"drunks" poems
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.
Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.
Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.
They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a piece of **** car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.
Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.
Enjoy arguing, screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
--------------
Just bought a new back wheel
For my tall and sturdy bike
And riding back from a party
I got hit by a big white truck
I was cycling by the curb
A truck came zooming up
I had the space of a meter or more
But quickly the space diminished
Suddenly I felt it
A crunching of the wheel
I shouted in anglo-saxon
Wehey! As I leapt from the speeding frame
I fell into a running roll
And stood straight up and turned around
My bike was laying flat
The back wheel sadly spinning.
I wrung my hands and giggled
And looked about in awe.
The people that saw this happen
Came up and shook their heads
Are you alright? I cant believe what happened.
I didn’t catch his number plate
What a ******* crazy driver
Are you sure you are alright?
A gay irish man was there
You uttured a cry he said
And then flew from your bike
Like a… like a… a ballerina
I forced the wheel back into place
So it was was sort of fit to roll
The chain and gears were gnarled
So I couldn’t exactly ride
On the way two foreign drunks
Looked and spoke about my bike
Autobus smash, I said
Ohhhhhh they said
Finally arriving near finsbury
A man who was cycling past
Said do you need some help?
I said yes please I got run over by a truck
What I can do, said thomas from hungary
Or what we can do
Is take a length of chain out
So at least you can get home
Ok yes please I said
And he bent down and used his little tools
And got his hands all oily black
And made me a fixed gear bike
Now your bike is a fixie bike
So im afraid you cant change the gears
Like my fixie bike, he said
Thanks hungarian dude
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
Behind all of the glamour
Hidden by the glitz
Under all the spray on tans
And distracted by the ****
Lies a Vegas like no other
Not the one you wish to see
The other side of Vegas
Has a cost, it isn't free
A parade of homeless people
Far off strip are daily seen
Heading for a bed and meal
Away from where the grass is green
The locals all accept it
It's a darker part of town
Where there's fewer painted smiles
On this Las Vegas clown
Every other building
Is boarded up or framed
In steel bar covered windows
With no winners at the game
The goal of all the walkers
Is to get to the next day
They can't afford to leave here
They can't afford to stay
Each walkway full of hawkers
Selling water for a buck
Passed out drunks all sleeping
Hoping you will toss a buck
Some saints and many sinners
Came to find the life they lead
Is not the one they looked for
When they came here to fill their greed
Don't look behind the curtain
You will not like what you will find
The darker side of Vegas
Is not one that's in your mind
A parade of desperate people
Walk the streets each night alone
Past the empty buildings
Pass the bail bonds, guns and loans
To truly see Las Vegas
You have to venture off the strip
Into a world of darkness
And in truth, it's a short trip
Behind the glitz and glamour
Away from where the tourists go
Is the dark side of Las Vegas
That only few will ever know
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Mud is good,
Its dead good mud,
It's in me blood,
But where not understood,
Us people of mud,
In the shadow of a gas tank and born on a Mersey bank, I lived on cobbled streets dark and dank,
I played on a ship that sank, and for anything else I wouldn’t thank....... you
On king street docks, girls in cheap frocks, curly locks, time tocks, the boat rocks,
The tanyard smell made life hell for all that dwell, under the bridge,
In Garston L19, it’s the scene, its clean, it’s where I’ve been, it’s not obscene or green, if you know what I mean.
Its community security sincerity and every other word that ends with erity,
But it’s fallen apart,
Don’t lose heart.
I go into town when I’m down, it clears me frown,
I don’t go in me jarmies or me dressin gown,
There’s men with round bellies, toddlers in wellies,
Posh ladies gather in their marks and spencer swagger,
There’s scouse brow teens, sunbed queens,
Hunks and punks, lonely drunks,
Suits in boots forgetting their roots and hens in *****
Big issue sellers, statue fellas holding golf umbrellas,
Coz of all the rain,
But it’s all good, coz we come from mud,
Let’s cheer, why?
Coz I’m here,
I’m me, me names T, and me hubbys P me best friends she..... lagh,
I like coffee and toffee and Roger Mcgoughy,
I like statistics logistics eye shadow and lipsticks,
I like bags and wags and cigarette **** but not beer,
I’m fine on wine if I take me time,
I don’t do a line, unless I’m hanging me washing on it,
I work in a bar, not far, I don’t drive a car, and I don’t say Lar or kid or lad or lid or mar,
I’m proud and loud, don’t live on a cloud, and I don’t follow the crowd,
I’m a mum to some, I’ve got a big round *** but I’m me you see,
I’m not square, I dye me hair, I swear but you can take me anywhere,
Coz I care,
I’m good,
I’m mud; it’s in me blood,
Understood
By Christina Ford
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
I wish that I
could fall in love
with a female,
for she would make
a far better muse than
the gruff sailors and musicians
and drunks and men
in general that I am
inclined to crave.
to write about
a painted pout or
skin that brushes against
your own like nylon,
sunlight shining through
the window onto a Cupid's bow
and dancing down to
a delicate clavicle, or
black eyelashes that bat
and blink remorse
into your cavernous heart,
to muse over such aesthetic
delights, would be
ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful
women, androgynous women,
delicate, feline women,
stringing words
together in my head
over long legs and
hair that flutters like silk,
and they think I'm crazy
or in love with them.
well, maybe I am crazy,
but I crawl into bed each night
with my snarling, gleaming,
mahogany gentleman,
and I love him madly,
my rugged muse.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets
Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives
This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy
We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Fred Gorgeous works as a Valet
at a reputable tall hotel
with pools
with marble bathrooms
and those marble bathrooms have marbled ********
marbled sinks where the elderly pinch out blood from their lungs
Fred Gorgeous is balding
he wears glasses
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous listens to love songs in spanish alone
Fred Gorgeous has a Dog
his dog barks at nothing
his dog never sleeps
his dog is ugly too
his dog has brown black eyes and a blue collar
Fred Gorgeous has eyes too
his eyes are green
Fred Gorgeous lives in an apartment downtown
Police sirens quake through the city atmosphere like World War 1 **** chemical war fare
Fred Gorgeous submerges himself underwater in his un-marble bath tub
Fred Gorgeous can still hear the Police Sirens
they have tainted the water too
Fred Gorgeous was in love once
many times
but mostly once
Fred Gorgeous smokes cigarettes
Fred Gorgeous listens to Spanish music in the afternoon
while the city is at work
while the kids are at school
while the drunks are drunk in drunk encouraging residents
Fred Gorgeous buys cheap wine
3 dollars a bottle
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous is 34 years old
He is bored
He is not tired
He has 3 pairs of shoes
All of them leather
Fred Gorgeous gets drunk and lays in his closet
the size of a Coffin
and smells his shoes
Fred Gorgeous enjoys the smell of leather and shoe polish
Fred Gorgeous isn't special
Fred Gorgeous isn't great
Fred Gorgeous isn't brave
or a hero
Fred Gorgeous isn't anything at all
Fred Gorgeous has a painting of a tornado on his wall.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
I miss the drunks. The y3lling.
The inhalation of beer and cigarettes
Chased down by ego and godlessness.
How many times
hqve I written to this song,
and never heard beauty once?
Like the sweet pinch of a grapefruit,
before the sunset of sweat,
the same sunset that hailed warfare for boys.
I loved you so much once,
I still do, but you are like mist,
and I am blind.
I miss backstabbers, creeps, catfish,
vampires, crows,
an angel.
When I was young I would screech down the hill
in my toy truck,
plastic chassis a powerhouse,
canary and howling,
I'd crash into the same cherry tree a million times.
Call me Avalanche.
Call me Indisputable.
Call me the Powerhouse.
Call me,
I missed you.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Mean girls wear the latest styles
Have fake smiles
Gossip, compare
Sow division, despair
Their gardens grow in shadowy places
Behind walls, in hidden spaces
Their nectar has a bitter taste
But flies are not discerning
They swallow like drunks, cheap wine
Sour acid, their own sublime
Gluttons crying “More and more!”
Rise up in a pungent cloud
And acid rain comes pouring down.
The vile liquid which they spread--
Their sustenance, their daily bread—
On filthy lips, feeds new seed heads.
So their gardens will always grow,
Filled with thorns and jagged rows
And roots running and deep and long and strong,
In the dark, where they belong.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.
Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.
**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Dream Catchers, egg hatchers, baby Snatchers, **** wackers, lip smackers, online hackers, ***** slappers, hand clappers, exotic flappers, lazy slackers, suitcase packers, & back stabbers.
Hate & defeated, cheat & feel the heat. Too weak & petite. Tales of hell, wishes on a well, thoughts are things you can't always sell. Sometimes words can be lies liars tell. One day to your death to you fell.
