Neon Poems - Poems about Neon

The synth's sharp cry, a neon-tinged despair, Drum machine's pulse, a rhythmic, cold embrace, Hair sculpted high, a defiant, frozen stare, In darkened clubs, we found our rightful place. The bassline walks, a solitary beat, Through smoky haze and flashing strobe's harsh gleam, Lyrics of angst, both bitter and bittersweet, Reflecting fractured hopes, a broken dream. The clean guitar, a fragile cutting sound, Above...

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I do not want a neon God Orange bright Flourescent pink, glowing light For all to see In darkest night I'd rather have The subtle charm With strength to hold in every arm Or patient hope And solid calm I do not need The flashy stuff on garish stage With visuals on every page As life rotates Through human age The wisdom now To soulful dreams Is silence...

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In my brain, a neon butterfly flickers hysterically, Drawing with antennae of light the map of an unknown city. Its streets are pulsing veins, the buildings - vertebrae of crystal, And in the squares, wax statues weep tears of mercury. I wander through this labyrinth of consciousness, where each step Is a syllable from the universal poem that binds us,...

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The last of the lights turned out, drinks and hors d’oeuvres put away, restaurant returned to its every-day self, only a few candles in glass lanterns now left on the bare pine tables. She sits at one of the tables, and, wincing, kicks off her shoes, removes her cocktail apron and name tag, leans on her elbows, inhaling the cinnamon steam from her hot...

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Under neon lights, she waits silently, with paint spread on her lips and mascara running like old tears, while men pass by, hungry eyes stripping her like something forgotten, cast into the darkness of night. Her skin is not her own, but a currency, a language learned through whispers and hidden wounds. Each touch feels like another name erased, another fragment of herself she trades...

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There is a shrill sound in the air But I only hear it on neon nights If it isn’t tinnitus then beware Of the unsettled spirts that fly It’s not just due to the silver season Life and death happen every day We feel hear things for a reason Our bodies and senses anticipate You know how you fuchsia feel When...

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In a cyanide night and neon stars, I lose myself in reflections of a mechanical city, Humans, these flesh-and-blood dreamers, are now mere pulsating organs of machines, In an eternal dance of digital desire, where each touch is an impulse, each kiss a data transfer. My consciousness flows through cables and circuits, seeking answers in the labyrinth of...

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As Another July Day Dawns Stippling . . . The leaves of the trees S p a t t e r i n g …Their Silhouettes filling my window (Barely to be seen while stll so early) The dark dots … of the...

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These city streets I know by name The monotony takes its toll But still I walk them all the same Just to pacify my soul Like a living breathing creature The city stalks its prey at night And each individual feature With their neon lights so bright In a metropolis of sin That strips most people of their will And...

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He wanders through the neon nights, an artist out of place, Unfit for this life tethered by chains, this era devoid of grace. A time of empty haste, progress but an illusory facade, A life starving for life, the dull embrace of bureaucracy. In his soul, a shadow lies, forbidding a full embrace, Of this absurd and frantic world, a...

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My lips the vacancy sign, my heart the hotel You ran up room service again. left burn marks on the mattress. Rude to the staff Yet you seem to always be welcomed back With my lips flashing like a neon vacancy need for your love...

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air rockets skyward uppercutting inside plastic neon flesh contorting at inhuman angles what does my body language spell? ankles anchored into the Earth to stay grounded as the wave of time and space crashes a flood of stagnant flux there is a symphony of bones snapping and cracking in twisted orchestrations the act of existing for me is a resilient demonstration...

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Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip. Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon? Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias, they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection. Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes, sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens. Dogwoods explode, abruptly...

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fade out from the camera lens the lotus bloomed from the broken glass soil all things came into perspective as every toil was put into focus every shard set a different scene a series kaleidoscopic following film made of a red thread sewn in a fashion erratic and episodic singing songs of worship to the mirror man in a language no one understands babble in...

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October 28th, 1965 Slumber party Six preteen girls They are telling ghost stories They have tales of horror to share No one will be sleeping tonight I see a neon ghost in the corner He puts his fingers in front of his lips To shush me I do not feel terrified I feel intrigued, and excited We discuss my future plans After the others finally drop off...

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