When I think of you, I hear a marimba in my head. I'm lost like a stray cat. Baby, I swear I'll hop a train and head west, to roll away from the memory of you. This mad hatter moon lights my way, and I'm done holding on. I'm getting a bottle of whiskey, and drinking it until you become a blurry memory. Then I'm jumping that train.
This is another poem I wrote off the cuff for the Tom Waits Challenge
Passing by those owners of sad lost eyes like Rubin's faceless slumping on kerb ridges body bridges between pavements and shuttered shop cages where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up by dime bag shadows, 30 to 1 outsiders and washed up wannabe beatniks too wild for Kerouac pages. I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there below the crust of the surface late in the a.m. between stiletto heels clip and echo and the strike and flare of cigaretted fingers if I only dared to thread and seek out where a different twist of choice nearly led.
Thomas W Case Tom Waits vibe challenge. This was fun
I was living in this flop house above a **** shop in Amarillo. I had a one eyed cat named Walter, I'd bet a sawbuck that when I slept, he drank my whiskey. I sill love him though. He stuck around longer than those old painted up ladies that strolled through, and tested my bed springs. I got two shots of Wild Irish Rose left, then it's back to these ***** streets of broken dreams and sick scenes.
Here is my challenge to everyone.......Write a poem inspired by Tom Waits....Everyone welcome. Here is mine.
She wore her red shoes to Romeos funeral and misssed the stale smell of his cheap cologne and that his lips had always tasted of whiskey she picked up a card and some flowers and a strange ballon for $29 and some spare change from the drug store on Kentucky Ave. where someone had stolen her favorite alligator purse somewhere in the distance a train pulling box cars whistled to the magpies with their wings spread up above just hanging there like kites and she wore a pretty blue gun strapped to her thigh right over where he had left his teeth marks on the forth of July the one he had given her on the Valentine's day he had spent in jail for attempting to rob the jewelry store for the necklace she had wanted for Christmas the December before the same Christmas all he could give her was his favorite skull and crossbones ring tied around the broken piano string he had once tried to wear as a tie they had meet the night he stole her record player and she had happened to be on the wrong side of the road as he made his way from the scene of the crime completely unaware she would steal his heart before he would see another sunrise but that was all before he took a bullet to the chest after avenging his brother that was left to die without his knife they had found his body in the theater with his shoes full of blood and a smile on his face and she knew as his body was lowered into the cold cold ground her new favorite color was going to be blue come next Valentine's day
It's dangerous when your biggest role models spent their lives drinking, smoking and gambling but maybe it's worth it if it inspires you to write something that is at least 1 % as great as their works cause 1 % of their greatness is ******* amazing
For my four favorite writers: Charles Bukowski, Dorothy Parker, Bob Dylan and Tom Waits.
I tried to keep my focus on the out-breath, to the things I can offer rather than what I keep inside. I have tried yoga poses at the crack of dawn with nothing but my underwear on; I tried to drink eight pints of water a day to ensure that my veins do not rust away, to fill myself with the basic essence of life- but I could not handle the broken sleep each time I woke, desperate for a **** in the depths of the night. I tried to blu-tac unfinished songs to my wall, emulating product-placement but with nothing left to sell. I know I cannot keep smoking **** to emulate a stalwart companion. These broken streets look more second-hand to me, and I have tried to find that sober sleep, that wide-eyed wonder outside of these stale, chemical dreams- but all I get are cold sweats and cold shoulders; people growing all around me like stalks in a cornfield, blocking all but a circle of light that hangs over my head; the bottom of a well, the bottom of the world.
I am doing my best to keep on top of all the things that threaten to bring me down.