"junkyards" poems
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
71.8k
It’s like some beast
whose roar startles
drowsy landscapes
from a mechanical planet
where veins leak oil
where organs deoxidize
where bones lay scattered
unburied like discarded rods
homes are garages
churches are factories
cemeteries are junkyards
where all organisms operate
toward a singular optimum imperative:
EFFICIENCY
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Junkyards are cemeteries too
they're just the ones no one brings flowers to
or visits after they've said goodbye
and they are filled to the brim
with forgotten wheels and empty bodies
and I am sick of these wheelbarrow operations
and the way the mice eyes sparkle
as they wait by the mailboxes
that don't even belong to them
for love letters from the cats that will never come
because when she said "I love you"
it was a junkyard kind of goodbye that she meant
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC
Screaming at the moon during cloudless nights has become
the only form of
therapy that works anymore.
I'm waiting for
the night it will invite me to curl up in its craters and whisper every
childhood fear
you brought up into conversation when I told you
my memories could be used to show how words
can be sharper than the
broken bottles
your mother lusted. Sleepless nights are sobering my head and
my voice box is starting to suffer more than
the Mona Lisa, but you never liked art that didn't hand you
its meaning with open arms and
a pat on the back. I wish time did more than rust
the only things with
something of value, but
junkyards aren't good replacements for falling stars and
forgotten chunks of metal remind me too much of
the way you loved with a steel heart and
icy touch. You claimed I could find
refuge in between your
ribs, but every
cell in your body is frozen solid and I never found comfort in the way ice sculptures morbidly melt in the presence of the sun with
crossed arms and
a closed mind. I'm sorry
my walls have grown taller than your pride, but i hoped i would be something more than a quest filled with
ships meant to sink. Consequently, maps have grown to be
sly creatures, and the
darts i'm throwing at the world all end up on your
roof without a scratch. I wanted to be more than your
fading scar, and I hope you'll look at your arms
one morning and realize they could be touching mine, and until you do, i'm just stuck here with nothing but a stomach full of
conscience and
mouth full of words i'll only scream to the sky.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
It's not so much your lips
But the words behind them
And the touch my skin still tingles from
And the way your closed eyelids warm
My stiff neck in the morn
I can see you layered there, bundled
Among the blankets you stole from me
Some time during the night
One hand tucked under the pillow
The other serenely on the bed
You lazily turn, half-languidly
Digging your head into my broad breast
Then heave your leg over my thigh
Kissing my scruffy beard
How can I summon the will
To wake and troop to work?
To be sobered from my delirium!
To be polluted by time and space!
Yanked away from your ethereal landscape
And hurled into corporate junkyards
Of grinding metal, cubicles, alarms
I want to dwell forever in your liebestraum
Like a ghost drifting through a foggy rose garden
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.
We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination
rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--
we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.
We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.
With that realization we weep and
We continue to dig.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.
Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****
gazebos, children are stored.
Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.
A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
You set my heart up on a shelf
Way too high for me to reach
So I can't take it down myself
Therefore you I must beseech
Heard the thoughts you left unsaid
Swear I can almost read your mind
Expression betrays what's in your head
To not read your face have to be blind
Coming to a reluctant acceptance
On the cold side of your shoulder
That I must live without your presence
To accompany me as I grow older
Hooking up with someone new
Doesn't really help at all
Because I compare everyone to you
Making it impossible to fall
Rusted trust is decomposing
Like cars in forgotten junkyards
Pits in my soul created by eroding
Leave my insides hollowed and scarred
If I only I could stop the sorrow
Cover ears but it still trickles in
Wish there was laughter I could borrow
To drown out echoes of your voice within
I try to track down explanations
For why things suddenly went wrong
Hindsight still sees no indications
Pointing to you saying "so long"
One moment we held each other tight
The next we were pulling apart
We swiftly went from kissing goodnight
To seperate beds and broken hearts
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 9:23 PM UTC
Gnosticism guacharos, live disorderly, in the thick of the juncture. Junkyards plethoric, plagiarized with pandemonium, adapting to the actuality that were all inanimate commodities in well built bodies. Garage permeated minds...you cannot preserve a disposition. Then I shall have the upper hand my friend. Cracks in the side walk lead me home...
