And I think poetry goes a long way in cementing(?) a world in the imaginations of readers.
Not that I think my poetry is any good, but I enjoy writing it and I think it minimizes the harm setting it free on my little read blog.
the first one is Rumble City related.
The other two are much older and other setting related.
There is a poisonous green glow,
Where it’s from we don’t know,
It flickers across the night in Rumble City.
The rat rods all go screaming,
Down streets that lay a gleaming
With a petrol sheen at night in Rumble City.
And she left me for a Fink,
A Bambi or a shrink,
But it doesn’t really matter to the sour looking waitress
As to why I nurse my tips and my drink.
So I leer down at her tits,
But she doesn’t take the compliment,
And I really can’t blame her,
As I never really meant it.
When I shuffle out the door,
Kicking my eyes across the floor,
I see a poisonous green glare,
Where it’s from I don’t care,
It flickers in the night in Rumble City.
Morgothia the jewel
It's blood like rubies
Scattered like dew
In the morning light
Like dew on a web
A lair encrusted with gems
Those that enter
Swing in the breeze, empty.
Your oceans have retreated
Have fled your withered flesh
The roar of your name
Floats away on the foam
Their gentle caress is no more.
Written during the Great Calamity.
Translated from the original by Omaz the scribe.
Nox, city of perpetual haze and a winos alcohol fumed daze, sits at the mouth of the river, a canker on the lips of the nation, a spotted liver.
Nox is the city of hard knocks, of hard silicone knockers. She pointed her chest at me like a double barreled bazooka said a poet describing Nox and her plastic hookers.
Chinatown is The Chinatown, where sailors still get shanghaied and children end up in crockpots next to their pets, soon to be gulped down.
Down at the docks the cops fish for bodies, the bloated bug eyed burly of a cold hearted city.
Down at the docks, the whores fish for bodies, live ones, warm on a cold night.
Down at the docks the sailors fish for whores, hands in pocket jangling their coins, golden bait on a small hook. The sailors always boast about the one that got away.
In the sewers below roam the shadow people, lost to the city and lost to themselves. Forgotten cults practice forgotten rituals detailed in moldy books pulled from rotten shelves.
Above it all soar the cloaks, the skin tight gods and goddesses, between the towers of the super rich. And sometimes we remember that they too climbed from the gutter, their need for wealth or power a constant itch.
Nox, city of night, and of the eternally flickering neon light.