"dumpsters" poems
Dumpsters rain on lots,
Seagulls fly over asphalt,
. . . Ocean food waiting.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
****** does that to you...
Phone rings,
It's 1 a.m.
Private number.
I know what that means.
"Hello" I say.
His voice is shakey,
He chokes out the words.
"Mom, I just got arrested,
I'm going to jail."
I took a deep breath,
Giving me time to think
Of the right words to say.
"Ok, I love you.
Don't forget to tell them
That your gonna be sick."
****** does that to you...
"Mom, I should of listened to you.
I'm sorry.
Next time I will."
How many next times,
Thinking to myself.
I can't count how many times he's been arrested,
And sent to juvie or jail.
We both knew this time it would be prison.
****** does that to you...
"That's what you said last time.
But you just keep running back to it.
I know your sorry.
No matter what,
I will always love you.
I am holding you right now baby boy."
He cries even harder.
"Mom I'm scared of getting sick.
I really want a cigarette."
21 years old but he sounds like a 3 year old,
With a high pitched whine.
****** does that to you...
Last time I saw him he looked 35
And probably only weighed 110.
Arms scarred with needle marks
Infected sores throughout his body.
Smelled of sweat and dumpsters
Where he had been digging for food.
I barely recognized him.
Where had my son gone?
He couldn't look me in the eye.
****** does that to you...
L. Mack
6/17/18
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:22 PM UTC
From day one he was trouble
His parents knew on sight
Their bundle of pure joy and bliss
Was somehow, just not right
It wasn't in his nature
To be part of a gang
He like to be off by himself
He liked things that went bang
He was troubled in his school years
Never getting real good marks
He didn't get along with other
He was burning caps and making sparks
But when this boy found fire
Well, then....his world became real small
Never mind the big explosions
He would go and burn them all
Small fires set in dumpsters
Behind the shops, by where he ran
He'd set fire to the garbages
While he trapped a cat inside the can
He progressed on up to buildings
Made that jump, in one big way
He torched a crack house, all abandoned
Buy using gas and old, dry hay
But, the thrill was not a keeper
It wore off as fast as it arrived
He had to extend the feeling
That made his body feel alive
He knew to see his fires
He would have to volunteer
First he would go set them
Then, help put them out...I fear
It was a stroke of pyro genius
He'd set them and he'd put them out
He'd learn what gave them trouble
And he'd give them more without a doubt
He never killed another
Never burnt a persons home
He always set his fires
Where buildings always stood alone
They caught him late September
He'd burned a building late one night
It was supposed to be abandoned
But, was full of squatters, out of sight
The picture, it was famous
A hippie shaking someone's hand
It was on the front page of the paper
And it was shown through out the land
A fingerprint was lifted
A switch, that burned, not like it should
And from there, it was no problem
To lock this boy away for good
He was sent away to prison
He was gonna die there, bet on that
And on his first day in that prison
He saw an old man, who just sat
Sitting in the corner
by himself, no one around
Sat a man, all old and wrinkled
Lips were moving, but no sound
Came forth from this man's mouth,
his lips all cracked and dry,
You could stand right there and listen
And hear nothing if you tried...
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed ***** and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.
We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.
One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.
Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
Hello
this is a short message
written this Sunday morning
on March the first
the rain keeps coming from the west
non-stop for two days
risk of flooding
government says.
I miss you - had another dream
driving in sunshine.
It's the sun I miss
mostly - and then of course
there is your friendship
to treasure and to hold.
I hope you're having fun
on your quad.
They say four wheels
are better than two
I'm not so sure
how could you
have Zen and the art of
quad biking -
impossible?
I see you have given in
to peer pressure or whatever
and made your modest entry
in the ******** book
I had a quick look.
It looks
OK.
Now I suppose Twitter
and MySpace
where you can compose
even wittier
sayings.
You're a true master
of Wisdom
with a capital W
But it is not that
you struggle to say something
wise
it comes spontaneously
best when blurted out
immediate response
like:
"they throw babies in dumpsters
in your country too, Janet?"
