"mags" poems
The rat smells the air, squeaks in alarm and runs off.
Black boots come into view. With the sharp tip of a sword.
I crouch in the dark, behind the bins of *******
The boots walk on by. The sword, poking into corners.
All the while, eyes of glowing red, within deep sockets
of a musty old skull, scan for signs.
I look at my hands. The festered and rotting flesh.
My bones showing through. The stench unbearable.
Glad my nose fell off last night.
The timing was off. It was just a little sneeze.
PLOP! Right in my gruel.
Every one at school laughed.
Skeleton Puberty *****
And now, Dad is mad. Just cause I waxed the hearse
and didn't use "Ear Wax". You could hear him rattle
all day. What's wrong with the "Toe Jam Wax"?
Wait till I catch sis. She went and showed mom my
mags. "Raw! Boo To The Bones". I'll bet dad had
mags like these when he was a teenager.
They have good stories. The pics are just a bone-us.
I think it's safe now. I'll just sneak into the house.
Just sit and look innocent.
How did you find me?
A whole trail of pieces? Sheesh!
I know. I'm grounded. Not for the wax job?
The Mags!?.
Skeleton puberty *****
My Halloween offering for Oct. 12th
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
It's Sister Lucy not Sister Bridget
who's the crush on the young priest
Father Joseph Magdalene said,
Mary said is she the one? as she sat
on Mags bed listening to music
on her record player I thought
you said the Bridget,
Magdalene sitting beside Mary
passed a glass of lemonade to her
and said nothing certain
you understand just the rumours
I've heard but don't tell
the parents or my arse'll
be slapped for spreading the rumour,
have you a ciggie?
Mary said
putting the lemonade and glass
on the bedside cabinet,
Magdalene poked under the mattress
and took out a squashed pack
of 10 Woodbines and said
open the fecking window
or Ma'll know we've been smoking
and she'll have a moan
and passed the packet to Mary
who took a cigarette
and put it in her mouth
and went and opened the window,
Magdalene took a cigarette
and stuffed the packed
under the mattress again,
Mary sat down and said
have you a light then
or are we to fecking **** on air?
Magdalene took out
of the pocket of her dress
a box of matches
(liberated from the kitchen)
and struck a light for them both
and put the matchbox away again,
they inhaled and sat in silence,
the record played( Billy fury)
and they tapped their feet softly
and nodded their heads,
so what are you doing
about Brian Brady?
Magdalene asked,
what'd you mean doing about
I'm doing nowt with the ******
it's him who thinks I'm going
to be doing things the soft loon
Mary said,
you seemed to be encouraging him
the other day Magdalene said,
ah was fun only I'd not let him
near me in a serious way
no more than the holy Joe himself
Mary said,
smoke filtered ceiling ward,
a car backfired from the street below,
Magdalene leaned in close to Mary
I'm your best friend
and I get jealous of the likes of him
being too near to you,
O he's nothing to be worrying yourself
about him Mags he's just a loon
as boys are Mary said,
Magdalene held the cigarette
a way from her lips
and kissed Mary's cheek,
Mary sighed and said
he's nothing I just give him
the tease he'll get nothing
from my ****** money box,
they both inhaled and exhaled again
and watched the smoke
rise ceiling ward,
the sound of Magdalene's ma
downstairs singing along to the radio,
Magdalene's hand went on Mary's thigh,
a bright sun in a blue Irish sky.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Bombers & bloggers
Tragedy is triumphant
Traffic gathers in a tweaked intersection divide
Wreaking of those fuming with exhaustion
Speed, cause you prefer the highway
Political in place of partial
The news carries dismay
Where is such trouble in this world you say?
Posing proposing, regulating;
Marijuana laws are changing
Complaining of taxing & weighing
Football, do you recalls, & puppy dogs,
Amber alerts & nostalgia where it hurts
Once again the news contright
Cut short cause it draaaags
Ruthless the truth is;
Everywhere you go, there the news is
You can't lose it, tied around your neck the noose is
Bed bugs It has;
Talking of spread shoots, ***** mags
This celebrity, the new 'fad', & that old hag
Throw up on the rag;
Forget it
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:29 AM 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
Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.
It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.
Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.
Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.
It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?
Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.
Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.
****** loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.
But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -
Society.
Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.
Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I need as many bullets I can have
To stuff them down
Packed in my mags
So I may say so valiantly
You cannot take my guns from me
Because you see,
You better leave me be
For I have weapons
So I must not flee
And leave my pride behind
I need capacities for a war
To take down my hunting prey
So if you come door to door
My guns are mine
And if you try
I will bring you a civil war
Do not take my guns from me
The second amendment does decree!
That I have the strict liberty
To protect myself with unstoppable force
The government wants my guns from me
So they may enslave my family
Big Brother is watching so carefully
But my guns will deny them victory
My guns will revolt against them fast
Take those guns from me, put a time limit on my play things
Because surely that will make me less of a man
Without his guns he is hopeless
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
I don't feel it, You say. And, pray tell her
name, my sir, that i may find she thee and prithee
Bear me off to southern sounds, fallow fields,
an altar ground, a garland rope of singing springtime snows.
this may be more than i can--;;
YOU
ARE
NOT
WOR
THW
HILE
and i had such an awful dream last night--
you said, Bronwen, my love;
and i could not sweep her hair from the floorboards
beneath which you hid your ***** mags from mice.
because you tell me about it.
WHOAM?
you speak of gOd like dOgs & i am worthless coinage
in the sewers. the sewers find my dress still hanging from your bones.
your bones your bones your piano finger bones
kiss me again
until my lips swell my throat bleeds i do not want you to know how much i crawl spiderlike through the trails of hair in the drain as the autumn leaves the summer leaves the spring buds freeze over hell i am not i am not listening pan-drum please let me say this one last thing:;
he is your accordion player the ***** player man who speaks fluent french and inflected english he is your accordion player on the pipes-----
and you say i do not feel and i reply,
this is too bad too late, chuckle replay as your fantasy walks through the door my team my team she is porcelain lovely see the perfume in your synesthesia colorblind goat footed grandiose Cesar with epilepsy she is your dream she is she is she is!
&meanwhile; the trumpet in soul still plays solfeggio---
1 2 le 3 4 1 2 le 3---1 2 le 3 4 1 3--le 1 le 3 le 1
she is the discord of the seventh in the tenor line
she is membranes she is rain she is towels
LEIGH **** IT
if only if only you weren't so lonely i might call you mine and bring you back homely.
IF ONLY-----Charles weren't so busy while you
stare at silver spoons and cherub smiles
and cupid calls you home again.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:37 AM UTC
Hey you,
Just got back to the flat, not the same without you sat at the top of the stairs typing away.
Reminders all over, showing me of your recent presence.
First sight at pile of dishes that you washed,
Empty grissini breadstick's box,
Still some tzatziki and houmous left though.
Need a **** can't deal with this already.
Ahh, that's better. A tooth-brush is missing,
Spa Covent Garden Sanctuary, Irish Meadow?
Will upstairs be any better?
Must pause, plug in interent hub. ****
Back to old self so soon.
Duvet squashed up to the back wall,
Can almost make out your imprint.
I'm reluctant to throw out the remaining *** butts,
Seems as if you're still here.
Half drunken mugs of tea, finished quiche,
Can't believe I was so sick on the last night.
Bad dreams yesterday, two in fact.
Both being hung over ridiculous heights.
No good with that, big fear.
A sign of pressure bearing down?
Held council to rights, no joy.
Start the whole drawn out claim again,
Lot's of boxes to tick and fill.
Toss pots, must bite tongue and get on.
Doctor’s waiting room has mags for women only,
Nothing to chill my nervous mind.
'But are you going to faint on me?'
I made it through allright, lost some blood.
ECG scan on Thursday, for what though?
Chest or heart? Probably heart.
