June Challenge: "Mean Streets"

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Thread: June Challenge: "Mean Streets"

  1. #1

    June Challenge: "Mean Streets"

    AS PREVIOUSLY ANNOUNCED, IF YOU ENTER THE CHALLENGE, YOU MUST CAST AT LEAST ONE VOTE IN THE POLL. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN YOUR ENTRY BEING DISQUALIFIED.

    The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by moi is: Mean Streets

    You are free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish, though of course, site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board. Please note that all entries are eligible to receive critique in the voting thread.

    The inclusion of explanatory text or links of any kind within an entrant's challenge entry is prohibited and will be immediately removed upon discovery. As always, only one entry per member is permitted.

    As previously announced, anonymous entries have been abolished, therefore, entrants must post their own entries in this thread, or if you desire to protect first rights, please post your entry in the secure thread, and then post a link to it here in the public thread. Failure to do so runs the risk of your entry being disqualified, so if you require assistance with the task, please PM me, and I will gladly help you.

    If your entry contains strong language or mature content, please include a disclaimer in your title.

    Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you submit. You have a TEN MINUTE GRACE PERIOD to edit your piece, but anything edited after that will likely see your entry excluded from the challenge.

    Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro.

    Everyone may now use the "Like" function whenever they so choose.



    This challenge will close on the 15th of June at 7pm EST.


  2. #2

    Baby Haunts Her Corner (Adult Content)

    Baby sports more prints
    than bagged forties
    passed 'round her corner.
    Eyes never to see twenty,
    reflect a century's
    worth of torture.

    Mater shared her habit
    with busty preteen
    in threadbare bra,
    now every venous road
    is run ragged
    by spawned track star.

    Her cheeks peek
    from beneath
    a tiny denim tease,
    when you wanna work,
    advertising captures sleaze.
    Daddy takes his share;
    pink limo must be prime.
    Gotta have a guardian
    to keep the tricks in line.

    Mama's a magician
    who makes stuff disappear,
    bags, bucks, and self esteem
    vanish when she's near
    "Can't sell my shriveled prune,
    but you're still nice and ripe,
    best pass that pipe on over
    cuz it was me who gave you life."

    Spoonfuls of sugar
    amply sweeten the pot,
    those lovely little nods
    are all poor Baby’s got.
    Despite stiletto wobble,
    she's always in the game,
    palming chips
    from countless hands
    'fore dawn dents
    dark's bruised remains.

    Ghost leans upon a lamppost,
    glittery orbs drooping closed
    slurring a seductive price list
    with her pretty ass exposed,
    perceiving the scent of pig
    through a septum deprived nose.

    Illuminated aluminum
    declares Times Square,
    but that's just for the tourists,
    the walking dead are well aware
    a blurred peer at the backside
    bares Satan's Thoroughfare;

    an avenue of excess
    worn down to cobblestone,
    sprinkled with spent syringes
    and powdered babies' bones.


  3. #3
    abandoned ... unloved
    she died alone on the street
    a feline speed bump
    Everything you want is just outside your comfort zone.
    — Robert G. Allen

  4. #4









    “We are afloat/On our dreams, as on a barge made of ice”
    John Ashbery
    "
    Some people like what you do, some people hate what you do, but most people simply don't give a damn." Charles Bukowski
    "Wise men build bridges, fools build barriers " The Black Panther
    "Which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without animals?" Yann Martel, Life of Pi

    It is not how things are in the world that is mystical, but that it exists” Ludwig Wittgenstein
    "life is short, art is long", Seneca the Younger

  5. #5

    Lil’ Cowboy

    He rode the white horse
    in mama’s womb,
    she bucked him out
    on a crack house floor.

    Jitter baby, jitter,
    shake, sweat,
    crusty vomit,
    cardboard bassinet.

    He can’t sit still for Gramma’s hugs;
    she’s raisin’ him to be a man
    not no gangsta thug,
    sees him play in the street
    on his white stick horse,
    shoot finger guns at passing cars.

