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I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
     sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
     Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
     box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
     pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
     of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-
     rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
     machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
     sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
     stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-
     selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
     on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
     shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
     dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
     memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
     Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
     treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
     poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
     knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
     and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
     past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
     crackly bleak and dusty with the **** and smog
     and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
     a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
     soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
     rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
     wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
     from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
     fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
     my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
     locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
     skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
     mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-
     ance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
     modern--all that civilization spotting your
     crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
     eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
     home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
     bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
     of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
     tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
     more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
     **** cigar, the ***** of wheelbarrows and the
     milky ******* of cars, wornout ***** out of chairs
     & sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
     standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
     in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
     lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
     to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
     grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
     monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
     grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-
     road and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
     flower? when did you look at your skin and
     decide you were an impotent ***** old locomo-
     tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
     shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-
     tive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
     sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
     not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
     it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
     too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
     bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
     beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles-
     sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac-
     complishment-bodies growing into mad black
     formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
     eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
     riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-
     down vision.

                              Berkeley, 1955
betterdays Jun 2016
weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
the line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddle lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
*forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown
Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.
Creep Jan 2015
In biology today,
We learned that a lysosome
Digests old wornout organelles,
And once it becomes too full,
It will burst,
And its digestive enzymes
Will destroy the cell.

I wonder if the heart will do the same,
Take in
all the lonelys,
all the misfits,
all the hurting,
Take it all in,
Until it bursts and destroys you.
Whatcha say?
By jason derulo

Idk man, class connections? Ive been spending too much time studying. I gotta chill.
betterdays Apr 2017
weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
that line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddles lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through
beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in
une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils

forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown
This I have reposted to complete the prompt for Day 8 of Napowrimo......
for prompt details see http://www.napowrimo.net/
Its always in goodbye we taste what is the essense of that scar called love.
Pain in nature and no words can capture remorse as well as a milepost in a reaview of thought.
It was there we togather once called home now like a tombstone it stands a marker of what was never to be.

Fracture of heart and bitterness my seal.
Im the leftovers of another we can cleanse this logic or simply say ***** it all and regress.
Forever a lie to the young and a curse to the old.
Has it burned this earth and killed me to all that dare to know
what I could never explain.?  

A dance of years now a thought no drug has yet to erase.
Pills aside your drug was the best poisen ive known even with another I
know paradise was a cancer ive long since left behind yet a simple moment can make me slide
into a vice that will see me fall for the last time till next.

Im the clown that circus left behind.
Now a skeleton for home I  ask why leaving takes a milestone and emptyness a downpour
as my desert has long stayed dry.

Read the riddle like a oinion pealed only more layers remain.
hell has welcome thought for ive found more toture here.
Voices haunt my thoughts as emptyness thrives inmy existance.
Its has misreble as when we knew each others love please drown so I can
breath life into this wornout frame one last time.

Winter's chill reminds me of what we never had yet again.
People often question what has no meaning to begin with.
As for me I avoid its poisen a scared child hidden in shadow of a
lesser man.

Nothing stands as a reminder of pages wasted in promise of a day that never came.
Sometimes I view that place were we were more than a bad memory and a traggic vice.
Sometimes I yern only for end to what has never been allowed to begin.

The worst prison of all is the mind.
No one is as what the seem.
And understanding sometimes is more misleading than a half *** like button.
Djs Jun 2013
i am starting to get bad again
my heart ceasing to an empty end
yet my mind's overloading
satisfied with drugs, pain, and dying
uncontrollable shakes
forced harming to wake
no signs of courage
restless and wornout image
my heart stops beating
and my head starts pounding
i am starting to get bad again
and i am craving for my dead end.

*-djs
Weeping willows wail, wondering why winter walked away without wanting to wave goodbye.



Wintry winds and wild whispers weave their wishes in wantoness. While I watch warmth wrap my wrist and well-built waist.



Warm, warm, waveless waters.

Whist, windless wornout weather wins.
Change in seasons
RJ Days Jan 2014
America, you don’t need us anymore
so we’re going on vacation.