She'd never forgotten it
as it
was such a strange and powerful thing to say
by the way
I googled your name
and you have loads of coverage
mostly under AHEC and Best.
This is just a few short lines
to say you are on my mind
and in my heart
as always
yours
me.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
I want to be a Disney Kid.
I want to swim the seven seas and fall magically in love,
Never grow up and fight the evil pirates.
I want to grant my wishes and soar on a magic flying carpet,
Marry a beast who lives wealthy and loves me for me.
I want to go into war for the sake of my ill father,
Dance at a ball and lose my glass slipper.
I want to wake up surrounded by miniatures dwarfs,
Be pricked by a spindle and kissed to be awakened.
I want to be a Native American, who falls in love with a man who sees me different,
Grow my hair till it touches the ground.
I want to kiss a frog and fall into a magical world,
Swing on vines while beating my chest, yelling the mighty call.
I want to grow my nose till I can’t tell a lie anymore,
Soar through the sky with my floppy big ears.
I want to fall into a hole to find another crazy dimension,
Be a black spotted dog with 101 puppies.
I want to land with my umbrella to interact with kids,
Eat spaghetti behind the garbage dumpsters with classical music.
I want to be best friends with a beagle,
Be a deer who meets all sorts of animals.
I want to be a pirate fighting on the Caribbean,
Eat honey all day till my tummy gets full.
I want to be the king and rule the jungle kingdom,
Be lost at sea and touch the ****
I want to be a live toy and go on mischievous adventures,
Be a race car and drive the highways.
I want to be in New York and hang with the big dogs,
Fly in a house full of balloons.
I want to turn into a bear and see life differently,
Have a humpback and be treated so unfair.
I want to be Hercules and become powerful,
Become friends with a bear and boogie all down.
I want to scream to the world the sky is falling,
Become a cow on the range.
I want to be a pampered aristocat.
There are so many things I want to do and see in the eye of the magical fantasy.
I want to be a Disney kid.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
vain fluff, temporary garbage
954 pieces of trash is too much
to pick up
let the most dazzling of sunlight
and cool shade get along in peace
let the blue fat flies settle on the miles
of back alleyways full of dumpsters
veiled threats from anonymous faces
who are apparently experts in poetry
let it all rot under a gibbous moon
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
Every time I walked these cobbled streets
its just after the rains
as if God himself is trying to wash
this city down the drains
Narrow streets and terraced houses
back yard postage stamps
overflowing dumpsters
cashless carry for the tramps
No vibrant colours to be found
just different shades of brown
the colour of depression
destined to drag you down
No wonder everybody leaves
can't wait to get away
escape this drab and dying maze
in search of sunny days
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 2:40 PM UTC
All the night long!
The far song
Plays in trees of light
----
.
Dreams!
.
We would
(Finally!)
Go forth and find
The keys to the kingdom
Walk thru the doorway
Stroll unto heaven!
-
-
-
Was it even there??
Children?
.
or
Fools!
------
Now
Where are we ?
Who are we!
------
betrayed
Betrayed by our trusting
Our loving
Our caring
Our simple hope for a pure grace
-----
betrayed
Alone
In deserted fields
Broken
Alleyways
--
Listen
Listen!!
.
The far song !
I hear it !
Whistling thru the dumpsters out to the streets!
Come on! Come on! Come on!
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
It’s all laundry and cigarettes
White-knuckle odd jobs
And freezing your *** off, at 7 AM, to
Help your buddy out
Breaking and bleeding, and
Smoking and shirtless, and
Spinning your finger and thumb
Counter-clockwise until the
Resulting ring of fire and fury can
Torch your inhibitions
No one ever restricted you from
Rioting with grace
And through the windshield of your vision,
The streets wake up to the smell of
Alcohol and experience
It’s all rubble in dumpsters, and
Spray paint that swears
Oaths, to bands and bandages
Singing the praises of
Stolen promises, their swiftly
Prying minds can’t understand
And you’re standing
In front of the truck
Arms outstretched
Pistons firing air through your
Organs, that vibrate with the
Trepidation of nightmarish resolve
It’s all battlefields and accomplices,
The kid that kicked you down so,
That you’d eat the dirt,
Place your teeth in
Leather pouches,
And taste defeat for decades
You’re pleasantly high on the
Smoke of your still-burning debt
You’re a supermarket superhero
You’re the queen of the Gasoline Dream
It’s in the way that
Your outline is
Edged out
By your insides, and the
Arms of the chair have become
Wings, that unfurl over
Valleys and oceans, of headstones,
And nursery wards
Tinted windows promise nothing
Regarding secrecy of soul
What would your wisdom teach me
About sentience?
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
If YE carve yer initials on YE when YE cut
Yourself
It'll help the coroner when he comes for YE
•
•
•
(Being civic minded)
••
••
She sleeps in dumpsters cause she DONT like to litter
(Being civic minded)
••
She don't bother anyone with true feelings
She has fantacy boyfriends who she imagines abuse her
She prays to god to simply ignore her
She stays stupid cause she's very humble
She hates herself cause she DONT want to be a bother
••
(She is very civic minded)
••
••
Ears full closed to any truth said
Simple gonna suffer until she's dead
(Being civic minded)
••
She's a very good girl
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
Starving his people so that they eat off dumpsters is not enough;
Causing more than 3,000,000 of the best and brightest to emigrate is not enough;
An annual inflation rate of 60,324% today (source: Forbes) is not enough;
Rejecting at gun point foreign food and medicine to aid the sick and starving at the borders is not enough;
Trampling on the Constitution and establishing a dictatorship is not enough;
Billions of dollars stolen from the Venezuelan people by cronies is not enough;
Destroying hope, progress, and a leading world economy is not enough;
Today government thugs are literally running over protesters in armored vehicles.
A small group of rabid-left apologists in the U.S. telling us to ignore the man behind the curtain in an insane attempt to defend the indefensible must face reality.
Maduro must go.
His Marxist dystopia must be dismantled.
The Venezuelan people must regain the right of self determination through free and fair elections--not the sham elections all Communist nations use to show close to 100% approval of the ruling tyrant.
Enough is enough!
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC
I got this job because I was seventeen
Available everyday at three
In debt with a man after I went clean
My boss at the time was thirty six with a goatee
Five dollars an hour plus tip, you see
It was fine for me.
I met the others standing by the kitchen line
All of them with the same look in their eye
Lying to family and friends saying, financially, their fine
Getting nothing on a tip and never knowing why
Yet they return the next day to serve white wine
Looking around I see all of us wanted more
But I’m in debt and you have to pay the rent
Do it all in one day and go home to a son that’s four
Under the thumb of an old vice president
The roof over the kitchen is about to cave in
And we watch with silent eyes
Because our uniforms are being held with safety pins
Promised new ones but Corporate lies
And when the bubble in the ceiling pops
We’ll be by the dumpsters flicking cigarettes on the road
While the greedy pigs come in drawing lots
Waiting for the gas stove to explode
Paid vacation sounds lovely
Been here every week for the past year
Sometimes I’m called to come in early
Pick up the broken glass from lunch rush beer
The people come in
Angry as they usually are
Now the glares don’t even touch my skin
It makes me laugh how many nasty people sit at the bar
The high-class families who come in for din
It’s been eight hours and six years
Since we started our shift
Staying here for three more is the biggest fear
But we’re already ******
We’ve been here for long we know this career
What else am I supposed to know
Other than how to make dough
It’s been a long night
You can see it in the height
Of cigarette buts by the dumpster
Where we can freely talk about the customer
It’s a busy life
Feels like we’re running out of time
To get out and ignore the strife
But there are times when the tips make us feel sublime
And we can buy a warm meal
Cause maybe it will heal
These aching muscles
That come from a constant hustle
Don’t you see why they say
At the end of the day
We need an ashtray.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC
quietly observing the area within sight
surrounded by the stench of the dumpsters
hearing squeaking sounds in the night
its keen eyes swiveled to pinpoint the noise
in the distance it spots its target
climbing over a spilled garbage bag
the ragged mouse was starving yet
working so hard to sniff out anything
edible which could be its next meal
being quick on its feet it realized it
was being watched so it ran so fast
to get away from what it saw as
its enemy the greedy rat
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Dumpsters are cold
Shelter grow mold
and slim is the spanging
Whiskey is warm
Dreads are the norm
and our sanity is estranging
Food out of cans
Roadtrip plans
The highways are always changing
Flying deceiving signs
Waiting in foodstamp lines
Sympathies constantly rearranging
Constellations are the roof
Provides strangeness aloof
Capitalism's fat ca-ching
Dirt inbetween toes
Where to? nobody knows
Life on the edge of healing
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
span
across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.
I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.
We're gonna trickle past addresses
now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
I can taste it now.
Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
spans
all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.
I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.
A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.
We're gonna flow right through these boule-
vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
We walked through.
Stingy back alleys.
Decadent
in their fading
twilight glory.
Obnoxious dumpsters.
Teemed
with rusted belongings.
We took pictures.
Discussing technique.
In depth
connected by
secret jargon.
Enlightened meaning.
Dripped
from knowing tongues.
© 2012
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
Now:
The EMTs respond.
A Jane Doe is found dead.
Beneath the I-90 overpass.
They lift her
Zip her into a bag,
And transport her to the morgue.
They can’t feel sad.
Today:
The few wispy strands of hair that remain
Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head
Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips
betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition
Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within.
Her eyes dim as her body putrifies.
Last Week:
Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence
A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and
Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted
She would be less wet and cold.
For a night.
They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup.
The rats eat most of it.
She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway.
Last Month:
The shelter is scary and dangerous.
She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’.
The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM.
She finds a spot between two dumpsters.
It reeks of **** but is unoccupied.
Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads.
The crime is unreported.
Last Year:
The fluorescent lights sting her eyes.
The antiseptic smell burns her nose.
The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented.
She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps.
A painful jab in her arm and then nothing.
Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze.
Kindly eyes greet her.
They stay with her.
They accompany her to the shelter.
They tell her to come back for follow-on care.
She never sees them again.
Before:
The divorce rips her heart in two.
She has nothing.
She is nothing.
Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Everything has become so wrong.
Once Upon a Time:
She was happy. Joyful.
Filled with life and hope.
He was smart, funny, successful.
Together they were magical.
Perfect.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
She was born in the back alleys of bones
left as scrap thrown to the dogs
by men who chewed her raw
and picked their teeth
with the edge of her.
When sprouts formed,
and skin and flesh blanketed her existence,
and blood dripped into her veins
from body bags in dumpsters:
she began to grow anger,
and brain,
and heart,
and eyes,
and fists.
So she may see the men her tossed her,
and attain her vengeance.
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
I took a trip down the ecstatic abyss of Amoria
Through narrow crooked bylanes and juniper dumpsters
Peering through moments of insipid laughter
Prime pranksters, nerdsters and gooseberry gangsters
Languishing through marauding beauracratic rituals
Peering through unexpected ideals and benign gestures
Then out in this rugged terrain lay the bear with cold feet
Eyes like blessed blue whales and timid water hyacinth
Narrow corridors of limbs endowed with firm yet hollow muscles
Tuberculosis and octopus gunk lay smeared in every nostril
"Ah! Nauseating yet divine!" said the knight to the pitiful jester
Rowan Moses
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
bernie the cheese
collapsed at the side
of the road
his measured response depleted
he watches as she folds up
her neat and meticulously spelled words
plied on silver tongue into her rucksack
and through such ******* ********** of kings english
she entices him ever onward where
faint lines can be sought
and yet to be found
that echo the face of true madness
its laughing sweating continence
painted with watercolours and
can only be seen in the reflection of
a mirror reflecting another mirrors image
her face slowly releases its dire grip
and her eye looses it screaming aspect
as she finds herself alone on the ***** alleys cobblestones
the battered dumpsters spilling treasures for the divers to find
she begins to hum a beatles tune from '63
and fingers the lace shawl hiding her deformed mind
trying once more to capture that vast lost feeling from
girlhood that dances a
dubious little jig on her headstone of the heart
singing 'lookie here....look at whats buried here'
she remembers his face but not his name
he drove a silver buick with a skull painted on the hood
his blond features engraved in the notions
his words mixed with foul smelling chicken soup
he was a soup of the day in her salad years
bernie the cheese
chews on the charbroiled taste of his
blowup doll lover's lips and tries to say
the three magic words
'made in china'??
