*2 poems

2 poems by Alex Matraxia (@alexmatraxia17) to make you.... think

Unrequited War

Love Song


Over the long talk

of the city

trying to howl

that love song

to a sensitive lunacy

a large empty space

seeping thru skyscrapers


the ground


of human noise


adolescent banks

below in



the broken

slant of light

over Waterloo

canopies, glooming over

piercing flats

in the morning

shaking the

industry of buses

like great lungs


– today I have nothing to do –

I go to the gallery

of watercolors & strangers


passing thru black & white

roses of the city –

the stain-glass skateparks

back-ally cathedrals

metropolis teenagers from

the gargoyle-stoners to

the middle class

green-sweater- types

Notting Hill nymphs

Camden lullabyers

Shoreditch cinefiles

Knightsbridge mannequins

egos huddled in

contemporary fashion


some young ache


the Southbank at 3am


the city infants



against raging mothers

& the middle-aged man

sobbing over broken letters &

constipated dreams


their rage

the night-bruised


bodies eroding

in emotion


so I’ll wander out to a

conversational encounter

to a cafe of red tea

& smile & document the rituals of the days

unconscious intimates

trying to count the leaves

cracked like dry skin

unnaturally passing

weightless thru the streets

trodden on by feet

walking to perished wonderlands

of money & dead dreams

into unmet certainties &


tender breathing

that fragility like

lungs full of

broken glass

refracting a city



tall alters glowing

shrieking bulbs on top

fate’s electrical lovers

clinging to ego ideals

falling down like

curtains of Christ over

the city

& buried in urban sleep


City infants –

names I’ll lose

your unnamed creatures



in self-righteousness & individualism’s suicide



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Post Truth

When reading about

the Berlin Wall,

collapsing as

a souvenir,

I imagine

the students of all types

taking marbles from its eyes,

dropping them like fruit

into champagne

with strangers


today every party

at the start

of the century,

people cramming

themselves into

their own histories;

deep black eyes

flashing like angry


carbon copies of

pixels & blood,.

Who doesn't want

the enduring

recognition of being

what isn't everyday?

To make the


of their wills

an ecstasy.

History isn't even ripped

by the struggling complainers.


I won't preach

the unmet climaxes

of newspaper


digital prophecies,

the Buzzfeed critique

of our conception.

I'm hopeless but

try to be as attentive

as insecurity allows.


Everything is

a kind of fake.

Even poems.

Even poems

about meaning

of frivolity.

I'd like to think

supermarket fridges

are full of

artichokes & semen.

I'd like to think

Walt Disney

painted the sky.

But who cares.

Crack open the

spines of the new

books, quietly damning.

Cockroaches made

of raindrops


The winds

are out of



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