fruity taste of their most famous wine. A lugubrious nostalgia came upon me, as I stood upon my step, and I admit I shed some silent tears in remembrance of that particularly dear grape.

My first destination put me somewhere very near to the Santa Ynez River estuary that flowed into the Pacific Ocean, I could hear the tremendous surf crashing into the glassy beach from the old, wooden bungalow-type wine house. The older family who owned the vineyard had perfected a very dark, very woody variety of the pinot noir, almost like a touch of new moon overseeing a cold winter midnight. I had not come for their extraordinarily unexpected noir however, I much prefer their subtly lighter vermouth red because of its connectedness to the land, some distant, faint frost fall leaving its untraceable mark upon the fruit, which combined with the traditional Santa Ynez purity, gives it a rather contemplative and tentative finish.
#3
I'm sorry but... blue. blue blue blue.

I second what Zack said. My second favorite Carmel piece. it's still just as lovely. props to the prose (as it is the only one that I don't know who it was written by) as it was a great read. def. props to Zack's too, still a very good, and a very very cute piece, but the first two are just a cut above almost anything else on this forum.