Mid-life wake-up call come early.
Do I really want to know? I suppose.
Where's my lovely? I need her so.
A cuddle, a smile, all better.
Action time- phoned all bills, extra time.
C'mere money, pretty please?
What thong then? Suspicious...
I was right (kinda)! ***
So excited, so touched, wow!
We will work it out Dee.
Thoughts of wild horses scare me not,
Something feeling very right, not at all wrong.
Hardest thing ever has already been done-
Finding that special little someone.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:52 AM UTC
i.
a child’s edition of your father. in which
the unused
scarecrow
is found
hiding
the *****
mags, the cigarettes
of a sister’s worry, and other
inanimate
markers
of accounting, meant to be
traded
for fireworks, for fat frogs
not given
to snake…
that is, had the boy
lived
to unsee
the water
he didn’t
make…
ii.
(my handle on death)
is holding
a book.
an overfilled
pauper’s
grave / transcends
its archaic
reference
to belly. all mothers
are single.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Tired of the same old scenes around here.
Thought hey im gonna explore space.
Introduce Little space dudes to bad habbits
nudie mags and maybe share a beer.
Yeah it'll take some getting use to
anti gravity bars.
Pack up the whiskey and of course the kids
honey cause were moving to mars.
People kinda look at me like my
mind did slip.
just cause im going round collecting cans.
Hell with what else are ya supposed use to
build a spaceship.
I made a few changes it runs of corn whiskey
instead of rocket fuel.
You might think im crazy.
but when my home made rocket takes off
it'll be cool.
Say goodbye kids to your ***** grandfather Bert.
Hey darlin from up here I can see down your shirt.
It's three seconds to lift off people
ya might wanna move your houses as well as cars.
Cause lord knows whats gonna happen.
in my attempt to move to mars.
Its time for lift off crap honey do ya mind lighting
fuse.
Hey kids after this maybe we'll get a reality
show.
I mean if we dont die that would only make the local
news.
The homade rocket ship rattle and shook.
I knew i forgot something I mean it's a minor thing.
Steering wheels are overrated guess I should have got a book.
And as it lifted off into the sky.
I screamed like a little girl.
I forgot I was affraid to fly.
Yes I kinda fell short on my quest to the stars.
cause i crash landed in New Jersy.
Well kids sorry but Atlantic City is probaly
a bit more fun for daddy that is.
So much for moving to Mars.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 10:22 AM UTC
My sports car’s bumper is redder than your pale lips,
And it’s Parrelies blacker than your silver flecked hair.
The TSW mags are genuine chrome, not only the lightly rooted tips,
And the smooth, glossy bonnet not wrinkled like your dial from care.
The seats are a plush tan, not a stark, unsightly white like you,
And the V12’s rev is an unmistakeable sound.
The speedometer reads 360, if ever beaten, only by a few,
And when I’m done it resides in splender, and not six foot underground.
The shatterproof windshield is clearer than your misty grey eyes,
And its model number reads 2004, not a dozen and three score more.
The Ferrari I own is the best that money buys,
And it makes me proud to say, “It’s mine!”, not a nuisance for 40years I’ve bore.
Now when Top Car says Ferrari 2005 I’ll need another,
But my love for you is timeless and can be filled by none other!
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.
Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.
Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.
Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,
Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.
We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.
Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.
"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"
And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.
"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.
I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.
"You want to land?"
I hear him say.
"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"
To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.
We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.
He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we're swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we'll land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.
And sure enough,
The air is calm;
The night is coming on;
Gusting breezes are all gone.
We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
I help wheel her then
Into her waiting hangar pen.
Life can be lived all in a panic;
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives
Just like my brother said.
"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!"
And when you're changing
Your directions, throttle up!
