City

City is a collaborative poem written and illustrated by Cheryl Penn and Marie Wintzer



The City
convergence of dreams and frustrated delusions
permanent urban ally ways (for now)
radial dystopian structures
what was
Hippodamus thinking?


In the City we become an electric battery. Constantly discharged and recharged in a bi-polar relationship. The City takes from us. We should take from it. It's got a lot to give us if we have the curiosity to look for what we need.



City was written in August / September 2014

Above and under Ground

the streamline doesn't know

what time it is.

Flesh

and bones

carry their screens of interconnected savviness

[password preserved palimpsests]

Blind wagons

of deaf uniforms,

nose down in personalised pools of Light,

yet outside

the girl is drinking beer

and her smile is almost real.

We walked the other day

through knee-high-wind-blown-litter

swirling like 

Serengeti antelopes

annual exodus.

lights

red

greed

clockwork orange

the China Mall looms.

Busy knitting knots

for an orchestra 

of veins and arteries

(strings only),

Power poles

have caught more fallen stars

than any king could ever

dream of.

On nights of Blue Moon

they sometimes shine,

those who see them

are said to never 

see again.

I once saw one of them

from the Blue Moon night

dropped lilies

no city dweller this - 

some other time then?

Railway tracks

find somewhere else to sleep

on bridges

of discounted buildings.

Still nothing from 

blocked signals

in skyscrapers

He woke up

Because they let him

go.

In his spare time

he was collecting bars

strung along the streets

like bright beads.

After dark,

asphalt unfailingly unveils them

like a swarm of warts

on which the noon sun

would later cast a glaze,

aroused and annoyed.

whole stations were lost

faces are grey

I found something

a bridge -

the service hatch was 

seal(ed).

How can we get them?

the maintenance shaft

its wrapped on both sides

with jelly explosive ice-cream 

ask Mila - she has the recipe

and

you’re from the same tribe

of skyscapers

I cant find a vein.

Cut a lock

of hair

to carry her gently.

On the downtown bus to the other side,

smoked glass made reality look better

than she remembered it to be.

The game was rigged

but she was in love with the waiter.

It was the time when

they were shooting a movie

on that hanging bridge,

Purple Poker Nights,

when she realised,

It's not too late to start walking,

It's not too late to untie

the Red Silk Ribbon

she was carrying all the way.

speckled eggs

jelly centered

I warned you

at first light

he chose her plague -

one of the strong ones.

I know you

and the Red Silk Ribbon -

fall back

that’s the point

stay focused

blow up the bridges

between here

and there

the delay?

When traffic lights turn crimson,

Time stops for a moment.

The shades of the day resurface,

dulled out, less vivid,

though meticulously bearing

scents

like fractions of memory,

open phials on an orderly shelf.

Reclined in the front seat

of the car,

breathing them in

one by one.

Yes, it must have been him.

Traffic lights turn green.

I’d like to find A While 

buried in the sidewalk  snow

an old portal -

will we ever find anything

good?

the shadow cast 

is bigger than the world

of memory fractions

still

he could not hold her

bleeding though his suit.

Come, get the rig

while I look within

to find the shadow source.

Assorted sidewalks

of frequent streets

{Sold Out Tonight}

The Theater With Unseen Puppeteers

has fish to fry,

a neoplasm to grow,

a handful of hours only

to convert borders into seams

for that pretty out-skirt.

What’s your story

Do you want to me to have one?

51  tear drops 

there are reasons

for a sell out.

I hope you approve my street choices - 

too many risks 

blind corners

     dead ends

and tragic theaters.

one day in combat

you’ll see

living with consequences 

is what  I’m trying to do.

One thing was promised

     you promised me

     I could be the gypsy.

Someone must tell her,

the Angel Without Wings

won't show up.

Her feet are tired,

Her lungs can't catch up with

the Staircase-to-Everyday.

Familiar faces have deserted 

vanilla treadmill

for a faster one through upturned sky.

In the lobby,

crowds are jammed like a flock of geese.

The garbage truck wishes them well

and moves on, 

taking a left turn at Hearty Boys.

Don’t chase the rabbit

let it flow

wingless angel-

the drift is silence.

running children laugh

making shapes in the sand

one hemisphere is calibrated

get ready

how important he created 

a neural breech

in the upturned sky.

I told you it would work

a brain fragment is just

a lobbied particle

and

I only get a ghost impression - 

look at me

take your time

be very specific

they’re not hunters (?)

and baby - 

its all in order

Ask the Hearty Boys.