"derelicts" poems
against the wall, the firing squad ready.
then he got a reprieve.
suppose they had shot Dostoevsky?
before he wrote all that?
I suppose it wouldn't have
mattered
not directly.
there are billions of people who have
never read him and never
will.
but as a young man I know that he
got me through the factories,
past the ******
lifted me high through the night
and put me down
in a better
place.
even while in the bar
drinking with the other
derelicts,
I was glad they gave Dostoevsky a
reprieve,
it gave me one,
allowed me to look directly at those
rancid faces
in my world,
death pointing its finger,
I held fast,
an immaculate drunk
sharing the stinking dark with
my
brothers.
75.4k
the wind blows hard tonight
and it's a cold wind
and I think about
the boys on the row.
I hope some of them have a bottle of
red.
it's when you're on the row
that you notice that
everything
is owned
and that there are locks on
everything.
this is the way a democracy
works:
you get what you can,
try to keep that
and add to it
if possible.
this is the way a dictatorship
works too
only they either enslave or
destroy their
derelicts.
we just forgot ours.
in either case
it's a hard
cold
wind.
17.9k
The truth about poets
Is
They’re not all alike
Some are derelicts
Scalawags
Lovers
Sisters
Some say they’re writers
Instead of Poet
For they know what that puts
Into the minds of others
Romantic
Lethargic
Gypsy
Some will never write novels
Poems are their Ulysses
Their ‘Love in the Time Of Cholera
Some are sad
Withdrawn
Choose to live there
While some poets
Use their words
To claw their way out
Some have fallen out of love
&
Want someone
ANYONE
to listen
While some have fallen in
the deepest ocean
&
Want to tell the world
What this man
This woman
Means to them
Most write their verses
Alone
Some at midnight
Some at sunrise
Some with coffee
Most with bottles
Most will never see the reaction
Of many
Will never hear
‘I like that...’
And most don’t want to be famous
Or sometimes heard
We
Just want to be
Ourselves
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
**IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH. ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, **** DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, ***** ***** VAN ***** **** VAN **** LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.
........................................................................BA-ZING....................................................................**
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Derelict, decrepit,
Just a waste of space
A relic from a different age
One who'd run the race
An eyesore
Gives the place a name
Represents a time long past
It's no longer in the game
A stiff wind would take it down
It's not worth a single dime
Take it down, demolish it
It's enemy is time
A single pane of glass is left
Cracked from side to side
In fact it's cracked the whole way through
As tall as it is wide
The others are all boarded
Keeping out nothing at all
The only thing the wood does
Is act as canvas to them all
Graffiti covers every space
That is left standing here
It used to be a factory once
That made a local well known beer
BUT ON THE OTHER SIDE....
Inside the building squatters sit
Derelicts, wastes of space
The building is their home for now
Away from the rat race
Eyesores, hidden in plain sight
Humanity at it's worst
That is the image given them
Because of addictions thirst
A stiff wind would take them down
So thin and frail are they
Protected by a building that
A storm could blow away
One side thinks it awful
The other, thinks it's good
An eyesore and a fragile shell
Of old bricks and glass and wood
But...for one plain window
Separating worlds apart
A crack runs through the window
It is the buildings heart.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
*blink an eye and it will disappear
blink the other and you will cry
a thousand tears of joy
blink them both and watch
fireflies alight the azure sky
in suspenseful darkness the alabaster moon
croons its romantic breath over all those vineyards
angels taste the dryness of the grapes
and laugh at the waste of another year’s wine
move out of the way of human frailty
share your space with our immortal stakes
a slavery more terrible than any mankind has yet to try
the Goddess is our home
sower of seeds for those that fast internally
rise the quickest
and dance the hardest
seek the longest roads
give more than you’ve ever known
swallow whole this ocean filled
with the bones of your daughters
forsaken in trendy delicatessens
our heroes are just myths that drift
like derelicts in psyche’s mythos
i am pathos, eros and shadow
i am daylight’s twin brother
her-eyes-on the horizon
yet she could see through to his soul
her-eyes-on the horizon
if we are destined to find our way back home*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
from the balcony view,
I see my youth.
half thrown to dust,
and half of recovery.