Don't let the fear of living
Bring you to a needless stop.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
Why I ever lamented
your advertisement
in the NY Times
Your sickly look, it's she you took
swept off her feet
I know how it feels
Found her again on the internet
while you were desperate
In Haifa, a million miles away from English without an accent
You hunted her down
A clown you are
She, editing dime novels by candlelight
manufacturing romance for the racks of Walmart
Next to the car mags and tattoo girls are those things
women read
gotta make a living somehow
So she can fill in the spaces between your attention
with her imagination, stoked daily from corporate romantication
She can live in her bubble world and see what she wants
eternally and think it's real
So she's better for you than me
because your love isn't real, never was, never will be
Both of you from the land of fake nobility
Prep schools and Ivies that lead to jobs
in sparkly NYC lobbies and decaf mochachinozeenos
with a side of 100 calorie pastry
Before dinner at the Italian restaurant
where you can show you are loved and love
And you, with your fakery
You shallowness, can collect your trust check
And work just a little, and blow the cold coals of her love once
in awhile to get the corporate machinations again in her head
to spin a fantasy romance
I'll look for it at Walmart.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
The children would be packed and ready days in advance.
At first, we packed for them, but as the years passed,
They were experts at rolling clothes for twice the space,
Using laundry baskets rather than luggage tripled our carriage.
We'd leave early Saturday morning, almost night,
Departing from the Ontario weather like a bad odour.
Kathleen was away at school.
Mags and Andrea were in their teens now.
Ten years of March madness was terminating.
Herself would sit shotgun with Triptik and thermos.
The kids would awaken south of the Ohio,
Hungry, grumpy, and eager.
She had it all planned out.
Crosswords, colouring, wordfinds, books, Gameboys, lace,
Sandwiches, juice boxes, treats of all sorts,
For another twenty hours on the road.
I invariably imagined our Mini in the return lane
As we crossed the Bluewater Bridge into Michigan;
Trip over, kids exhausted, us, quiet, subdued,
Just wanting our own bed.
But twenty hours on the I-75 lay ahead,
Turn left at Knoxville
For Myrtle Beach, sun, tennis, seafood,
Separation.
I found no peace in our final escape.
Conversation with her had halted.
A round-trip of dialogue in my head.
She'd said, I bought a house.
Words wrapped like an egg-salad sandwich.
It was our March break.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
the boys will pick up sticks
down by the river bank and bury
themselves in swampy soil and inch
thick ***** mags from before they were
twinkles or considerations and their fathers
ignore their quick wits and charms--let their
curiousity coil around the garden stakes till
it chokes the tomatoes and lays itself across the
blushing rhubarb that mama worked so hard to
cultivate.
Papas, why didn't you chop down those trees or
tame the stinging nettle, the roof is riddled with
bullet holes and the rifle in the attic is still warm
still vibrating on the shelf, buried in moss, in
wisteria dropping in and growing up the sides--
she can make a man more beautiful but still hide a broken a home
you had a chance to guide your sons
you had a chance.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Expectation
We bow to our gods
Our demigods
Take sides
Give credit where we think
Credit's due
***** at the other
An exercise in hope
Despair, disgust
An act of rebellion
Worship, boredom
A little entertainment
Perhaps
Oh Holy Night is blasting
But it's business as usual
What did we expect?
The Donald's having another
Rad hair day
Merc is mixing up yet another shot
In the arm of the unsuspecting ignorant
Monsanto's engineering one more
Pernicious stew for dinner
World War Three pending
At Arm's Dealers Inc
A trader goes Kachung
A raven drops his doodoo
Really
What did we expect?
Shiny stilettos go clack clack
A homeless man shivers in the rain
The guy on the bike gives ya the finger
Grandma turns on and drops out
Can ya blame her?
Another heart-breaking day
For the broken
A little goodwill
For the willing
Martin Lawrence sneezes
And we can't help ourselves
Hilarious
Charley Sheen loses his knickers
In repeat spin
Another bad news nugget
For the rag-mags
What did he expect?
The jingle bells jingle
It's tinsel time again
The gift can go bye bye in the mayhem
In this the season of high expectation
It's good to have less expectation
To worry less, to feel more
Share
See what happens
Expect a miracle
or
Expect nothing
The gift
Ah the gift
The present
Presence
That is all
What did I expect?
