"foodstamp" poems - Hello Poetry

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

0

Sep 11, 2012

Sep 11, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC

drake-gonzales

Pimpin' Ain't Easy and Selling Crack Ain't Legal

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

18

Don’t tell your mother when she visits home that I sleep beneath frayed house shoes, under floorboards, noticing creaks. Or how I pulled the trigger here, to my chest, and after how you fled along the highway, dropping a second .40 though, out the window (still loaded with a slug meant for you) where tire-marked mutts bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds. Tell her I watch you crawl into your bed and still try to keep you warm, beside your father. Still living behind these walls I feel his thumbs press into my skin, (closing bullet belly-holes) while my icy fingers sew him a new pair of wrists. Ask your mother, why she forced separate beds on her lover-mate, and why the running pink from his arms still stain our kitchen sink. Let her heavy ***** know, (it's not her fault) she shoved us from this single-bath American rancher, with one foodstamp still hidden in her blue-jean back pocket and with the Walmart all the ways across a black-clouded interstate. Make sure she welcomes these trapped ghosts hanging on wooden clothesline-pinned sheets, swaying with wind gusts from the highway where unlucky stray dogs bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds.

0

Oct 15, 2014

Oct 15, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC

chase-graham

Wild Sage (Ghosts)

Don’t tell your mother when she visits home that I sleep beneath frayed house shoes, under floorboards, noticing creaks. Or how I pulled the trigger here, to my chest, and after how you fled along the highway, dropping a second .40 though, out the window (still loaded with a slug meant for you) where tire-marked mutts bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds. Tell her I watch you crawl into your bed and still try to keep you warm, beside your father. Still living behind these walls I feel his thumbs press into my skin, (closing bullet belly-holes) while my icy fingers sew him a new pair of wrists. Ask your mother, why she forced separate beds on her lover-mate, and why the running pink from his arms still stain our kitchen sink. Let her heavy ***** know, (it's not her fault) she shoved us from this single-bath American rancher, with one foodstamp still hidden in her blue-jean back pocket and with the Walmart all the ways across a black-clouded interstate. Make sure she welcomes these trapped ghosts hanging on wooden clothesline-pinned sheets, swaying with wind gusts from the highway where unlucky stray dogs bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds.

30

if i got all the abortions i wanted would you still **** my haunted ***** baby gettin a nonsense foodstamp speed bump sticker off a key bump off do i need **** to write poems? coming forward up with something and figuring out you kicking, kicking the kickers and a bunch of rhetorical qeustion? stalactite cellulite bring back britney she aint deadff **** you

0

Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC

dogswater

Untitled

if i got all the abortions i wanted would you still **** my haunted ***** baby gettin a nonsense foodstamp speed bump sticker off a key bump off do i need **** to write poems? coming forward up with something and figuring out you kicking, kicking the kickers and a bunch of rhetorical qeustion? stalactite cellulite bring back britney she aint deadff **** you

12