You’ve got religion to whisper in your ear
and sing you to sleep at night,
and culture of homogeneity to get you up
and going on cold Monday mornings, coffee in hand.
You’ve got plastic prophesies to keep you alive
and sick on medicines from unrhyming
peddlers of purpose.
You’ve got assumptions and science to teach the kids now
so long as the chemists abandon their really significant digits!
You’ve got calculus problems and practical things to scribble
on the back of the wornout canvasses of Monet and the recycled
papyrus of Parmenides—nothing’s changed.

You don’t need metaphorical ice cream.
You don’t need symbolism of green ideas.
You don’t need moonlight anymore.
You don’t need breezes on summer afternoons
unless they’re part of a lemonade ad.
You don’t need stars.
You don’t need hope or purpose or prosperity
that can come from the meaningless lines
of poems.
You don’t need us anymore, so we’re leaving.
That’s it.
We’re done.
Goodbye, America. It’s been
fun.
Written December 11, 2005.
Down  by the water

Ive been here so many times broken hearts and many old wounds that never heal.
It's so hard to admit when you hate the person you are.
When catch that dream to relize its a nightmare by design.

Why cant I just break through it why cant I just get past the demons of dessire and cleanse
myself of the sin inwhich I seem to thrive?
Honestly suicide looks better by the second.

Im losing it yet still i linger like some sad prize fighter who's
taken one to many a blow.
I yern to destroy who ive become only to find who I could actully be.
Im a man who cant seem to think past vice.
A wornout joker who's fallen this time for good.
**** this nightmare please help  ive lost befor I even began.

Burn the memory till it scars my thought **** please stop this !
Im losing yet ive grown to jaded to care.
Im not in a good place so im sorry but i have to vent.
Idk sometimes we cant fix whats destroyed.
Trainwrecks always attract a view  sorry for the glimpse
Mercury Chap Mar 2015
All the world is a big ball of chaos
Where all the people snap and toss
Eachother like they're wornout rugs
Hating eachother has become a new drug
Still we don't stop even when we know we are at loss
Robert Ronnow Aug 2017
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.

Grass. ****, broccoli, burrito, stink, ***, skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.

****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.

Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
      shoes.

Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims

in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Krizhe Ming Sep 2018
So many thing there are
I would like to do
To accomplish
So much that I don't know
Which should be done first
My head is overloaded
Soon to collapse
I might end up completely
Wornout without
Fulfilling anything
None at all
I am on the edge now
Of a cliff
I wonder if I choose
To just fall
Than continue
Hanging by a thread
It is better to end
All of these
Afterall
Back again in 2017 during those really difficult days. I remember writing this in a tissue at McDo as I was eating alone. The feeling of quitting hit me real that very moment.
J H Webb Jun 2015
Too many changes and the path is lost
Too many words and you lose the thought
Too many trials on a troubled heart
And the soul and the mind are forced to part

Too many promises turned into lies
by inactivity and time gone by
Too many years and too few friends
Too few beginnings and too many ends

Too many people I've known and have lost
Too many I've loved and too much the cost
Don't know where they've gone to and I don't know why
I only seem to hear about the ones that die

Too many memories where I was unkind
Fill too many moments of this old mind
Thoughts of what if and what could have been
Prevent me from living the age old dream

Age is all you have when your memories fail
Trapped inside this body like a wornout jail
How can I reminisce when there's no one there
to remember all the times when my heart was bare

James H. Webb
Liz Carlson Mar 2020
stuck between wanting to show you my whole heart
while hugging you in your black-wornout-denim jacket oh so tight
and
holding my heart tight to my chest and talking about the weather.

i want to be close to you again, but i know we can't go back.
i don't want to break my heart again.
Jill Tait Sep 2020
Just a woman and a man from a fortunate fate..walking arm in arm to her garden gate..as that big old moon looks down on the pair.. and those twinkling stars amaze with glare..with two pair of feet stood on a grassy lawn wornout with dancing from the crack of dawn.. and  a couple of sweaty bodies thinking only of romance betwixt this future of happenstance..

Yet this is what lifes about when all is said and done.. boy meets girl and humanity carries on..going forth and multiplying..amidst loving each other so satisfying..with just a woman and a man meeting up together from when life began and still today forever..So indeed history repeats itself from that old ancient scroll on the library shelf..telling those tales about Adam and Eve wearing nothing on their skin but a green fig leaf..and the two of them would be standing on the soily earth.. ready to mate with all God’s worth..”Go forth and multiply!” spreading the love of the Lord..by and by...

— The End —