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Poems On / About CITY  4/27/2015 2:05:42 AM
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Tale Of Three Cities

New York blasted London blasted
Singapore -
Ripped off each other's metaphoric balls,
Crumbling walls.

Priapic city monoliths -
Blue-sky scraping bastards -
Shout about their height (but really length) .

V8 arseholes didn't care -
Pumping shit into the air,
So long as they were always there to
Fart aloud a smoggy cloud,
Laughing at the weak asthmatic,
Humoured that it seems traumatic.

Watch the greedy cities oozing
Chair-bound fat committees, though they
Look a bunch of titties as they
Waffle on about the pound.

Ever thought to look around and see
That they were dead?

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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Mark R Slaughter

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Citezen Rights Revisited.Docx

Citezen Rights Revisited
You have the right to bend over you must do anything they tell you now you must not fight or cuss or get angry at the perverts or the queers or queens in charge of the citezen rights. The gangs steal things. The cops tell people to leave. The city is dirty a dirty city of love. Corporate city is ant see not see communistic in its view of worms inside the people lives as nothing to the function of the building more important then the people using functions within the soulless city proper is the administration hiding in the 666 in functions and in offices still hidden from the public eye feel like a Protestant hiding in a catholic cemetery in plain cite of the city guards. Eye candle my wick no one shall force me to be criminal eye keep my own council a corporate city makes up its own rules the people the poor the poor people are fools jesting and prancing but no sitting no standing allowed in corporate amerika no homeless allowed to eat inside the money is not green they must not be saved in a plain brown wrapper is the food gone eye will eat the scrounge and found eye am so fond dew will come the snakes will leave my San Antonio for winter comes. Eye will remain a buffoon perhaps iff my toe gets better where eye can walk more miles eye will try to find a dry space on the freeway loop the 410 freeway loops around this city it is perhaps only 5 miles from me every day much too far to walk in my condition is uncertain but eye pray to Saint Jude the Saint of all depression. And looking for the quarter under my willow from the tooth fairy. Texas is short for Hard as.
Charles Hice

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Its Pretty Streets And Roads

All streets and roads remind me Of a pretty love to that old city That gave the whole world the first Alphabets long time ago when the other Parts of the world were unable to write, Its pretty streets extend from the Pretty sea into the pretty mountains That hug and embrace everyone and everything, The American street is in the heart of the Pretty street, The Martyrs' street, Omar Ibn Al-Khattab Street, The Antakya Street, etc. And all the pretty roads that extend from here To there to meet together with all love and beauty, People come and go everyday and the pretty Sun rises from behind the Qala'a Hill and Sets behind the pretty sea continuously, Yaser N.Sari writes about the pretty city and Mary Rashou's novels depicts the great life of The pretty city anytime and anywhere, I used to walk in all its pretty streets and Roads during summertime, wintertime, springtime, and Autumn time near its pretty southern and western Korniches, The sea is the most beautiful thing when I look at its Roaring waves from near Al-Asafiri Restaurant, The city is pretty and all its pretty streets and roads That take me in a short trip when I am tired, The city's people are wonderful and lovely over there All the time with normal life walking near the narrow streets, I remember my friends Ahmad Rami, Mohammad Yousef, George M., And a lot of friends over there, I do remember Al-Batrani Park, and all old mosques and Its pretty churches with people coming and going over there, I do remember Fares swimming club, Rashou Restaurant, My pretty childhood with the pretty city and all my Pretty friends and all my pretty schools here and there, I do remember the goodness and the simplicity of all People over there anytime, anywhere, and everywhere, I am always far from my pretty city, but its pretty love Is engraved in my heart and in my mind for ever.

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In The City Of Night

City of night,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of twilight,
City that projects into the west,
City whose columns rest upon the sunset, city of square, threatening
masses blocking out the light:
City of twilight,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of midnight, city that the full moon overflows, city where the cats
prowl and the closed iron dust-carts go rattling through the shadows:
City of midnight,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of early morning, cool fresh-sprinkled city, city whose sharp roof
peaks are splintered against the stars, city that unbars tall haggard
gates in pity,
City of midnight,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of rain, city where the bleak wind batters the hard drops once and again,
sousing a shivering, cursing beggar who clings amid the stiff Apostles on the
cathedral portico;
City where the glare is dull and lowering, city where the clouds flare and flicker
as they pass upwards, where sputtering lamps stare into the muddy pools
beneath them;
City where the winds shriek up the streets and tear into the squares, city whose
cobbles quiver and whose pinnacles waver before the buzzing chatter of raindrops
in their flight;
City of midnight,
Drench me with your rain of sorrow.
City of vermilion curtains, city whose windows drip with crimson, tawdry, tinselled,
sensual city, throw me pitilessly into your crowds.
City filled with women's faces leering at the passers by,
City with doorways always open, city of silks and swishing laces, city where bands
bray dance-music all night in the plaza,
City where the overscented light hangs tepidly, stabbed with jabber of the crowd,
city where the stars stare coldly, falsely smiling through the smoke-filled air,
City of midnight,
Smite me with your despair.
City of emptiness, city of the white faηades, city where one lonely dangling lantern
wavers aloft like a taper before a marble sarcophagus, frightening away the ghosts;
City where a single white-lit window in a motionless blackened house-front swallows
the hosts of darkness that stream down the street towards it;
City above whose dark tree-tangled park emerges suddenly, unlit, uncannily, a grey
ghostly tower whose base is lost in the fog, and whose summit has no end.
City of midnight,
Bury me in your silence.
City of night,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of restlessness, city where I have tramped and wandered,
City where the herded crowds glance at me suspiciously, city where the churches are
locked, the shops unopened, the houses without hospitality,
City of restlessness,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of sleeplessness, city of cheap airless rooms, where in the gloom are heard snores
through the partition, lovers that struggle, couples that squabble, cabs that rattle,
cats that squall,
City of sleeplessness,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
City of feverish dreams, city that is being besieged by all the demons of darkness, city of
innumerable shadowy vaults and towers, city where passion flowers desperately and
treachery ends in death the strong:
City of night,
Wrap me in your folds of shadow.
John Gould Fletcher

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