Pass it on. I don't belong. Some people are wrong. Die. I won't cry.
Pakrat hoarders, pro choice aborters, two faced home wreckers, voodoo curses, retired lazy old nurses.
Deaf & Blind, racist & unkind, poor & unemployed. Broke & exploited. Dumb, old, ugly, & fat. ***** stinking rat. Piles & piles of crap.
College professors, real estate investors, coaches, cockaroaches, poachers, perverts & ****** meat eatting caravores. Bums & addicts drunks & fanatics, obsessive compulsive, stalkers too possessive, insane aggressive.
Author Notes :
Partially true, could be your family.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
today bob delahunty visits 3 ladies who preaches god to stop their sons from drinking
the first lady, really gets offended if her son turns off god, mind you, she lets him have
his own beliefs, but in saying that, when he makes jokes about religion, she gets really offended
and says, you should believe in god, god is the powerful being, god is the almighty saviour and
god will be there for you at every turn, and bob came in, and told this lady, that there are
possibilities that god is a myth, and you need your son to have his own beliefs and the lady
got offended for what bob said, and told bob, that god is up there looking over each of us
and i am trying to show my son, that god isn’t powerful, as such, but is a blessing to have
him watch over us, and bob said, you need to understand, religion is a touchy subject ya see
and the lady said your the devil, and she went away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
the second lady keeps her 15 year old daughter locked up in the basement because she didn’t trust
the evil spirits around her, you see she hung around these two prostitutes, because they are terribly
nice to her, and her mother didn’t like what she is doing, so she bought these iron chains, to tie the devil
right out of her, and bob said, this is wrong, we must explain to this lady, that god will not condone this
and the lady said in her defines, my daughter hangs with devil people, and bob said, no, you are the devil
i am not saying what she is doing is rightt, but you make them sound good, and chaining your daughter
in your basement is definatlely the wrong solution for you to do, and the lady said to bob, i want my daughter
to understand what she is doing is wrong, she is disobeying gods commands, and until she understands
i have no excuse but to keep her chained in my basement, and bob hit her with a wooden spoon, not enough
to **** just enough to rescue her daughter from her clutches, and after 2 hours, she got to her feet and said
where is my daughter, and bob said, i rescued her from you, and you need to understand that this was wrong
and the lady mumbled to herself saying
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB
The third lady was a little old lady who loves knitting, but she has really bogus beliefs, you see to her anyone
who drinks, was the devil, and if her son went out drinking, she would get cranky with him, no matter what
age he was, you see she claims the devil was giving her the impression that her son is committing crimes
and behaving like a hooligan, and when her son, tries to speak up for himself, she goes QUIET, we need
our almighty GOD, to save you from the devil’s clutches and her son called bob in, because they can’t keep
going on like this, and bob came in to talk to the old lady, asking her, what makes you think that he is worshipping
the devil, you see it’s possible that he is out having a good time at the club drinking with mates, and the lady said
i was raised to think drinking was the work of the devil and when i think of what young people get up to now, no
i am doing the right thing, protecting my son from the evil drunks, no son of mine is parading around on the streets
like a hooligan and bob said, yeah but, i think he is being a man, to enjoy a few beers with family and the lady said
i don’t care, drinking is the work of the devil, and there is no doubt about it, and bob told her, you must understand
your son, and she said i don’t need to understand him, as she walked away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
your the devil, bob, don’t deny it, buddy
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND THE ALMIGHTY BOB, to save everyone from delusions forever
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Strolling down the dusty road
I reached the path of an abode.
The Black Shamrock an Irish pub
I stopped inside for a pint mug.
One mug topped off with ale
That next to Guiness Stout
Looked pale, A Pilsner in the glass.
And down the bar a drunken fool
Sat staring with blurred eyes and drool.
A sassy colleen tended the bar.
And if your hands were free,
They wouldn't get far, for
If they reach to the wrong place.
You'ld a bar wenches Slap.
Across your face, and a spot of red
For all to see, that you got the Hand.
Of Molly McGee, a fiddler Bowed.
An Irish Jig, and a penny whistle.
Carried the tune to the drunken crowd
Within the room, a game of darts is made
While cribbage by old farts is played.
And the pints are emptied by the hour.
As the clock rings out in the churches tower
As drunks are Roused, and doors are closed
Old friends will stumble down the road.
