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.
