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A Simillacrum Jul 2019
that feel when you crawl out of your dumpster, and see your **** neighbor in a bikini at the community cesspool
Never sleep without your shoes on your feet,

I forced my mouth to quiet my cries,
for fear of another whip from the belt,
she frowned as if to me tell me, "not another sound."

Morning finally shined in,
but momma better not get woke up before ten,
so I waited until the night before I started in again,
"mommy, he was my dad that died too,"
avoiding eye contact, "no you belong to that ***** that gave birth to you, "

Trying one more time pleading the way 5-year
old's do, "but you're my mommy, I love you and
I miss daddy too,"

Suddenly my body slammed to the floor, realizing my shoes were the color of blue,
fear, pain, the taste of blood not knowing to stay still or try to move,
could never guess which
to do, no matter her

Grieving for my daddy,
begging for her love... she couldn't because I wasn't her  blood,
my sister called her boyfriend, "daddy," though,
ironically she had my dad's last name but not me strangely so.

That cold Chicago night my shoelaces were tied extra tight,
in fear, she'd put me in the dumpster like so many times she dared.

Always sleep with your
shoes on your feet,
never get comfortable...
like innocent prey you'll
be eat.
Ven Jencie Clifton Arnold
Author Ven J Arnold page on Fb Series3, Always Sleep With Your Shoes On"
Mimi Apr 2018
The vineyard growing out
of decrepit stationmaster’s hovel flays
the skin of buses and trains alike
faces long and
pe eli  n   g.

Atop a rubber sea I wade,
sunlight ebbing awash
on my strong shoulders;
in pinks
blue and green and grey.

The soot of early midafternoon chokes
up, curling down
my spine,
hug from a friend
in the skeleton of a regulation
seat my mind lays
to rest, soporific

Here lie the ruins of a plainsman’s kingdom,
ghost fox says.
Here lie the dust
y wings of Corvus corax, grey
in age. Here lie the
loves and the
dreams and the
hearts of my
wholly unholy in their pagan worship,
the vineyard is a graveyard is a home
wild to hold
tame at heart
and there lies my body,
(anything I want it to be)
grapes a-swinging just out of reach-

The fox gets his prize
how sweet it tastes on my tongue.
written 11/18/17
toots Dec 2015
I used to cry on your shoulder.
I liked doing it, in fact.

But, the truth, you say?
You want the truth?

I still do.

I still imagine that it is your shoulder I'm crying on,
And not just some cold metal.

I still imagine that it's your face that's looking down at me,
And not just the moon.

When I am spilling my tears at the balcony - now,
I wish, really wish that you'd magically be beside me.

Am I that hopeless?
Did I let you crush me?
I was brainless.

You brought the new 'my girl' at the party last night.

I wonder if you imagined me when you had her in your arms.

I saw those twinkles in your eyes when she laughed at your jokes.

Funny enough, huh?
I saw that kind of thing too, when I laughed at them.

Have you really forgotten me, dear?
Am I already, completely, invisible?

Or am I still there, somewhere in your heart;
Somewhere that's rotting..
Somewhere dumpster-like?

Am I getting my hopes up if I say,

"I want to kiss you goodbye.

Lol I don't even know. Just in the mood for a heartbreaking poem :P
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
We called it dump country
Tons and tons of junk
Old bicycles and plenty
Of bottles from the drunks.
The legal dump sites
Had not been arranged.
This was now the city,
Things yet to be arranged.

Four little kids, broke ***,
Not much money for toys.
It was the end of the fifties,
Bad times for little boys.
We made our own adventure,
Way before Disneyland.
We left right after breakfast
To us, the whole trip was grand.

We found amazing things
And brought them all home.
I found a gold painted Buddha
Under a kind of glass dome.
Jim found a tricycle there
And cleaned it up real nice.
It was a really good dump site
We went a lot more than twice.

We called it dump country
We had it to ourselves.
Just us four busy bumpkins.
Santa’s ***** little elves.
We found wheels and things
To build our own little cars.
We got cut up a bit sometimes.
I still have one of the scars.

Over in dump country
The one nearest to our place
Sam found a bit of money
One penny with an Indian face.
But what we found there
Added up to a treasure chest.
It sounds silly but they may be
The memories that were best.

— The End —