I see the rich among
the solitude,
and the dirt on
young feet.
I see smiles of ignorance,
young ignorance to
fade with age.
and the white collars
comporting in peace,
completely aware of the tilted
lives held.
the big to eat
their derelicts,
and the small with
intense perceptive.
from this balcony view,
I see our traffic,
going absolutely nowhere.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
Established landmarks removed test the fates
Burning wind in a vacant sky
Rearranged cosmic hemispheres of mind
Oracle of day not seen with naked eye
The need for warmth a thing of the past
Frigid waters the basis of newfangled cell
Tortured derelicts kept from spiritual vision
Oracle of night hangs in days empty shell
Dubious means to generate a sun of artificial light
But a fling cannot replace a love that is shunned
Yet warm rays of sunlight still flow above the temporal
Still hanging in defiance of the 60 cycle hum
Regain your bearings oh heart of Pure Light
Everything in its place: oracle of day and oracle of night.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”
We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.
It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.
Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.
But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.
And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.
“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”
Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.
And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.
“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.
“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”
So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.
She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.
The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.
She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.
"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"
I was doing you a favor.
"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "
Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.
"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."
Calm down, okay? Please?
"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a **** that's my ******* business, Asgar. "
And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.
When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***
And drugs. Drugs, too.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
*Glorious wanderers on Death's celadon globe
Stride- in sombre ceilidh- the arsenic haar,
Mantle of Dis' harrowing of derelicts.
Feral shadows stroking the hollow strath
With crimson paces aloft Acheron's shores,
The Erinyes, in macabre cavalcades
Walk the land, bereft, forever of aubades*
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
The pale ghost of dawn
A grove of trees
Faded derelicts
Without leaves
A tracery of branches
Bent and twisted
Shades of grey
On a cold, grim day.
Disaffection
Evil minds online
Contempt fro coquetry
Worshippers of perversity
A prelude to profanity
Barely covering
Membranes of morality
On the dark side of the mind.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Sometimes
I feel old and faded
derelict and degraded
overly saturated corrugated cardboard left all alone...out in
the rain too long
or dry and brittle curling up ..creating
a bowl-like middle
adding to the strain like it really matters that that then gathers more dust...more lint
And those
now earth-bound vagabonds
whose time came
and then went
drifters
passing through
as they always do when they ... the fallin
the no longer needed the no longer wanted disavowed
no longer allowed
to hang around
And so apropos
The way leaves go
wherever the wind may choose to blow them to
always a few ...who find shelter
out of ....the vagaries
of the wind and in
that shallow bowl
I formed
Then like it or not
they may stay ...
Hidden away
catching more
of those infinitesimal
all but invisible particulates
as they pass our way
so you might say
we form a bond
a compilation
a strange mutation
Imbibing
longer and longer
those times
of total saturation
the very manifestation
what one may describe as a little tribe...that by the weight of fate
and our bonded state we hunker down
here to stay
upon
this piece of ground
And together we start each doing their part
to speed us on
Upon our way
to our future of decay and yes ..its true
I once felt so..
overly saturated
cursing
the corrugated
the very way
that I was created
bemoaning how
I had faded
But in the end
I did not die alone
I did not die
we ...
did not totally decay nor did we fade away we found life
and meaning when
this little tribe found that we were bound
This little mound
To be
Exactly what
all these lost derelicts
These young seeds.......needs
to create life
And to give
Color to reason
And a new season
To live ....life.
And in a way ...to
Find salvation in decay.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:43 AM UTC
A primal prima nocta scream
bursts the clouds
as I spin around spin around
I fight the urge to pound my head
against the wall
as a voice calls my name
& I feel the shame from ages ago
it echoes it echoes it echoes again
friends laughing as I fall with an empty bottle in my hand
I stand down
fall up
take a bow
But how do I how do I
how
do I
fly
away from here?