his own words spent he casts about
in terror for a phrase or two to quote from
the masters of deception
who gather round in long grey coats
sinister eyes on the fruits of his labour
their wooden faces warped by rain
their mouths only a dim perceived line of
mumbles written in childlike scrawl
on the backs of closet doors
we hide here because we cannot see
therefore we cannot be seen
you cant touch me because i cannot feel
they gift him at price unnamed some loose parable
naught more that glib reprise of his own perilous straights
his is the beast that labours in their stead
he is their human face
she is but the road they walk today
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
I’m a failed musician
Broken
On the side of the street
Against the curb
Just like my guitar
And its useless strings.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a monotonous teacher
Depressed
In a silent, spacious classroom
Behind a podium
Just like my lecture
And its empty words.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a desperate ***
Insane
In a smelly, cold alleyway
Between scraped Dumpsters
Just like my self-made house
And its ***** bed.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a trapped housewife
Alone
In a deteriorating home
Beside unchanged relatives
Just like my furniture
And its absurd point.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a bored adventurer
Hopeless
Out somewhere upon the sea
On this old, worn sailboat
Just like my journey
And its careless end.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a dead poet
Thoughtless
In my lonely, dim room
At my unstable desk
Just like my manuscript
And its blank pages.
At least, I feel I still exist.
Exist, exist, exist!
Through liberty or slavery,
Through love or hate,
Through energy or matter,
Through life or death,
Like Whitman or me.
Just exist for your legacy!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Here's something you don't see everyday. Although I've seen it a few times before on my street... A homeless man pulling a bicycle which is attached to the most astounding construct! Made of bicycle wheels and plastic webbing, chicken wire and aluminum piping, this huge mobile container for tin cans, and whatever this homeless individual can scrounge to resell, is almost the size of a garbage truck! And carries probably hundreds of pounds of aluminum cans.
In constant danger from cars and trucks, this is an outstanding testament to human ingenuity and dogged determination. The man marches on, stopping occasionally to take a container to dumpsters looking for cans. Whatever he can find.
I asked him if he needed something to eat or drink. He just smiled and shook his head. "I need to move on." And I realized he probably takes advantage of the nighttime to do his searching, as it is too hot during the day to do so. I smile and wave and wish him blessings.
If I ever feel like I am put upon in this life, I should feel ashamed. This man has shamed me utterly. I've invited him up to my porch in the past. Giving him food and drink. He is a believer. And I've never met a more cheerful brother in the Lord Jesus Christ! But he doesn't take any credit for his outstanding ingenuity and Drive. He gives the glory to God. I have tears in my eyes as I write this. He was also an addict and finds it very difficult to find a place to live due to his past. So he sleeps on the streets and does what he needs to do to survive. And survive he does!
I say a prayer for this stalwart. His name is Ben. Will you join me in my prayers (good thoughts)? I think he deserves them, don't you?
♡ Catherine
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Vegans are from Venus
Meat eaters are from Mars,
Vegetarians sit around the
breakfast nook light years
from Polaris, knee deep
in far away stars.
All the bread eaters are
closet bakers in disguise.
Those who lunch out
of dumpsters
spend their days
pulling the wings off of flies..
Nobody knows the
troubles they have seen,
and the apathy of the
middle class, well that
is nothing short of obscene.
The protein shake pumpers
sneer at old time
Bible thumpers.
While the yoga
young collectibles
leave a good portion
of the day largely unsung,
knowing full well they
have nothing worthy
to kiss off the tip
of their tongue.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:41 PM UTC