Beneath the plaster
Beneath the plaster
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
Another side to laughter,
fancy dresses,
and dinner suits.
Superficially
there is order,
grandeur,
but beneath,
deceit and lies.
The priest who
likes small boys,
The business man
who makes his wealth
from whore houses.
The banker
who does dirty deals,
makes money from
the weaker willed.
The leaches,
fancy ladies
plundering a living
from rich husbands
and sugar daddies.
Beneath the plaster
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Gloss Paint
Beneath the gloss paint
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
Another side to laughter,
fancy dresses,
and dinner suits
and gaiety.
Superficially there is order,
manners, grandeur
but underneath,
deceit and lies.
The priest who likes small boys,
the business man
who made his wealth
from whore houses.
The banker
who did dirty deals,
made money from
the weaker willed.
The leaches; fancy ladies
plundering their living
from rich husbands
and sugar daddies.
Beneath the gloss paint
that covers
the cracks in the walls
there is a sickness.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XLII: What Lies Beneath
beauty lies beneath
sense lies beneath
secret lies beneath
character lies beneath
rule lies beneath
mind lies beneath
past lies beneath
foundation lies beneath
root lies beneath
dark hole lies beneath
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Beneath The Mask
Beneath the mask her wander lies
projecting an image for lovers eyes.
Such endless beauty my eyes behold,
under the mask she wears so bold
She hides behind her vain-full pride,
The twist and turn of storms inside.
She sits so still, so calm a girl
And guards with faith her hidden pearl.
Behold the mask covers her face
For between its cracks lies hidden grace
And beneath that mystic mask of wood
Lies secrets of a love so good
She needs to see through sudden glee
She needs not wear the mask for me.
In her glory I need to bask
For I love the girl who wear the mask.
Beneath the mask
There is a love and compassion
Inhibition and insecurities,
But there is also the girl I love
poem by C.F Francis
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 09: Interlude
The days, the nights, flow one by one above us,
The hours go silently over our lifted faces,
We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea.
Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together.
We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee.
We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee,
We read the papers for tales of lust or crime.
The door swings shut behind the latest comer.
We set our watches, regard the time.
What have we done? I close my eyes, remember
The great machine whose sinister brain before me
Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat.
My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster.
I dropped great beams to the dusty street.
My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple,
And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale.
I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace.
Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail.
Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks,
These walls whose windows gap against the sky,
Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble
Will build a glittering tower before we die . . .
The young boy whistles, hurrying down the street,
The young girl hums beneath her breath.
One goes out to beauty, and does not know it.
And one goes out to death.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Beneath The Skin
Beneath the Skin a caustic red river
Beneath the Skin corrosive abuser
Beneath the Skin genetic in rupture
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin a still born forgiveness
Beneath the Skin cell transfer in whispers
Beneath the Skin a lover cries murder
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin i wasted this moment
Beneath the Skin old undiscovered
Beneath the Skin another lies ruptured
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ivy (Novelinee)
Seen by druids as have magical properties
as dark green woody vines upward it grows
it covers walls and climbs up upon trees
and to where it is growing no one knows,
its fruit are poisonous small smooth berries
and it protects walls from some weathering
make children ill if they eat them like cherries,
but this plant makes some great green covering
usually looks delightful during spring.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Very Thing That Makes You Rich
My father told me, lying on his bed of death,
"boy," he says, "woman she's gonna make it, don't fool your self
'cause she's got something to make a man lay that money, uh, right in her hand
And the very thing that makes her rich will make you poor
The very thing that makes her rich will make you poor"
That's right!
Well, i put you behind the wheel of a deuce and a quarter, yes i did
Had you living like a rich man's daughter, yes i did, i sure did
While you were living high on the hog
You had me down here scuffling like a dog
Well, the very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Don't you never ever make such a bad mistake
You know i'd rather climb into bed with a rattlesnake
Then to work hard every day bringing that woman all my pay
The very thing that makes you rich makes me poor,
Makes me so damn poor
The thing that makes her rich makes me poor
The very thing that makes you rich make me poor
Very thing that makes you rich makes me poor
Makes me so damned poor
Money won't change it, no no...