2015 for the present
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 6:30 AM UTC
Lonely black lab on the path behind the garages I used to sell crack
Went to the shop, brought some **** blacked out windows on a cab
spells danger backwards that's Reg Nad
So I'm looking all around me, back at the cash grab
Where old ladies clutch black bags and wear glad rags
I'm not glad lad, 'cus the world looking like rag mags
with girls selling soul on corners right now
where their daddies sag lag on the track; Baghdad
where war heroes return home back to the smack
and clap traps where they get and share the clap; sad
or when little kids run to their mummies 'cross roads all alone
to their home that used to be a home but now is a dome for the dome
so food can be put on tables that rust and break and the kids get hurt
child protective services, what's worse
I'll tell you what's worse living in a hearse
or a one berth tent on this Earth where the ones in charge
discredit your worth
or better still when they ignore your very existence
so we're standing here screaming and pleading
bleeding and scheming
because there's no food in the cupboards
quit dreaming
stop the screaming
Lousy demon fiending, feeding the sea men with *****
on seashores the sea's ****** sing hee-haw the horse of remorse
hits the veins and see more the way the see-saw zig-zags
back to the black labs on lagging black paths
behind the garages I used to sell crack
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Gonzo
Is often called a barroom poet slash outlaw .
Who's work has been featured in some mags that clearly do not care about good taste or morals .
When not living as a total recluse drinking his liver silly and watching **** He often enjoys long drives by himself picking up hookers but enough bout his ex wife.
His short stories usually revolve around some demented ******* much like himself .
He currently resides in hell or as others call it North Carolina .
Where him and his dog share drinks and take turns being the designated drunk driver .
His work will probably give you a contact high or at least the clap.
Enjoy .
And stay crazy .
Gonzo
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
When I was a kid, round here
purple sweet peas carpeted common ground.
Thick, and ripe for picking
in their depths we found
all manner of detritus,
single shoes and old **** mags.
My friends and I went roaming
with our secrets and five ****
Down on Slade Green marshes
fearless urban rangers,
ankle deep in water
never minding dangers.
Our private wilderness so bloomed
and we sank into its mire.
Running, jumping, singing, shouting
our youth ablaze, on fire.
Untouched as we believed it
that ground had seen its share,
of blood and fear and wanting,
we didn't know (or care).
Needles in emplacements
left by no one soldier brave.
****** was young back then,
at least, around our way.
In my peaceful ignorance
of 'paedos' underground,
I hid among the rusting hulks
waiting to be found.
Underneath the tower block,
the thirteenth floor my home,
a dragon in the ******* chute!
Imagination sown.
Each time that the fire brigade
came screaming to a halt,
to extinguish yet another mischief
for which none would be caught.
Our little speck of landing
Mrs Kingsley kept so clean,
a bizzy lizzy at her door
she visits me in dreams.
Skin shiny over knuckles
a worn-thin wedding band.
Her flowery dress, neatly pressed,
a duster in her hand.
And I guess she's been dead years now.
She was old as could be then.
I never knew, the day we moved,
I'd not see her face again.
But, move we did,
from 'the flats', to number ninety-nine.
We had gardens - front AND back -
my own bedroom, yes! All mine!
From the windows of our council house
the world changed, all around.
The sweet peas were uprooted,
houses claimed my common ground.
So, I don't own it any more,
if I ever did.
But home is home, wherever,
inside I'm still that kid.
Who ran and jumped and shouted,
a childhood held dear,
and though I think "I've come so far"
my life began round here.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
John Lee came home at ten to three and kissed his wife so easily and had some tea.
But Mr's Lee had other plans involving paint and lots of cans
oh dear me.
Stripping walls in halls and pasting paper was not the kind of weekend caper that would float his boat.