How do I
how do I
how do
I fly
away
from here
without my time piece
Headlights suddenly blind me
as I’m dancin’ in the streets
Tryin’ to flee this rhythm
this rhythm
Carelessly
derelicts speak
to the pain I scream
& the beating the beating the beating of my heart
I just wish I could fall up to the stars…
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 9:23 AM UTC
1. MISSISSIPPI II
Keesler Air Force Base
Sergeant will **** you
Crocodile got to eat
2. SAN FRANCISCO QUAKER
Not a bad place un-
til looters step on
the bookshelf that fell on you
3. L.A.
The real ***** Holly-
wood is just the pump
shooting sin into it's vein
4. WYOMING
Don't sit on the yell-
ow stone. That's where the bears
went after picnicking.
5. VERMONT
Red necked wooden
Boys always looking for
a fight from a Yankee
6. NEW HAMPSHIRE
Charlie and Kathy
are from here. They're nice to
know if you can find them
7. MASSACHUSETTS
The prettiest girls live
in Boston. They have mouths.
Some worse than truck drivers.
8. RHODE ISLAND
Such a little place
to cozy up to the
over crowded rowdies.
9. NEW YORK SHUFFLE ?
Buffalo girl moved too
Saratoga Falls. Hasn't
Had a dance since last fall.
10. HONEYMOONER FELL-ER
Took my girl to Niagra
Falls took my ******
Maybe next time
11. DELAWARE
Overcrowded racetrack
Casino lots of
swampy grass derelicts.
12. MARYLAND
Ain't no place to
Stop off 95
For this' lilly white man
13. VIRGINIA
Had them Japanese
people eating fish.
Didn't know it was lunchtime.
14. WASHINGTON STATE
All that rain and snow
Can never compete
With it's powerful blowholes
15. OHIO
OH HIGH OH
OHIOH
OHIO
16. ILLINOISE
Birthplace of Lincoln
and Chicagoland
Nothing much else but farmland
17. ASSISTANCE?
I wanted to help
the homeless so I fed
them government nonsense
18. INDIANA
Same old flatland lit
up at night Lincoln's
Hiway taking in the sights
19. WINDS OF CHANGE
Big bad wolf tried
to knock down my house of hay
today.. I knew he blew.
20. COYOTE TRIED
Leader scolded me at five
Better off dead
Amen coyote cried
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
My god came to me before my very birth--
Their radiant light a looming darkness on my soul--
And before my feet happened to touch upon the Earth,
I had tasted on Their lips the means t'make me whole.
Their lips showed the cosmos.
Their lips showed me distress.
Their lips left me comatose,
Crippled by their lips' duress.
My god appeared to me upon my birth--
My lips still mute and mind still mush--
To inform me that I'd proven my worth.
"It'll take time, my little one. There's no need to rush."
Their words showed me intellect.
Their words showed me euphoria.
There were beacons merged with derelicts;
The most glorious phantasmagoria.
My god appeared to me just now--
Smirking back in my reflection--
He told me that I'd done him proud,
That I'd become my god: perfection.
I'd showed myself the cosmos; the truest intellect.
I'd showed myself distress; the cruelest euphoria.
I was no longer comatose; not just a derelict.
I'm now the bringer of duress;
I'm now Phantasmagoria!
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
The grey cloud of despair is almost propelled from thought when The rust, dust, dirt, and grim your senses encounter, and endure near to0 much to bare.
The ******* rubble, debris, detritus, and derelicts are littered about. The smell of **** permeates the air.
Any liquid is soaked up from the unholy union of dirt, mud, dust, dander, and whatever else.
I spill my waste on the ground after revealing myself in the cannikin. The vile fluid is soaked up by the soot of decaying society along side a beautiful section of nature and architecture.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
*the Goddess is our home
She is the sower of seeds
for all those that fast internally
rise the quickest
dance the hardest
seek the longest roads
and give more than you’ve ever known
She can swallow whole this ocean
filled with the bones of her daughters
forsaken in trendy delicatessens
our heroes are just myths that drift
like derelicts in psyche’s mythos
i am pathos, eros and shadow
i am daylight’s twin brother
her-eyes-on the horizon
yet she could see through to his soul
her-eyes-on the horizon
if we are destined to find our way home*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
Established landmarks removed test the fates
Burning wind in a vacant sky
Rearranged cosmic hemispheres of mind
Oracle of day not seen with naked eye
The need for warmth a thing of the past
Frigid waters the basis of new-fangled cell
Tortured derelicts kept from spiritual vision
Oracle of night hangs in day’s empty shell
Dubious means to generate a sun of artificial light
But a fling cannot replace a love that is shunned
Yet warm rays of sunlight still flow above the temporal
Still hanging in defiance of the 60 cycle hum
Regain your bearings oh heart of true light
Everything in its place: oracle of Night and oracle of day.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 9:14 AM UTC
all that is the sea
in
one
full
wave:
the fritter of each line
reaching for shores,
the multitude of eyes
in in phosphorescenr sand:
memory etched
in flumine! erased by
the arrival of blue hands
rinsing all, leaving foam
of passing tides already
full with derelicts.