All in an Irish night
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
To you we are...
rebels
drunks
self centered ********
lazy
dumb
destructive
trouble makers
criminals
and irresponsible
But really we're...
heart broken
the misfits
young and in love
the dreamers
looking for our place
and most of all misunderstood
accept us
After all we're just
Teenagers.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
The machinesed drones droning ozones
made of homogenised genes by replicants
from clinical doctrines and empirical indulgences
Soulless and efficient, bred for duties destructives
Capitalist fodder, programmed ready for earth's ****
Regulate as required, inputted subs with pigs hearts
Made followers with voracious appetite for blood
mechanised barbarians on leash with one track mix
Human shire horses in designer shods and faulty gauges
Manufactured manufacturers limited and corollated
Factories, dormitories partnered with like, watered
and bedded till tomorrow, audiod to the Sterling whip
Given ample ales, keep blinded and chained
Distract and cater to baser instincts, *** *** ***
Free 'love' free *** valueless values, what values
Enjoy kids must return to work desk seven on the dot
Time is money, clogs and production
waits for no man, do or your pleasures denied
Money, money money, honey for bees, honey for drones
Soulless, dehumanised, pale, aged at thirty, heart attacks next
Vacuous ghost programmed dunces
Malfunctioning entities devoid of humanity
Superficial plasticated robots, destruction default
Industrial pieces with industrial minds
Chemicalized drunks with wired brains
They roam around screaming freedom and power!
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
I've seen hobos and hippies at bus stops
Goths, drunks and stoners
Pretty skinny girls with Starbucks in their pretty hands and leggings
Quiet girls with notebooks
Guys who are loud and always smiling
Guys who keep to themselves
People wearing a moustache and a skirt
Mothers with 6 children and a pet bird perched on their stroller
I always wonder of them
I have seen you
With your nice eyes
And silence
The quiet way you don't speak
How you always wear long sleeves
And I wonder about you
...Does anybody ever wonder about me?
I doubt it.
You have to be interesting, to be wondered about.
Or in a movie.
Or a book.
Or a fairytale.
You need to live in daydreams.
I think I need to move.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
I'm sorry for all that was said and done.
Truth be told, drunks and phones shouldn't mix, I'll attest to that.
The later stages of being drunk lead to some very interesting confessions,
***** secrets spilled to open air,
If only someone would hear this drunken fool.
Confessions of words once whispered and missed chances,
Hidden feelings, and imaginary romances.
Words I might've ate, instead I would over contemplate.
Thinking about how I could never stand a chance.
But no one wants to hear this sober fool.
The outdoor type, was you to a T, never meant for me.
I can put up a tent, start a fire and that's about it.
I thought it was great, a small bit of your attention was all it took,
to teach me something not in a book.
But who's listening to this lying fool.
A bombers moon and the stars, I'd pick them over nights at bars,
Even if it were just to reminisce about a night we shared.
Hours walking to clear my head,
Of things that your friend twice said.
Yes, this confession of a regretful fool.
I'm sorry for all that was said and done,
For not saying at the time, but I've missed my chance,
I would bet on that with my last dime.
But I had to say, and I've got to know,
Did you maybe want to grab a coffee to go?
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
Illegal aliens,
Holy and blameless
Invade from planet dysfunction
Land at our border
From their galaxy of failed Latin states:
Narco-thugocracies
Feudal kleptocracies
Where the girls get knocked up at 15
And illiterate drunks get macheted
on saturday night
Then go to Mass in the morning
as litter blows
through graveyards.
They will enrich us
with their diversity.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
i took into a motel
on my way somewhere, to do something
the place was occupied by pedophiles, prostitutes and drunks
it had a "rent by the hour" option
outlaws, bikers and the occasional wannabe poet
on the run
on the hunt
we were all comfortable with America
half-heartedly chasing the Dream
i wanted to write a poem about jerking off
and getting *** all over myself
and having nothing to wipe it off with
so i decided (in the poem) to wait till it dried out
but then it never dried, so i laid there for days
until i got dizzy with hunger,
and had to get up (in the poem)
with the *** dripping down my body
leaving awful wet stains all over the room
on the drapes and sheets and remote control
"by god, it's everywhere!" i cried (in the poem)
but then i remembered that my mom reads my poems
so instead i wrote about these cows i saw
cows grazing on a pasture outside San Antonio
cows looking up at the sky
secretly dreaming of going to the moon
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:48 PM UTC