He grabbed his hat,put on his coat and in the farewell note he wrote,
a single line,
'next time you plan to decorate, my darling, better not to wait 'til Friday night,
a man's a right to relaxation without the need for decoration, just paint it white'
Mr's Lee was sad that he had gone but she knew that life would go on and so it went,
her time was spent in knitting mags and smoking endless cork tipped ****
oh what a loss.
But she knew that she'd find one day a man that would quite clearly say,
'dear,
you're the boss'
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Magdalene undresses
ready for bed,
her da had moaned about
the record playing on and on,
can you play nothing else?
it's getting on my fecking nerves,
Mary had been at the coffee bar,
spoke about Sister Bridget
and the priest and things said and done,
Mary smelt of scent
(her ma's no doubt)
and Magdalene loves it,
she folds the dress
over the chair by her bed,
red flowers on white cloth,
Ma's choice not mine,
Mags utters, soon be leaving
fecking school, good job too,
get a job, earn me own,
not have Da saying
you cost me with
your clothes and such,
Mary touched my hand
along by the church,
felt its warmth,
Martha has this thing
about crucifixes,
Magdalene muses,
putting on her nightdress,
pink and flannelette,
eyeing the sacred heart of Jesus
on the wall, Ma's da bought it,
staring down eyes on me,
Mags muses, covering up
and getting into bed,
I'll belt you
if you get lippy
her da had said over supper,
just saying,
well don't,
not your place to speak
Da had said,
dark eyed,
his heavy hand on the table,
Mary Mary quite contrary,
the pillow's soft,
scent smell,
wish Mary was here,
Da's voice downstairs
loud and brash,
Ma's voice talking back,
that time he whacked me one
for talking to the boy
outside the store,
lights out,
head resting,
dreams beginning,
if only,
hug me Mary,
hug me tight,
dream on,
night night.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
Freight rumbles by
While sweat drips down
And the crackle of a speaker
Still sounds;
Echoing through the tunnel.
A body turns, fidgets, moves
And itches with the heat.
The feet they tap
And dance with boredom
Wishing *** had a seat.
A woman leaning upon a beam
Aggravated by beads from pores
Moves to take a walk, it seems,
But soon she leans some more.
Too hot to move, til a breeze is felt
Coming down the rails
A beam of light, first one than two
And not freight, but silver and blue.
The cool air flows like whiskey at a funeral
Sour, but necessary, to make it through the ride;
And you sleep through stops instead of wondering who the hell had died.
Thumbnail clippings float down the car from conversations had:
Comfy chairs, squatter’s nation, opiates, and ***** mags.
Subtle "sorry"s linger in stale air from bumps that people make
While ******* suits, stiff as cadavers, snoot and snivel of mindless drivel
And look around in shame.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Magnum honey
put down the gun
Please don't do this
It wont be any fun
I know you're hurting
I know you're in pain
But suicide is a permenant thing
for a temperary Pain
I'm here for you
your Little Kotehok
I will never stray
You're stronger then this
I know its scary
I know you just want to lay down
and
D
I
E
But Mags Dont do this
I need you in my life
You're my Onekyh
I know you're slipping
I know you're empty
But put down the Russian *****
And put down that pistel
I'm here
I'm here for you
Lean on me
I've got you.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
i want to be a plate made for a sweet devouring
too many plastic spoons have been touching my body
hi what's your name hi what's your name hey nice to meet you
what??.. huh//?
meagan morgan mags?
let's go somewhere quiet
plastic. you are all plastic.
smooth to the touch and poisonous.
bend over let me see
i don't care fine whatever
i smell you on my skin
you are in my fingers
you are in my *****
deeper baby deeper
but i open my eyes and am still surrounded by plastic. poison. pissfuck.
where are you???
lines down my spine
entitled ******* cheater cheater she won't find out thighs thighs
and you and you want to ramble about poetry when i want to scream
scream until i have let out everything inside me until my lungs fall out of my throat until the walls of my chestheartbrain cave in
let me ou t out out no breakfast no lunch or dinner get out o!u!t!!
i am lonely iamalone and no no none of you can save me
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC