the day I hated the world
I wanted to squeeze lemonade
out of sunshines' smiles
fill a rose colored glass
with **** positiveness pour
the saying win-win in the
******* toilet while flushing,
and regurgitating-
rip all the signs down advertising
merchandising commercializing
proselytizing -take Nancy Grace's
annoying know it all *** on
face to face and pull some ignorant *****
asscheeks over their ears, **** in
their neck-
rip all the sermons of every preacher
to pieces,
choke world leaders with
**** and peace while all the
broken threads of promises
on their watch haunted from
graves and holocausts and
mass killings and enslaved
blacks indians
whoever you don't like,  
the weak, gays liberals skinheads
Vietnam Vets
old people graying alone dogs
with rabies vampires of society drunks
****** lonely sub-culture types wearing no shoes
no hopes and no dreams buy because of you
, because of culture to be in, in the crowd
of popularity once like a Warhol prediction
getting their 15 minutes
at the aim of a politician policeman radical Islamic terrorist
or the freaking nut down the  street with an AR-15 and 100,000
reasons to go mad.

The young receptionist
suddenly crossed her legs
behind the window
of the waiting room of my love,
smacked her gum
and said promise not to leave,
always come back if you do,
even if we give you bad news
for the rest of your life.

I won't cry about you.
I won't write about you.
And maybe you won't exist.

Far into the night
I spied a long dead star
like that dark light
I saw through the pane
of your window,
like a signal for me
that it was all clear now
to move on to another exile,
another woman, another
island to banish myself,
another liaison with dawn.

When I go to sleep at night
I leave the TV set on
With electric shadows
Flickering around the walls
Not because I fear the dark
Which is a friend of mine
But because silence is a threat
To my drifting vulnerable mind
And the open wounds of old

Silence allows my ghosts
To invade my imminent dreams
Some screaming in rage
As others whimper for love
Creating vivid nightmares
And drenching my very essence
So, when I go to sleep at night
I leave the TV set on

                                By Phil Roberts

From time to time
I sit outside
and watch the night sky
deep in its shadow
and dreaming
of a dusky woman
with black hair
and a sequined dress
riding high on her thighs
until my eyelids
grow dark
from the starlight.

Like wild oats
the lonesome poets
grow in the ditches
alongside back roads
and when it rains
they drink too much
like the low cotton
in dry fields forgotten
by dirt poor farmers
whose wives run off
with the first stranger
who wipes his shoes
on the porch before
selling her a pretty pair
of green lace underwear
like a bird sick of its tree
dreaming of new leaves.