sibilance of breath speaking
its origin and now
i swim past all ruins,
moss, seaweed, crush of
light and opaque contest,
lifting with the voyage
of a ripple, and back to
your breast,
i dream of fish!
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
From the mud to the stars we sail
Space derelicts that fight troubles well
Running errands intergalactic
Treating travel like a punchbowl in hell
Turpitude rules in the hearts of the sane
New worlds don’t blend in the stem of the brain
Heavenly elixirs must be then taken
Lest those from below come up and take reign
Drawn to the beaches till the hurricanes come
Hostage and accomplice then become one
Psychic peace is violated
When worldly beauty weighs a ton
The wicked are estranged from the womb
Plucked out of the cosmos like a plume
Immense forces battle for worldly power
All that’s seen returns to the tomb
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Just last night
he gave himself a fright
A little blood on the floor
A silhouette across his door
Blood seeping out...
Out and about
His face is pale,
And his body: frail
Knife in hand
A smile on his face: grand
Good 'ol Lewis is dead
On his good 'ol soft bed
So see him lifeless
See his unorthodox happiness
As the silhouette exits
Out of those forsaken derelicts...
He left a note on the floor saying:
"For the record, this is no slaying.
This is merely the right way of helping him.
For it is not right to leave your best friend in whim.
So just face the fact,
that he isn't coming back.
Good 'ol Lewis is dead
And be thankful, you weren't at his stead."
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 4:06 AM UTC
My life
has appeared unclothed in court, death-bone by death-bone witness,
and I was shamed at the verdict
and was given a cut penny
and the entrails of a cat.
But nevertheless I went on
to the invisible priests,
confessing, confessing
through the wire of hell
and they wet upon me in that phone booth.
Then I accosted winos,
and derelicts of the region,winning them over into a latrine of my details.
Yes. It was a compulsion
but I denied it, called it fiction
and then I swallowed it like my fate.
Now,
in my middle age
I'm well aware
I keep making statues
of my acts, carving them with my sleep-----
or if it is not my life I depict
then somone's close enough to wear my nose ----
my nose, my patrician nose,
sniffing at me or following theirs down the street.
Yet not even five centuries ago this smelled queer,
confession, confessions
and you devil was thought to to push out their eyes
and all the eyes had seen (too much! too much!).
It was proof that you were a needle
to push into their pupils.
And the only cure for such confessions overheard
was to sit in a cold bath for six days,
a bath full of leeches, drawing out your blood
into which confessors had heated the devil in them,
inhabited them with their madness.
It was wise, the wise medical men said,
wise to cry Baa and be smiling into your mongoloid blood,
while you simply tended the sheep.
Or else to sew your lips shut
and not let a word or a deadstone out.
I too have my silence,
where I enter another room
and am not only blind,
but speech has flown out of me
and I call it dead
though the respiration be okay.
Perhaps it is a sheep call?
I feel I must learn to speak the Baa
of the simple-minded, while my mind
dives into the multi-colored,
crowded voices,
cried for help, I've no ******* on me.
The transvestite whispering to me,
over and over, My legs are disappearing.
My mother, her voice like water,
saying "fish are cut out of me.'
My father,
his voice thrown into a cigar,
"A marble of blood rolls into my heart"
My great-aunt,
her voice,
thrown into a lost child at the freak's circus
"I am the flame swallower
but turn me over in bed
and I am the fat lady."
Yes! While my mind plats simple-minded,
plays dead-man in neon,
I must recall to say
Baa
to the black sheep that I am.
Baa. Baa. Baa
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC