The Unknown Poet
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unknownpoet.bsky.social
The Unknown Poet
@unknownpoet.bsky.social
180 followers 270 following 140 posts
A bag upon his thoughtful brow,
he writes where city sirens wail.
A whisper slipped between the words-
too fleeting,
yet by design.
We read,
we wonder:
was it mine?
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unknownpoet.bsky.social
Morse Code for Trumpet Quintets
#poetry
Morse Code for Trumpet Quintets we invent gods then blame them for inventing us truth is elastic but lies fit like a glove we call it freedom because “unchecked hunger” doesn’t sound noble history repeats itself because the audience keeps clapping the future looks exactly like the past but with better packaging
October 24, 2025 at 3:08 AM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Beatnik Riff
#poetry
Beatnik Riff snapchat halo around a kid’s grin, saint of disappearing messages, relics dissolve before you can believe in them. at the bar they pour IPA sacraments, heads bow to glowing screens- a thousand poets hiding behind emoji masks. I write a manifesto on a napkin, then use it to soak up spilled gin. that’s how revolutions end: not with a bang, but with a bartender wiping down the counter.
September 19, 2025 at 2:32 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Manifesto with Crosswalk
#poetry
Manifesto with Crosswalk I want a country where the crosswalk listens where the red hand becomes a palm reading yes where rent has knees that bend when you are tired where news breaks gently then stays to clean up where we tax the shadow that follows greed and subsidize afternoons by the river where tomorrow is not a password that keeps failing and a poem can be valid ID at the door
September 19, 2025 at 2:19 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Instructions for Breathing on the 7:10 Bus
#poetry
Instructions for Breathing on the 7:10 Bus inhale the stale perfume of yesterday’s storms exhale the meeting in your teeth inhale the child’s cereal sunrise on their cheeks exhale the headline that tightens the ribs inhale the driver’s patience at a broken light exhale the loop that says you are alone inhale the old man humming take five under his breath exhale until the glass stops judging you then keep going until the city fits in your pocket like a warm stone
September 19, 2025 at 2:15 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
My Mind Unspooling in 4K
#poetry (Alt text)
My Mind Unspooling in 4K I saw infinity in the oil puddle by the 7-Eleven where God blinked at me through a nicotine ad, and time dripped down the gutter like warm soda and dream fragments. I took three tabs and a cold brew and waited for capitalism to dissolve— but it just grinned wider, teeth made of Amazon warehouses, eyelids scrolling Terms & Conditions. My third eye’s got astigmatism, but it still saw through the bullshit. Neon Buddhas on e-bikes preaching detachment, TikTok tarot girls livestreaming salvation while the Earth rotated tiredly, fingernails cracked from holding us. I saw the face of God in a bodega cat licking blood from a dollar bill, and whispered do you forgive us— but the cat just blinked and curled around a vape cartridge. Somewhere a glacier cried out, but the influencers were too busy editing thighs into impossible light. The end is trending, baby, and we all want front row seats with drinks and signal. I left my body on the F train between 14th and Delirium, watched my soul tap out Morse code against the plexiglass window— I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m— Then silence. Just the subway breath, and the slight hum of something holy rattling through the wires. -by Unknown Poet September 1, 2025
September 1, 2025 at 8:56 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
City, 3:04 a.m.

#poetry #writing
City, 3:04 a.m. I saw the drunks at the corner deli, leaning on the hotdog roller like it was a confessional, speaking in grease-slick tongues to the cashier who hasn’t smiled since the Clinton years. Bar flies circling neon, lipstick melting into the rims of glasses, laughing at nothing like it’s the only joke left in the world. The prostitutes smoke in doorways, flicking ash into the gutter like love letters to men they’ll never learn the names of. Someone sleeps on a park bench curled like a comma in a sentence no one will ever finish. The subway’s a womb and a coffin, steel lullabies for the ones who can’t afford a dream. Naked man in a third-floor window shaving his chest under a single bulb, curtain wide open- like he wants the city to bear witness to the birth of whatever he thinks he’s becoming. A woman in red heels argues with a street preacher about salvation- they both want to save each other for entirely different reasons. I keep walking. The pavement breathes under me, like the whole city’s heart is down there in the sewer steam, pumping dirty, holy blood through everyone still awake. by The Unknown Poet August 10, 2025
August 10, 2025 at 2:27 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
The Last True Believers

#poetry #writing
The Last True Believers I saw the last true believers scrolling their thumbs raw in the midnight glow of busted laundromats, I heard the prophets of the broken word, their gospel in the underpass while the surveillance drones hummed overhead like hungry flies, I watched the rent-drunk landlords count their coins on fire escapes as the moon slipped behind the skyline to avoid the smell, I saw the kids with eyeliner razors cut open the belly of the city and pull out the soft neon intestines, spilling dreams onto the pavement still hot from yesterday’s riot, I tasted the pepper spray in the air like cheap communion wine passed from face to face, I prayed with the vape cloud saints and the graffiti monks tagging subway cars with psalms for the people who no longer ride them, I kissed the screen-lit lips of strangers through cracked glass and knew it was real because the algorithm told me it was, I begged the 808 heartbeat to keep going, I begged the cracked speaker to keep humming that road-song for a road that now runs through fiber-optic veins, I begged the busker to keep singing even when his guitar snapped its strings, I begged the night to keep us until the update comes and erases this map, I begged the world to stay unbuffered just long enough for one more verse. by The Unknown Poet - August 7, 2025
August 9, 2025 at 5:05 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Post-Truth Blues on a Neon Sidewalk

#poetry #writing
Post-Truth Blues on a Neon Sidewalk I saw the best minds of my generation slouched in coffee shops, scrolling TikTok, souls decaffeinated, brains on battery saver- searching for God in group chats and Google Docs, howling algorithms into the void of midnight feeds, our Wi-Fi prayers buffering behind firewalls. Oh holy disconnection! We build cathedrals of likes, confess our sins in Stories, filter our grief through Valencia presets- crying in the DMs, ghosted by salvation. We are the Uber prophets, drenched in vape smoke and overpriced ideology, swiping for meaning on dating apps that serve loneliness in sleek UI/UX. I saw a preacher on a Brooklyn L train wearing AirPods, mumbling beatitudes to a cracked screen reflection. This land was made for you and me- but we lease it by the gig, giggle through burnout, pay rent in exposure and dreams deferred, as billionaires launch rockets to find something better than Earth because they already broke this one. We spit slam poetry at police drones, paint murals on boarded windows, rage against a machine that asks us to rate our rebellion five stars or less. We are the children of climate debt, marching with cardboard signs and solar-powered hope, while oceans rise like forgotten justice, swallowing the coastlines of complacency. But still- we dance in the ruins. We remix the past with trap beats and scream “fuck the fascists” in autotune. We sip from mason jars full of irony, riot with memes, love harder than surveillance allows, and dream in pixels of revolutions that won’t be televised but livestreamed. Beat goes on. Beat goes off. Beat generation, meet your glitch. We are the static on your screens- and we’re not going quietly. by The Unknown Poet August 5, 2025
August 5, 2025 at 9:31 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Defiant Identity

#poetry #poem #writing
Defiant Identity I show you what I choose- not truth, not apology. This face? Curated. This light? Rigged. You want clarity. I offer contrast. Half of me glows just to blind you from the rest. Don’t mistake the highlight for the whole- I am not your subject, not your portrait in waiting. I won’t sit still while you adjust the frame. I am cut from shadow and spit, stitched in the places you’d rather not see. You call it hiding- I call it surviving. Behind the silhouette, there’s thunder. Behind the pose, an unlit match. And if I burn? It won’t be for your comfort. It will be to torch the angles you tried to trap me in. -The Unknown Poet August 3, 2025
August 3, 2025 at 4:55 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Stitcher of Masks

#poetry #poem #writing
Stitcher of Masks I show only what light will permit- my smile rehearsed in mirrors, my voice polished to echo the room. Truth is angles. Step left, and I am kindness. Step right, and I vanish. I live in the shelter of suggestion, the comfort of the blur. People love outlines- a bright laugh, a sharp coat, a face lit just enough to suggest depth without demanding it. But I am not what I appear in daylight. I am an architect of shadow- the stitcher of masks, the hand behind the screen. In the dark, I dissolve into all the selves I never dare to name. Each one a contour of silence, a cutout of becoming. And maybe that’s the truth- not what the light reveals, but what the dark refuses to give back. by The Unknown Poet August 2, 2025
August 2, 2025 at 7:54 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
We Kiss Like Sirens

#poetry #poem #writing
We Kiss Like Sirens they built this city on unpaid interns and concrete prayers, wired the sky with cameras and gods that don’t blink. you said, “nothing’s real but the fire,” and lit a match with your teeth. I believed you. the truth tasted like ash and siren songs. we kissed on the hood of a riot cop’s cruiser, middle fingers to the moon, smoke curling from our mouths like manifestos. downtown, they were selling salvation two-for-one on a billboard- happiness in pills, in pixels, in passive agreement. but we wanted something louder. Something that didn’t ask for consent to catch fire. so we carved poems into the backs of traffic signs, fed the pigeons secrets we couldn’t post, and danced barefoot through the broken glass of yesterday. love, we are the pixilated static in the signal, the breath before the scream- we don’t kiss for pleasure. we kiss to start the war. by The Unknown Poet August 2, 2025
August 2, 2025 at 4:10 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
Twenty-First Century Beatnik

#poetry #poem #writing
Twenty-First Century Beatnik my sneakers kiss sidewalks still slick from last night’s spill- cheap gin, neon bleed, a drag queen weeping glitter into a broken phone screen. graffiti hymns hum beneath the overpass, each tag a gospel of someone who dared to exist loud in a world that prefers whisper. I trade poems for coffee, eyeliner for cigarettes, scroll feed like Ginsberg once did the howl of the century pulsing in his teeth. my typewriter is a touchscreen, my protest, a livestream. but the beat is the same: heart raw, fingertips inked with everything I never said out loud but couldn’t stop feeling. by The Unknown Poet August 1, 2025
August 1, 2025 at 10:00 PM
unknownpoet.bsky.social
What You Didn’t Know About Me

#poetry
July 22, 2025 at 10:18 PM