Tag: Ante

The Hippodrome

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In between the most private of moments the camera flashes bring me home.

The curtains I’ve wrapped around myself don’t hide me from the Hippodrome.

But these horses keep dragging the time faster and faster down the streets,

And I’m spinning in frantic circles to find the escape or just an empty seat.

Lights blur my vision as they’re leaking neon on my darkest dancing shoes.

I can’t run away now, the footsteps I leave are sparkling in pinks and blues.

If I survive one more night, then maybe their greed will lose its sizzling heat,

Or maybe it’ll scorch my scars until I bleed dry without missing a beat.

The choice lies down on my neck as all the flashes melt into a single one,

A pulsating array of stars emerge from the horizon, the prize yet to be won.

Between the most public of shunnings, the raindrops bring me back to life.

I let the curtains drop and blind the crowds that once kicked me down

And still took a bite.

-JW

Emptiness 123

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The iron gates I’ve seen for years turn rose gold.

Dusty streets burn in vivid neon, brutal and bold.

My escape attempts seem more like cries for assistance

Because when I look back, no one tried to give me distance.

The waters surrounding the scene look more frightening.

Calming the world outside is like catching lightning.

And maybe I’ll be able to live with my own reflection

Once the old kings start dying in rapid succession?

With the one I wanted by my side, I’ll take the gamble.

Maybe it’s this city making me dull, making me shamble.

But maybe I’m deciding to live with my pain on display?

I bid my soul to the devil to relieve me of the foul play.

-JW

Ritual

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The nurses rush into the room carrying sleep medication.

I try to refuse but my addiction wants to feed its temptations.

A cold needle in my knee, I squirm but keep myself patient.

If I hush a bit more, we can conquer the sleep deprivation.

The doctors hold my arms down as I gasp and reach for air.

All the pain inside is too much to handle with simple despair.

With the last of my strength I watch them cut off my hair.

If I suffer a moment more, they’re going to bury my soul bare.

-JW

Good Morning

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Photo by Daria Sannikova from Pexels

Lull air. Muted sounds. Pastel colors.

Walls covered in lies and gilded Madonnas.

Dull headache. Severe injuries all over.

Wounds patched together with a single clover.

Unsteady breathing. Calming voices. Plastic.

Draconian measures taken to keep me spastic.

Ice cubes melting on my stomach. Cleansing.

An act of kindness to make me forget

The walls, chasms and dim gothic fencing.

I must remember, I have to retell the story…

But the trance overpowers me

And the pastel walls turn gory.

-JW

The Nightmares

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The weather is perfect for carrying another predicament.

Go ahead and curse me out,

Send the dogs right after my scent.

The leaves in visibly plastic trees beg for attention

And I carry out their every wish.

They notice but never once mention.

The air pierces my left lung and pinches the heart repeatedly.

Stab wound on stab wound, well layered,

Silencing me in perfect harmony.

The roofs of recently built homes covered in nasty rust.

I close my right eye to see clearer.

The sun turns tenebrous, the winds break my trust.

-JW

Amusements

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They ensure that we’re kept alone during the nights

Because during the nights time stands still.

It never, ever flies.

It’s a simulator ride through the paths of our brain

That should’ve been kept under supervision,

Locked in the chains.

They ensure we can hear each other screaming at night

Because at night the sound travels faster

And it dims the light.

It’s a haunted attraction we paid for with our last morals

But we never agreed to participate

So why are they giving us back our dollars?

-JW

The Silver Age

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A new foggy moon rises above the city, it burns like acid

And it runs on pain we’re swallowing to keep ourselves gaslit.

There aren’t any blushing faces, only grey wooden sculptures

Carved out of those of us who forgot when to unfollow the culture.

Enchanted silver surfaces set out as traps –

We do know better but we still give in,

We burn the books and the maps.

A new Gravitron sun spins around us making the city dizzy

And it runs on the acid we’re spitting up to pretend we’re busy.

No eyes looking up in the streets, just crowds blending together,

Dragging their feet towards the buzz of heads being severed.

Enchanted silver surfaces set out as traps –

We do know better but we still give in,

We burn the books and the maps.

-JW

Rules Of Fleeing The Burning City

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You can’t rely on this path dug by rebels like me.

It’s been crossed and dulled, impossible to see.

Can’t ride, can’t crawl through it in your Ante attire.

You won’t find a patsy to help you escape this fire.

Neon boneyards flaming in distance, viva Las Vegas!

Leave! Take all you can carry, call a powerful magus.

Hide with someone you trust in the city of betrayed

And hope this isn’t a night that you get played.

Cut all contacts or sweep them under the rug.

Don’t tell them what’s going on, don’t give a hug.

You can only swear on words of a rebel, hold on tightly.

Move up to the east, and keep moving there nightly.

Once the neon pollution leaves your left lung, sleep in.

The river is poisoned, the hills can always steepen.

As the air of the burning city flees your thirsty lips,

You’ll look back just in time to see how it still grips.

Staring back at you with its promise and realization –

Nothing incinerated, your mind was the ruination.

Those city towers were toying with your psyche.

You can’t rely on this path dug by rebels like me.

-JW

The Forbidden Years

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Where I’m from sorrow is taken as a precautionary pill,

It’s overused to create some sound while the world stays perfectly still.

Where I’m from street names are whispered, never yelled.

The babies are washed in acid and bleach, their shoulders are never held.

Where I’m from fluorescent lights have been forbidden for years

So gather your things – let’s walk to the neon sparks with all of our peers.

Where I’m from laws are not about restoring justice or peace –

They simply drip ink until the culprit is caught so it puts villagers at ease.

Where I’m from blackmail is applied evenly on every soul

But only the ones who run so fast their heels turn red make it out whole.

-JW

Amateur

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“She looks like a porcelain doll thrown on the floor, then glued together.

Beauty might be timeless but the cracks are visible, pressed deep into the leather.”

Sure, I’ll be by her side when another piece falls out and she’s unable to cope –

But it’s not me she needs. It’s a realization that only she can slow the downwards slope.

Another sour lover or back-alley deal won’t make her understand, no way.

Who am I to judge how she hangs in there by the very last thread, I’m no saint.

All I can do is tell her that no one notices the porcelain shattered inside of her.

“The cracks might even be imagined,” I say. And she plays along.

What an amateur.

-JW