"comrads" poems
On a filthy street corner
in a town on the outskirts
of the City
we congregated
I was the only white
& was dressed in my usual
tattered finery,
ripped jeans &
a silk shirt
halfway undone
I imagined myself
a sea rover of the Spainish Main
silver 38.
tucked in my
back waistband
I glanced at my 3
comrads, gangsters
of the lower class
sagging jeans
dreadlocks reeking of ****
I imagined myself
a rover
but in truth
we were nothing
but societys corrosion
words were exchanged
by my comrad
& another rover
from down the way
louder
&
angrier
until shots
rang out &
shattered the evenings trance
snapping into action
fire was returned
we held ground
until music
from the keepers
of law
sang down the street
we scattered
I sailed to
the train tracks
but was pursued
I turned & raised
my silver 38.
but the lawman's bullets
took me down hard
the last thing I remember
was the sky
beautiful and orange
with the coming of dusk
the most beautiful evening
I had ever seen
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
if i ever came close
to belonging, this
must be the spot.
the place where
failures and friends collect
like the white cloudy residue on the bank
of a river, stuck, wanting
to escape, giving anything to flow
again down life's fast and
unforgiving current, being endlessly
turned and turned in one spot,
moving
but stuck.
accumulating next to
your white filmy comrads
who also got caught
in the whirlpool trap
going nowhere.
going home.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 8:18 PM UTC