    She prays baby, prays,
    shakes and sweats;
    this child won’t rest in peace
    in no cardboard bassinet.
    There is no life I know
    To compare with pure imagination.
    Living there you’ll be free
    If you truly wish to be.~ Willy Wonka

  6. #6
    Hatcher Street

    Old black men sit in empty chairs,
    their brown eyes watching johnson grass
    bleeding from sidewalk wounds
    and used car lots that sprout
    like weeds, littered with broken glass
    and tattered memories.

    Behind boarded windows
    in crack house rooms
    they breath in death
    through toothless grins

    while streetwise youth
    play deadly games
    that lead but to graveyards
    full of brown eyes
    that finally escaped
    from Hatcher Street.
    "Self-righteousness never straddles the political fence."

    Midnightpoet


    "If it weren't for sin, what would we write about?"

    Midnightpoet


    Hidden Content Hidden Content

  7. #7

    Where The Sparrows Sing at Night

    Try to fly little Sparrow!
    leave your white trash nest
    rise above the mean streets
    that wait to feast lustfully
    on your innocent hollow bones
    they will devour your precious song
    force you to spread your
    innocent wings

    Hey little Sparrow
    spread your dirty wings
    and sing for your next meal
    mere crumbs dropped from the pockets
    of those who use you
    abuse you

    Where will you sleep tonight
    the dark is full of demons with sharp objects
    waiting in shadows to silence your song
    and they will slice your small wings so you
    can't fly
    don't even try

    Close your eyes weary Sparrow
    there are no more tomorrows
    don't cry
    sing your last sad song
    alone
    in the dark with a needle in your dirty veins
    tonight... you will fly so high

    Tomorrow the gutter will be your grave...





    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  8. #8
    WF Veteran H.Brown's Avatar
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    Mean streets of memory.

    Mean streets of memory.

    I walk alone down memory lane,
    treading twisted streets within,
    faking smiles for hidden pain,
    inside my hurts still cling
    to a fractured mind,
    I hide behind!
    Fancy joining a photgraphy group? The check out the Hidden Content group.

    Visit My Blog to get to know me better.Hidden Content Hidden Content A fun group of like minded new writers.
    Hidden Content Hidden Content A place for young writers to talk and chill.

    Why not check out the Hidden Content and join in the latest challenge discussions.

  9. #9

    Roads to Gone Away Places

    Roads to Gone Away Places


    The call from broken pavements, a countenance pocked,
    voices raised, mostly anger and annoyance, but for some,
    the language is different, those voices of fear and shock.

    Mean streets, a marvel of modernity hopelessly immured,
    in the minds, the habits and habitats of expected squalor—
    a physical incarnation marooned, a consciousness inured.

    Those moribund remnants of Rexy, the glass-boned rabbit,
    a body trapped in a mire, wherein horrific is now mundane.
    Mean streets—can they lead away from rituals, the habits?

    Glass to sand, innards gone cold, Rexy of Shattered Bone,
    a bright mind entrenched in the labyrinth of Mean Streets,
    but what are these streets if not pathways carved in stone.

    Think, Rabbit, think, they are streets, mean is in the mind.
    Goddamn it, Rexy! An ember banked, potential slumbers—
    deep in dunes of dream sand, in a smile, simple and kind.

    Streets and the minds they contain, they are just a habit—
    mean, that easy, ignorant habitual frame of small minds.
    So dream on Rexy—follow mad Carroll’s White Rabbit.

    Shelter in place, in stillness and silence, patient as sand,
    even as a finger traces a line in the bones of glass; think.
    Break the habit, ignite the mind, fire for bones to stand.

    Strength rests in the bones, even those turned to stone—
    with nothing but skin and bones, just a place to start—
    a journey to be undertaken by a mind that grit honed.

    Mean streets, a habitat of sneering stone, was a habit
    of a frail, glass boned body, Rexy who should not be.
    Mind ablaze, bones of sand vitrified—Glass Rabbit.

    Toes on mean streets, small minds set in brittle stone.
    Stand Rabbit—run mean streets to Places Gone Away.
    Foundations laid down, forged in supple, living bone.

    Down the rabbit hole, just old streets left far behind.


  10. #10

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