Poèmes sur le thème : street

Poèmes sur le thème « street » sur Poets.by.

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Walking the Streets

This evening I walk the streets hand in hand with my grief. I have left, locked in my house, my disabled memories and my crazy dreams. So, the streets, my grief, and I are ruling the world tonight. Oh, you cannot imagine how relaxed this walk is, without those foolish memories and those mad dreams.

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Dave Bonta

Drag

a perfect god in high heels slipping on the frosty street our usual hands founder lost at land doubts made of jest may be given over for a sacrifice no surprise is new on the tailor’s mother tongue

Dave Bonta

Fronting

fresh bling as false as a street of canvas pretty is the simplest look I took to so I consider the picture that shall master me

Dave Bonta

Disastrous

people sit in the street begging for dinner money I used to crave the stir of a great storm now I hear the way the dead fear losing our ‘hood

Dave Bonta

Scenesters

a black coat long in mourning is our second home we walk in the shoemaker’s weary chapel our liturgy is a bit of bread and the infinite street

Dave Bonta

Aspirational

noon banished to a lost town every street ready to be stairs

Dave Bonta

Street person

the ice in my head alone with my account where I beg

Dave Bonta

Hello darkness

in the dark street two women carry a coffin between them in my dark thought no god is present in the dark O touch and see a music without rules

Dave Bonta

Rough sleepers

the lament of men that lie in the streets some cursing some praying hot words locked up the key is kindness but close by a corpse I am come almost to think nothing of it

Dave Bonta

Touched

I have been touched in a coach on a boat in the street how numb I am to it that pernicious hand the whore fit for no one that he would have me be

Dave Bonta

Street culture

not liking the horse desire I walk out not liking death I eat a piece of pie who lives in an outhouse so he would not be seen thrust his head into the grave we drink and talk and read verses in the street

Dave Bonta

Death of the amateur

I walk the streets with nothing to do but think outside I weather myself so sleepy I cannot hold open my eyes and must be buried in some profession