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When we read a story, we inhabit it. The covers of the book are like a roof and four walls. What is to happen next will take place within the four walls of the story. And this is possible because the story's voice makes everything its own.
quote by John Berger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Plaster Caster
Babys getting anxious, the hours getting late
The night is almost over, she cant wait
Oh, things are complicating, my love is in her hands
And theres no more waiting, she understands
The plasters gettin harder and my love is perfection
A token of my love for her collection, her collection
Plaster caster, grab a hold of me faster
And if you wanna see my love, just ask her
And my love is the plaster
And yeah, shes the collector
She wants me all the time to inject her
The plasters gettin harder and my love is perfection
A token of my love for her collection
Plaster caster, plaster caster
Grab a hold of me faster, plaster, faster
And if you wanna see my love, just ask her, ask her
Go on, ask her
The plasters gettin harder and my love is perfection
A token of my love for her collection, her collection
Plaster caster, plaster caster
Grab a hold of me faster, plaster, faster
If you wanna see my love, just ask her, ask her
Plaster caster, plaster caster
She wants my love to last her, last her, last her
And she calls me by the name of master, master
Plaster caster, plaster caster
Grab a hold of me faster, plaster, faster
If you wanna see my love, just ask her, ask her
Plaster caster, plaster caster
Grab a hold of me faster, plaster, faster
And if you wanna see my love, just ask her, ask her
Plaster caster, plaster caster
song performed by by Kiss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Initial Attraction
What lies beneath the surface smile?
which you display to everyone?
The mask you wear to be in style.
What lies beneath is yours alone.
Does it indicate interest?
What lies beneath the surface smile?
And will I perhaps pass the test
enjoy your company for a while.
Is it a sign of practiced guile?
or simple act of self defence.
What lies beneath the surface smile?
Must I rely on my sixth sense?
My need to know grows more intense
I am prepared to wait awhile
to try and gain your confidence.
What lies beneath the surface smile?
(poeticpiers/20/07/2007)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Depicting Reflection
I gaze at the looking glass one final time
As I hope for some veritable truth to find
But the cracks run along my face in jagged lines
As the mirror cracks from side to side
Peering into the cold, dark faceted eyes
A broken poppet stares back from inside
And I catch a reflection of that I despise
As the mirror cracks from side to side
The scarred reflection is now forsaken
And many are the times my heart has died
But now it is my soul that is breakin'
As the mirror cracks from side to side
I gaze at the looking glass one final time
As the mirror cracks from side to side
poem by Sheri Hockman
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Love
What's wrong with you, with us,
what's happening to us?
Ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together.
What's wrong with you? I look at you
and I find nothing in you but two eyes
like all eyes, a mouth
lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful,
a body just like those that have slipped
beneath my body without leaving any memory.
And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!
I vainly sought in you
depth for my arms
that dig, without cease, beneath the earth:
beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,
nothing,
beneath your double breast scarcely
raised
a current of crystalline order
that does not know why it flows singing.
Why, why, why,
my love, why?