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
You can put me
in the ground.
You can surely do that.
If you have hands,
sure
and a knife, yes.
a gun, of course.
or,
i don't know..
run me down
with your car
toss me in
a vat of acid
or maybe
train your
Lioness
to maul me
and
to eat me.
you could get inventive with it.
inventiveness is good
i'd adore you for that.
or,
well..
i'd say,
make it
an old fashioned
kind of affair.
swing a shovel
well into my head
and bury me
where i lie.
you'll want a shovel.
yes you will.
your hands,
they're ***** enough already,
i'd say.
and,
it's an awful lot of work-
those graves.
can't make em too shallow.
you don't want to hang.
cuz they'll find you.
and they'll hang you.
they can't dig enough graves
when they forge for themselves
the RIGHT to do so.
...above ground cemetery...
They make Junkyards
out of neighbors.
strangers..
-anyone..
..anyone they can CATCH!
that they can get
enough sets of HANDS on
to hold down.
To judge.
With the collective mind
of the many-headed-beast.
and you're one of the moving pieces
in that swarm of hate..
..that frenzy of Blood-thirst.
that Madness of Zombies...
You are a vital *****
I've seen how you Pulse,
like the red in your eyes..
and,
so,
my friend.
my enemy.
I tell you this:
You can bury me,
i'll allow it.
I might flinch.
I might scream.
The body is involuntary.
It's a shaky contraption.
And you can bury it,
however you want,
but you can not **** me..
THAT....you can not do.
No matter how much you might hunger for it.
No matter
what DEVIL
your name may be.
You can not **** the Heart
which beats outside of this body.
You can not **** the Heart
which beats beyond this world.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
I don't feel lust or admiration
I feel the weight of the past on my heels like I'm Achilles
who am I to decide when the sun should shine and when I should go?
It's taken me years to grow this measly inch, I wonder if I'll ever be able to stand up straight without my ego hitting the ceiling
I'm laying in a bed that's a bit more familiar now trying
to remind myself to stop making it about everybody else
this is me, here now, breathing polluted air and attempting
to turn my saliva into something a little more meaningful
I don't deserve credit, it's what all humans do
I find myself in junkyards often
I walk among the trash and kick cans and find rusted
cars that stopped running years ago unlike you and I
and our pasts filled with scenes of both of us sprinting full speed
we can only talk through our body language which is
why we find ourselves hating each other as often as we do
life would be easier if I picked up two of those cans
and put a month long string through it in order to
have a one on one conversation
I don't know myself
I need to leave this city and start over
because every few months I say the same things
my only ******* emotion is jealousy--
I'm jealous of you for living a life that
didn't once involve me. I want to do that too.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
We became like any ruins or any junkyards , We were beaten to death , We were kicked out for nothing , We were trodden upon violently , We were deprived of our happiness , We were stripped of our real names , We were asked to keep silent , We were slapped on our faces hard , We were left hungry and thirsty everywhere , We were gunned down like birds , We were assassinated like in real movies , We were left homeless and displaced to die , We were thrown like trash-bags in those ugly tents , We were denied our basic things , but We have only God .... We have only God .... We don't have anyone else except God ... There is no else except God ... _______________________________________________________________
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Junkyards.
Filled with oreos.
And dogs.
And cracked windshields.
And not at much filth
as a filth-ridden hilt
on a sword
of a king
or a god.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 5:22 AM UTC
nobody ever fins
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
Dude is wide awake
His waking void understill
Five minuteplastic
The water congeals loudly
In front of his tonsure
Explode out of oceans of salt
To empty that illuminated ditch
When he parts
She supine in other days
Out of a matter filled gas
Over the shell of wellness
Or feather brush
The risen Antigone
Stuffed in her tonsure
Obviously never hearing the lie
Which carries darkness
Away from valleys of pride
The silence of the watchful Dullard
A cold stillness
******* in the forms
Exposing the Moon
She ****** medicine out of her mother's
Nose
Crawled clothed
Into her father's chair
Healing her mother's solidity
("Forget her")
Easy to remember the day
After the wake
She was found in the concrete
And the mother stuck in
Her grown-up gums
She tears his sickness
Not an apathetic ****
Away from him, black tendon
Reinforcing his unity
Without blunt gums
Eternity is drawing her hateful grunts
Of none these abrasive poems
We were a tiny Tonsure
Of the naked ***
Or a pristine sweetbird
Those sated turkeys are cowards
Empty of reverence
The sands were still
Of the red corpuscles
In that second spirit
Our divorce was undone
Sated
Against the white Moon out of his foot
Sated in the noise
This chills
The rejected plans of the impossible
That flitter on possibilities
Look behind ye
The rottings of all that remains
Never staring into
Junkyards of roses
Physical waterspray
Waking forest man
And she, last of the truly ignorant
A whisp burying opiates
Nightmares
And the obvious
Potent dwarves squinting up
From tiny depths
On those haters
Who cool
And freeze
And remain inert, careless, the missing stumps
They stop shrinking
"You lose what you don't want"
He tells her
His oft-described tonsure
Was in his toenails
"Confidence is a weak malady
Go away waking octogenarian
Go to sleep, Go to sleep..."
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
man says, this life, for what, a thousand dry
holes drilled, wildcatting, a win-loss record,
that didn’t approach, come close, to breakeven,
not even an asterisk in the records kept
man says, this body, its rate of desolations
increasing, the goal line distance secretions,
decreasing, this broken runner, tackled from behind
by the past, as his future caught up with him
man says, goals, deadlines, hamstring him,
due dates, an invitation to a criminal activity,
rub, nobody wants to take it down, his record,
left behind, when they shut Rikers Island
man says, always poor at maths, a loser of words,
his parents, his children, all time despairing of him,
called the AAA to come, tow him away, but,
all the junkyards refused him entry
man says, what separates ought and nought,
a little letter, just an n, that screaming thought,
a little letter, insufficient to bridge a poem too far,
man digresses, the past is ever present, in every word
writ and forgot.
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 9:37 AM UTC
The muscle cars have aged out
of high school hamburger stands
and live in landfills
or junkyards
but some survive.
The codger across the street in the end house
keeps his in pristine condition,
replacing its parts, babying its body
in ways he can't do for himself.
I see him rolling out down the street,
into youth,
joy,
music,
health,
until he rounds the corner
and disappears.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 11:38 AM UTC
Terminator ****
Gat caused tragedy, what a gat tastrophy.
Dangerous suspect, got to escape before I end up in quarantine.
Especially with Rats at my back, who are packing heat and coming after me.
But I ain’t fazed because I’m blazed and sipping lean.
Ya want the bad guy?
Then come after me?
Tony Montana ****
Leave ya scarfaced when ya mess with me.
Say hello to my little friend, then hasta lavesta baby!
Boom!
Drop down a flight of stairs and ended up in the living room.
Eating Oreos with some blue milk, dipping them in one by one with my purple spoon.
Feeding my program like I’m Ed boon.
Ya might not understand now but you will soon.
For quarrels are like an art of war, sun tzu!
Pass me some tissue paper, ha chu!
Bless you!
Thank you!
Man manners mean even monsters know morals matter.
For in this day and age finding decent human beings is like trying to find dark matter.
Just remember boy! All lives matter.
And it shouldn’t matter what factors have become detractors.
It’s your responsibility to overcome these trivial matters!
Or stay fielded rooted in foolishness until your run over by your own tractor.
For anger and revenge will only leave you the real loser.
So, forgive and move forward.
Look towards a safer future by becoming the hero you need to be like John Connor.
I know it’s hard but you gotta take the reigns like a Roman and make this your yard!
Also remember that everyone is scarred and have faced different but also difficult junkyards.
You just gotta take risks to reap rewards.
So, Set goals toward your dreams and if you try I believe that your dream can become secured.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC