Survival By Instinct!
police sirens wail,
echoing off empty buildings,
down empty streets...
streets marked by angry blood.
from mouth to fist,
feet never stop moving...
going nowhere,
determined and furious.
the crush of bones
beneath pipe on pavement...
the taste of flesh,
charred and stale.
cities become graveyards,
marker by marker.
no time for names,
only the strong!
and hunger becomes anger
of the darkest kind.
do it for a couple dollars,
and a gallon of gas.
faces contorted,
demons or worse!
survival by instinct,
so close you can smell it!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sudden Sureness!
the bullets
in your hands
are the jobs,
houses, and families,
lost to the mouth
that devours....
the dreams burning
like trash on the side
of the road....
the fields empty, turning brown.
cities of ghosts,
empty buildings to streets,
streets that kill with sudden sureness,
leaving no trace,
and no memories!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Vacancy, For Rent
walking the streets
of a small southern town...
empty buildings, empty houses,
'vacancy, for rent'
no one moving much,
even the church parking lots
are empty.... seems like
Jesus and His disciples
packed up, and moved on...
probably looking for work!
only a sense of quiet despair,
the sound of old cars rusting,
and the howling of a dog.
just read the news:
an elderly couple, married
67 years, murder suicide...
he'd been sick, she had
alzheimer's.... afraid there'd
be no one to take care of her...
another unmarked grave,
forgotten people, abandoned
by their own government.....
another empty house that
used to be a home...
'vacancy, for rent.'
just walking the streets
of a small southern town...
church bells are ringing...
and the smell of death
hangs in the air!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The (quiet) ornament of Jakarta
What are belongs to a major city?
Besides of any busy interrupting reverie
At each stop along the sidewalk
There are going to say hello but did not
Above the height of the horror
Phobia looked at the cars passing by
Wind perched atop, the penthouse and a flying heart
Your own!
At the wizened, big cities have always wanted to look pretty
The streets are perforated faces but always returned
Tuter sirens and the hum of cars endlessly
'How would budge, when traffic is just a marker, a symbol
of the metro's and loneliness,
of ignorance? '
Is that a convoy of official cars
or is there a fire?
Common people always serve the extraordinary people
Buildings replacing the peaceful forest clusters
At most, I found a
paintings of the forest impresion
Alexandre-Hyacinthe Dunouy in a GKBI suite
Or minimalist forests paintings of Rusli in Cultural House
It's all just be a display
Decoration of loneliness
and again I found the fossil of humankind
in the TIM (Taman Ismail Marzuki)
who now lives empty benches
Since you stay away..
(May, 2010)
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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Subconciously
at the surface is a roy
could be roy something else
you face him
beneath a roy could be a jerry something
that you have met but could not fully
remember
you are determined not to be confused
and so you focus on the road that the the yellow bus is taking you
it is nothing but imagination
you are in the house
doing nothing because writing is actually nothing
beneath you is someone else and it
(a thing or something) is telling you what to write
you are not alarmed
it is nothing it is nothing but words and words are nothing
as a matter of familiarity
beneath your mind is the heart
beneath that heart are so many things
you try to enumerate names
and more names
and places
until you reach a certain marker, shades of red,
pathways of veins, flowing blood, all kept and contained
within the sound system
and then you look at your hands
beneath it
someone so lovely and beautiful
someone you desired for long
beneath you
and then you stop.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Day After Greed
walking the greying streets,
between the broken down
and vacant buildings....
through the alleyways..
concrete graveyards...
the hint of smoke hangs
in the air.... the stain of soot,
the taste of death... lingers....
i closed my eyes and saw
the bodies... strewn in the street
like trash blown against a fence...
eyes wild, faces contorted, ...
death, and it's brothers and sisters...
storefronts dark and ominous,
gas pumps stand alone like angry
sores, oozing into the emptiness.
great black birds fly, casting shadows
that search for tiny particles of light....
stray dogs roam in packs,
hungry for flesh!
only the sound of the great
oil rigs pumping in the distance....
an old tattered flag blown
by a cold infidel wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sunday Morning Redemption
Sunday morning redemption...
black coffee and cigarettes,
the silence that only Sunday brings.
the week behind, jumbled and lost.
sifting through the news,
what needs attention?
what cant be helped?
where do we turn the wheel
and place the blade?
whose faces, whose names?
an invitation to think,
and ghosts that walk beside.
the righteous shave and shower,
putting on their best.
somewhere a street bum asks
for a coupla dollars,
trying to panhandle breakfast.
cleaning the marker by the grave,
and talking to no one seen...
an empty feeling in my bones,
that i just cant seem to shake.
sunlight and chill, deep silence;
i can almost trace your features
with hands that tremble, and cough.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love Defiled
spirits wail in the napalm night,
bodies without faces walk deserted streets.
dreams whisper from cardboard boxes,
ants walk with angel's feet.
the sound of mouth's stricken,
deeper than just need.
the soul of fire shudders,
while glass eyed leeches feed.
history written with grave cost,
we are what we have done.
while outside the door anger lurks,
and the bullet seeks the gun!
gods? i think not....
even demons fear to tread.
the hand takes from its own heart,
and leaves the hunger for dead.
bells ring with hollow haunt,
fear drives the nails in the cross.
even tears of blood cannot repair,
what love defiled leaves as loss!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Devil's Night
a lust for blood a horrors night
a longing for the taste of innocent
flesh demons come out to play
when the nights hour is none
let the rest less rise and roam
through the streets of the living
let all awake hear the screams
as blood stains the nights streets
reward the wicked with a personal
lick of the tongue down the neck
as the blood filled vains pop in your
mouth feel alive again as your thrist
for blood is lifted
feed my children feed rip the life out of
the living let all your my children feed
allow the living to fear when the nights
none let only the wandering souls of the
dead roam these streets
cause tonight we feed like
kings on to the flesh of the living
let all a sleep awake to the horried streets
an when the nights bright let the
shattered memories of former friends
mothers, children, father be seen in a pool
of there own blood as we rest to return again
when the clock strights 3am and the night
becomes none =] hahaha until tomorrow my pretties
until tomorrow
poem by Robert Roberts
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Empty Sky
I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
Just an empty impression
In the bed there you used to be
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Blood on the streets
Blood flowin down
I hear the blood of my blood
Cryin from the ground
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
Empty sky, empty sky
I woke up this morning to an empty sky
On the plains of jordan
I cut my bow from the wood
Of this tree of evil
Of this tree of good
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to the empty sky
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Homelessness In Winter
back about 30 years ago,
living on the streets in Charlotte...
finally found a job... was lucky enough
to have a place to take a shower...
sleeping in the backseat of a broke
down Ford Maverick... cold winter...
got up and walked 4 miles to work
every morning,4 miles 'home' in the
evening...
went on for a couple months before
i got a place to live...
so yes i know what homelessness
feels like...and i cant help thinking
about all the empty foreclosed houses....
empty houses, homeless people....
back then, even if you couldnt find a
real job, they had a place where you
could go and line up to do day work...
worked all day for about 25 dollars...
if you couldnt do that, you could always
sell blood.... i dont know what they do
now....i just know it's a hard life...and if
you've got family, got kids...
something to think about the next time
you see a homeless person walking the
streets!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Streets Of Little Italy
(robbie seidman)
Producer for bonnie: desmond child
The narrow and the winding ways
The streets of old new york
The families, the street life, the spark
The rooftop where we watched
San gennaros festival
Masquerades in the dark...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
On the streets down in little italy
The oceans and the years
That separate our lives
From these streets we once called our home
Those distances of space and time
How strong they are
And how weak they are...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
On the streets down in little italy
Does the morning sunlight
Still hit the bed where we used to lie
Do the sidewalk stands and markets still overflow
Where I lingered till I was empty
Where I stayed till I had to go
Though in the night
Sometimes I see you disappear
Down cobblestones...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
Like your presence in my bones
On the streets down in little italy
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Walk These Streets Alone
I walk these streets alone why U ask, because that's all i know and the reason i'm so ignorant is because him always on the go
I walk these streets alone meeting customer after customer getting in and out of random cars
I walk these streets alone as if the streets are empty as i go on my devilish duty.
I walk these streets alone clueless to the danger surrounding me, as if him invisible to any danger.
I walk the streets alone as if every person i meet sees me as a stranger.
I walk these streets alone, as sad as it may seem i prefer my own company but at times i still get lonely.
I walk these streets alone but don't feel sorry for me, for i know what i'm getting myself into. and i know the consequences if i get caught
I walk these streets alone regardless of what I've been taught...
poem by Leon Scott
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Epilogue (Part Three)
shivering nails,
black and white coffins whisper.
bodies without heads,
strewn in the sand.
the taste of gunpowder
on my lips.
i bow, but cannot pray!
the sound of the oil rigs,
the coarse rhythm of greed.
take and destroy, take and fulfill!
the cry of sea life,
the gurgling choke,
soon to be the children
of flaccid men.
buildings like bodies,
stripped empty and bare.
the memories smell
of life that once was.
empty, and pulsing,
with the want of need,
no one hears the ghosts within.
hunger and homelessness,
heroin and Jesus.
the shelves are bare,
the mother's eyes are bleeding.
the nameless and unwanted,
cast aside in the storm,
while ghouls walk amid
the rubble of the lie.
sing for me, pray for me,
take my hand, take my hand...
even when i close my eyes,
i still hear, still feel,
the faces of the wind!
and god, if there be,
in each and every tear!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Belfast Child
When my love said to me
Meet me down by the gallow tree
For its sad news I bring
About this old town and all that its offering
Some say troubles abound
Some day soon theyre gonna pull the old town down
One day well return here,
When the belfast child sings again
Brothers sisters where are you now
As I look for you right through the crowd
All my life here Ive spent
With my faith in God the church and the government
But theres sadness abound
Some day soon theyre gonna pull the old town down
One day well return here,
When the belfast child sings again
When the belfast child sings again
Some come back billy, wont you come on home
Come back mary, youve been away so long
The streets are empty, and your mothers gone
The girls are crying, its been oh so long
And your fathers calling, come on home
Wont you come on home, wont you come on home
Ome back people, youve been gone a while
And the war is raging, in the emerald isle
Thats flesh and blood man, thats flesh and blood
All the girls are crying but alls not lost
The streets are empty, the streets are cold
Wont you come on home, wont you come on home
The streets are empty
Life goes on
One day well return here
When the belfast child sings again
When the belfast child sings again
Music : traditional arrangement : simple minds words : simple minds reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Even When Alone
the blackened plow,
the blood stained glove.
the hammered blade,
some call it love.
the bottomless well,
cant drink enough....
the blackened plow,
the blood stained glove.
the eyes of hunger,
empty face of loss.
the wheel of man
turns despite the cost.
when you're lost at sea,
and your ship is tossed.
the eyes of hunger,
empty face of loss.
and still the takers take
till the blood is drawn.
while the innocent pray
in the dark before dawn.
the weak sacrificed
to feed the strong...
the takers take
till the blood is drawn.
love plots no revenge,
stands even when alone
with the heart of right
forgives the wrong.
knows there has to be more
than just flesh and bones...
love plots no revenge,
stands even when alone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Have Mercy!
Have Mercy!
with final thoughts
i walk these streets,
past vacant buildings hallowed.
in silent mourning,
my heartbeat joining,
the concrete scarred by living.
passing strangers hurrying,
as if they had a life to return to.
while the shouts and cursing of working men,
rings inside the empty walls!
past tenemant buildings,
and unemployed stoops,
and eyes staring from windows.
dogs too hungry to bark,
squad cars passing slow,
tis the funeral of poverty.
while meth lab food stamp children,
sharpen knives against the curb.
and everything's grey, even the sounds,
the air is drunk with anger.
i caught a ride
with a trucker wired,
who mumbled slamming gears.
out into the country
once green and rich...
now brown and deserted.
fields not worked,
farm's foreclosed,
houses left to ghosts and memories.
tractors rusting in the sun,
the air is drunk with anger.
back into town,
past libraries closed,
and churches that ache with empty.
i can hear the sound
of the distant bells...
be it freedom or infinity.
past hospitals full,
and graveyards that move
with shadows in the night.
back to the small room
where i cant sleep...
where god weeps in the stillness.
America, America...
the air is drunk with anger!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empty Boxes
woke up to Voltaire
and Tolstoy, black coffee,
and cigarettes....
heavy fog on a crooked road,
Christmas lights blinking,
and a dead stillness....
the moan of empty houses,
empty factories, empty streets,
and the whisper of children,
food stamps hung in their stockings!
an old stray cat waiting to be fed,
and the heaviness of the mongrels,
left to work the streets.
somewhere bells are ringing,
right here not the scent;
a cross painted on a brick wall,
empty boxes blown by the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Can Feel..... (The Change Coming)
i can feel the change coming,
the dark swell of the clouds.
the rumble that shakes the streets,
i can smell buildings on fire.
can hear the planes,
the sound the bombs make falling,
the pulsing hate of the oil rigs,
the shuffle of money behind closed doors.
the wail of prayers in desperate churches,
the street dealer selling a loaf of bread.
the metallic sound of shovels digging graves,
the ignorant drone of great leaders.
the sound of boots on pavement,
breath shuddering through broken windows.
the silent stare of the angry and hungry,
the thunderous clenching of fists.
the haunted sound of chains and cell doors,
and riot squad bullhorns.
the tongues of truth cut from bodies,
the last cigarette lit.
the pounding hearts of the common,
black and white joined.
coming in waves, determined as one.
and the cries of the children...
always the cries...
held in the hearts as a beacon,
the reason to live and die!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Peace Frog
Theres blood in the streets, its up to my ankles
She came
Theres blood on the streets, its up to my knee
She came
Blood on the streets in the town of chicago
She came
Blood on the rise, its following me
Think about the break of day
She came and then she drove away
Sunlight in her hair
She came
Blood in the streets runs a river of sadness
She came
Blood in the streets its up to my thigh
She came
Yeah the river runs down the legs of the city
She came
The women are crying red rivers of weepin
She came into town and then she drove away
Sunlight in her hair
Indians scattered on dawns highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young childs fragile eggshell mind
Blood in the streets in the town of new haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of phantastic l.a.
Blood streams her brain as they chop off her fingers
Blood will be born in the birth of a nation
Blood is the rose of mysterious union
Theres blood in the streets, its up to my ankles
Blood in the streets, its up to my knee
Blood in the streets in the town of chicago
Blood on the rise, its following me
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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