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Too Fancy
He likes armani suits
To wear with ties of silk
Bought a herd of cows
To milk his own milk
I like his heart of gold, his personality
Hes just too fancy for me
Hes got a cartier and a mercedes benz
And that was all ok
When we were only friends
But when were on a date
Its all too plain to see
Hes just too fancy for me
I like a man who can roll up his jeans
And wade in the water
And still has some dreams
I like a man who can understand
Simplicity
Dont want em finely tuned
Cause quirky men are cool
The concordes caviar
Aint like balduccis food
Those thousand dollar suits
May suit society
But theyre just too fancy for me
Give me a fishing boat
Give me a wide eyed grin
Dont even try to gloat
Cause you wont even win
Dont want the courtside seats
I want my nose to bleed
Hes just too fancy for me
Hes just too fancy for me
song performed by by Debbie Gibson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stranded (Lyrics)
Your waves come crashing down
Like a semi-auto trailer
I dive so deep in the sea
To avoid killer whales
A perfect moment here and gone
It has sailed
I'll use a hammerhead to drive
Rusty nail inside
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
Imagine if our world was blue and weightless
I never meant to do wrong to you
You're my starfish
You moan a tone so low beyond me
A telepathic sub-sonic frequency
I need a little air for emergency
You have to understand this urgency
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
White sand beneath my feet
No brain between my ears
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
I know that if I had one
I'd spare us both these years
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
White sand beneath my feet
No brain between my ears
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
I know that if I had one
I'd spare us both these years
A sea anemone, you're my enemy
poem by Satan's Sibling
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Where White Walls Meet On Painted Cracks
Where white walls meet on painted cracks,
and tears still streak the face of dawn.
Where trouble lies and hopes abound
in places lost long ago.
Wounded souls meet, and sit, and stare
and condolences are bitter words to speak.
An empty house stands,
empty, save for the prisoners within its weary walls.
Walls of words and hopes and lies,
of stone they weigh still more.
The City Planners
Cruising these residential Sunday
streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is
the sanities:
the houses in pedantic rows, the planted
sanitary trees, assert
levelness of surface like a rebuke
to the dent in our car door.
No shouting here, or
shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt
than the rational whine of a power mower
cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass.
But though the driveways neatly
sidestep hysteria
by being even, the roofs all display
the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky,
certain things:
the smell of spilled oil a faint
sickness lingering in the garages,
a splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise,
a plastic hose poised in a vicious
coil; even the too-fixed stare of the wide windows
give momentary access to
the landscape behind or under
the future cracks in the plaster
when the houses, capsized, will slide
obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as glaciers
that right now nobody notices.
That is where the City Planners
with the insane faces of political conspirators
are scattered over unsurveyed
territories, concealed from each other,
each in his own private blizzard;
guessing directions, they sketch
transitory lines rigid as wooden borders
on a wall in the white vanishing air
tracing the panic of suburb
order in a bland madness of snows
poem by Margaret Atwood
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Her Grave.
The flowers on her grave scarce breathe,
So sweet a flower lies hid beneath;
As if they feared their growth might stir
The sleepy earth that covers her.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Medicate
I've been lying awake at night
I've been hoping that I'm alright
I've been winding myself too tight
Wondering if I will sleep tonight
Never thought things would get like this
Always hoping that they'd work out
Now I seem to be filled with doubt
I cannot stop this ride
I'm growing cold inside
I shouldn't let it slide
Will sickness be mind
This should not be my weight to bear
Go on acting like I don't care
Stop this high-I wouldn't dare
I have earned and deserve my share
Things like this happen every day
While I'm in there I feel okay
But you say I should get away
Let me got for just one more day
[Chorus x2]
I've got to medicate myself,
I'm not concerned about my health
It covers up what I've been dealt, it seems the only way
I've got to medicate myself, its been the only thing that helped
Must cover up what I have felt, it seems the only way
[Chorus x2]
Sickness is mine, sickness is mine, sickness is mine
song performed by by Flaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Room 205
What could walls tell now of Dylan Thomas
speak to me of love and death
of madness of a kind he sometimes knew
beneath the paper cracks of genius
nothing left in his decay only
ghostly words once played so well
on an old typewriter with some letters lost
and he blunted by another whisky
embraced a welcome rush to die
and cut the loss
as floor boards squeak in vain
little drama left to fit
the bill in Hotel Chelsea.
poem by Alan Halford
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A Bit of the Other
There's nothing that Kevin likes more
Than telling his friends he's going to score -
It's getting to be a bit of a bore,
She's probably a tart, or some old whore!
I know there's something he likes to lick
But personally that makes me sick!
I wonder what makes Kevin tick?
Perhaps the answer lies in his prick! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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