"revolver" poems
my head it resembles a revolver
My mind the spinning wheel
Loaded with thoughts
ready to shoot out
hoping it catches someones eye
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
The rich will always be rich,
Computers, clean body, nice clothes,
Proper homes, not shacks.
Elite schools, branded
Motorcycles, jewelry
The poor will always be poor,
A pen, a marvel
Firewood, abandoned train tracks
YMCA funded classes,
Hand-me downs, nakedness
Grandfather, father,
Son. Same lineage, same burden
To pass down
Generation
To
Generation
To
Generation.
A Never-ending cycle
Cruel game of Russian roulette,
Spin the revolver, watch it
Turn, pick it up, iron to temple
--BANG BANG-- you're dead.
The more the rounds, the
More
Lethal
It
Gets
It is a gap that cannot
Be plugged,
A boulder that cannot be put down,
Like Atlas holding the sky,
If released, the sky and earth
Collide, and we die--
All of us.
Everyone.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
His nights are restless, endless dreams
of young men climbing ladders.
The ones who stop to fix their vests
are left below, row after row
there seems no end, distorted faces,
silent screams through bottle bottom glass.
Twenty winters wishing that
the dream might finally end,
he tilts his head and looks at God
above his bed, a crucifix upon the wall,
his Jesus hangs and bleeds for sins
of lesser men but for him there is no comfort,
he can't escape the scene of drifting death
and flotsam, sailors drinking blood
from swollen corpses, greedy
in the eyes like the sharks
that encircle them.
When daylight comes
still no relief, he sits among
his salty sheets and chokes
on waves of guilt. Deceit
will always be his master,
every day no different
than the rest
except,
today he’s had enough,
the dead,
they will not cease their torment.
Twenty winters waiting
but the dead won’t go away.
The boys who stopped to fix their vests
The man with gaping wound in chest
The burning wreckage going down
The screams of those who soon would drown
The oily water thick as mud
The utter chaos, flesh and blood
The rabid thirst he could not quench
afloat in pools of human stench
He goes outside and lies upon
the grass, a Navy Colt revolver
in one hand, a toy soldier in the other,
he puts the gun against his head
and pulls the trigger.
Twenty winters
Twenty winters
Rest
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
Rachel’s hair, black as ink,
splatters my blank skin.
It’s a rewrite for bad readers,
a stroll for quick-to screamers,
a phone call at 3 a.m., and
a sickening high that just won’t end.
Rachel’s teeth, sharp/jagged like littered glass shards,
dig into my aged, faintly seasoned flesh.
It’s a feast for lazy vultures,
an eyesore for devout heathens,
a dusty revolver on a Sunday, and
a lone drunk at a flybuzz wedding.
Rachel’s soul, battering ram/sputtering mad,
dilutes toxic mine, leaves only the rind.
It’s a constant reminder for dangerous nostalgia,
a blanket smoldering in fire within winter-without-end,
a handshake and a heart attack for closest kin,
an elevation, a joyous atomic cloud, and
a sky crying elative confetti tears of future me.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
i know a god stronger than religion
who speaks sign language with his lips.
i'll be a wayward dove;
watch me soar and get hit.
please sin with me tomorrow,
steal the revolver from the crate.
i'll just wait.
eye sockets burn red;
a color mistaken for hate.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
the seduction of eternity
ice house Shekinah
sad hag with a revolver
a carnival of skinned rats and bullets
during the blood soil days
pets left on the dark side of the moon
a deluge of morality in a palace of tears
structures of consciousness under compression
the tongue of eternity
a veiled Eros licking
blood shot distant moons
flickers a selfish dream serenade
pollen of discontent
like a pregnant superhero
dressed in a candy wrapper
treading a visionless ezoic brain
bugs; war zones of memes and genes
all matter is metaphor
near death objects
meteors of grinning spiked crowns
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
mice in a supermarket with tape worms
and a trade mark
we are something boiling
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
a holocaust in a supermarket
with tapeworms
and a trademark
we are something boiling
In the bowels of eternity
graves of meat and mud
crucifixes in a screaming
abyss
creations
rabid belly of shadows
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 2:35 PM UTC
Dear Mr. Heaney
I wish I'd read your poetry
years ago when I was still impressionable and coy and all that jazz.
Now it resounds in my skull, leaving a tingle in my right hand.
My pen is somewhat snug, but a revolver, no.
Ink and shovels aren't far from each other,
so your point is well-taken. In fact, they're co-workers –
Ink's proved itself just as deadly. It slowly ushers men into the earth,
their soil-seat, while the shovel stages the unending play;
the eternal lattice.
The Nobel hung above your head,
the vast array of pins, medals, papers with your name in billowing scarlet.
What a treat. Like the last cupcake in the back of
the refrigerator that had too much chocolate icing and was only
semi-covered in multi-colored snowflakes. I'd loved to have
personally presented it to you. There'd be my own plaque,
billowing scarlet and all. It'd say, "Mr. Heaney,
, you must own a ***** I hope you'd laugh, and not be offended,
thinking me a distasteful and insensitive lout. It may not be right,
but I can't help but steal the volumes surrounding yours out of
every **** library so
"Seamus Heaney"
may catch the eye of the common passerby
more easily. I think I even went to work on
enhancing a spine with a red sharpie once.
Red hits the eye hard.
That was in the central library downtown.
Don't tell anyone.
Beyond a laugh, what I hope for most is that you get this letter.
Just look at it.
Wonder why someone so far removed in age and culture and place
would ever think of you holding an over-frosted desert as glorious.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Metaphorical suicide.
My feelings are as deep as the valleys running across my wrist: Non existent.
Countless heart breaks from a single girl proved to be a likely deterrent.
Old habits die easy with you, causing my fists to turn a dark red hue.
Empty bottles and cigarettes litter the floor, a noose hanging above being the only door so that I will finally soar.
Or dare I ask, and partake in this task which will surely leave me stripped of my sanity.
Watch me load a revolver with a single casing engraved "True Love" . Look me in the eyes as I place the barrel of the gun made from the broken memories we shared together unto my chest, and watch as I pull the trigger, causing my metaphorical platter splatter into globs of grey matter.
I lay in my bed sleepless, non existent lateral lines running up and down my wrists, non existent, yet I still feel the throbbing and the slow spill of everything I ever felt ,drip down into my sides, surrounding me in a puddle of...
Real tears caused by the fears of letting go, or is what surrounds me are all the mistakes I've made, mutated from being left alone with no where else to go, so they make their way to the surface waiting for me to profess all that I've wronged? No. All that would have been too merciful.
Instead you took all of my feelings, my love, my heart, and melted it down into the shape of a metal bat, ironically engraved "tough luck" and proceeded to beat me in.
Not to bad, or painful. But to the point where I feel it, then the pain quickly recedes, like i am stuck in the sand of a island you marooned me on, The acid waves wash over me for a split second, causing pain into my heart, then it's gone. Causing me to forever constantly.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
Countdowns have always seemed bittersweet to me..
The steady ticking away of time
The trickle of sand through the hourglass.
The fading of connections not curated.
I’ve always been morbidly aware of my own doomsday clock,
Slowly beating, decreasing, releasing my
Seconds into the atmosphere around me,
As I wait, sometimes impatiently, for it to hit zero.
Some days, I hope for my hourglass to run dry,
And while I know that that isn’t a healthy mindset,
Some days it is all that I can do to not hurry it along.
Not to take that revolver in my dad’s lockbox,
Not to take those pills in the medicine cabinet,
Not to take that rope and the one wobbly stool
that has sat at our bar for the past five years…
Just beckoning me.
Just wanting me to take that final step
into sweet, sweet oblivion.
But.
If I do take that final step..
Who would be there to pick up the pieces for them?
To clean up the mess that this disgusting body left behind?
Who would be there to finish my paintings,
To sing my unsung list that is ever-expanding,
To write these words that have seemed so forced these past months?
Who would be there for them, when I could not be?
Someone, I am sure, but I have been told that I am irreplaceable,
And while I may not believe that,
I am scared of leaving a mess behind
That my mother cannot bring herself to clean up.
I am scared of leaving behind a mess that would irrevocably break my father,
A mess that would torment my brothers,
A mess that my sisters would never even remember.
And maybe..
Maybe I am scared of the call of oblivion..
Or scared of the unknowingness of it all, rather.
Or perhaps I am tired of thinking
of myself as a mess to be cleaned up,
Nothing more, and nothing less.
And maybe
That is all I need
To survive one more day.
Apr 18, 2023
Apr 18, 2023 at 11:32 PM UTC
My head is a very dark place,
And I’ve been dying to let some light in.
Sanity is a very far place,
And my mind is weary from traveling.
I need a little sunshine in my head,
The voices told me you’ll be my helper.
Now point this revolver at my head,
Squeeze tightly and pull the trigger.
Sanity is a very far place,
And my mind is weary from traveling.
My head is a very dark place,
And I’ve been dying to let some light in.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC
670
One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place—
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting—
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase—
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter—
In lonesome Place—
Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
Should startle most—
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.
The Body—borrows a Revolver—
He bolts the Door—
O’erlooking a superior spectre—
Or More—
2.9k
****** into my sofa,
The infinite space of it.
The faces of my friends are melting off,
Like heated wax running down a candle stick.
I loaded the universe into a gun,
And I shot myself in the head.
I can not tell if I am breathing.
Am I alive or am I dead?
I’m strapped to the outside of a rocket ship with nothing in the way.
I’m taking off, and I just keep going. Reaching a height higher than heaven.
There’s nothing to orient myself. No time. No space. No self. Nothing but darkness stretching out all around me.
A roar of a million voices are screaming over each other, they’re resonating in my head.
I’ve come into orbit. Everything is beginning to crystalize.
Surrounding me are complex geometrical patterns of love and understanding.
Gibberish wall textures are whispering messages through their feelings.
This is all too much to take in,
It is like the universe orgasmed into my eye.
I just want to go home,
I think I am going to die.
A sense of calm echoes through me,
Probably brought upon by the faces of my long lost family.
They have so much dimension to them,
So beautiful, light and shimmering.
Looking like something out of religious doctrine,
They came out from the open.
Released me into my primal light laser body,
Everybody has been laughing at the joke never spoke.
And now that I get it,
It is infinitely funny.
It is like the sand man blew his sand,
Taking me on a train to dream land.
They are showing me everything,
I can not even begin to understand.
How am I supposed to understand infinity,
When I can barely understand a single moment.
I see God in a head of lettuce.
I feel the earth's rotation,
As I spin around the sun.
God handed me the universe loaded into a revolver,
And fired me into a flashing rainbow shower.
Friday's smoke opera has rendered me dumb.
Bathing in a melting rainbow,
The cosmos is dripping down my skin.
Infinity is stretching out,
And withdrawing within.
I become the colour,
And the colour becomes me.
I am in everything,
And everything is in me.
Coming out of the woodsmen's cloud,
I hear a child screaming out.
I didn't know what it was then,
But now I know what it is about.
The trees are no longer silhouettes,
My destination is not my goal.
I am in the middle,
Wherever I go.
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 5:45 PM UTC
I speak the language of the ambiguous man
Two false tunnels leading to the paradise once existent
Suffocating in the soul the heart pumps mysterious labyrinths
Intricate twists, lively turns, dead ends, corrupt memories
All leading to the same two doors
Handles made from cherry blossom to conceal ****** wrists
Misleading as barren rock behind the sodden waterfall
And deceitful as the smiles of killers pending demise
I like to fool the world with my duplicitous decisons
Peeping through one door just to go through the other
There lay two paths divided in a somber world
The ambiguity of man prevails
Only when a single door leads to the innocent simplicity
But the truth about lies prevail
When the man not knows what he does
And navigates through his own mindful solitude
I intrude in a broken world filled with people most pernicious
Some call them deceivers while some call them philosophers
Depends on how they see the truth of ambiguity
Two parallel bridges to cross a sea most demoniac
While only one bridge armed with the truthful support
But the world feels much too simple without rails to grasp
As there is nothing to hinder the peaceful descent
Smoothly into that paradise once existent
I'd fairly not speak about the truthful man
But rather the lying hero
For he has more knowledge with the concept of ambiguity
But whom does the stray bullet in the revolver take?
The truthful man or the lying hero?
If the truthful man chooses not the rails out of pride
And the lying hero slashes his wrists out of regret
At first I settle with those who favor the liar
But if I had two bullets
I would see that the pride would also suffice
As the ambiguous man shall die twice
For ambiguity is anything but simplicity
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
I will wrap you up
in duct tape & glass.
Cheap wood your caged throne.
Black grease paint,
a halo for the false God.
A Revolver glorifies you
but the rapier kisses your lips.
Allegiance only to dark aesthetics
tainted
torn face
worn leather.
I mount your eternal beauty
a heretics altar.
Naked before you,
I touch faith
& give you my little death.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
**Scattered Thunderstorms
The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.
Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.
Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side
I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.
Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.
The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?
The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!
It is so easy to feel ******
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.
Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day
Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Dear Mum,
I fell in love with an angel,
Although these feelings run deep but I can't tell.
Nothing hurts like loving from afar,
Because she doesn't love me the way I love her.
Her deep seated issues made her weak.
With the blush of innocence on her cheek.
At different intervals I would stare at her for long,
She was the beautiful theme of my song.
Nothing gave her tranquility like a blade and a cigar.
Her face like a Hollywood movie star.
But her arms were a gallery of secret scars.
Loving wholeheartedly was her undoing.
An imperfect being - A human so broken.
And the final nail in her coffin,
Was seeing her lover's lifeless body in the morning.
The words "Live Forever, Fly Away!" scribbled with
his blood on the mirror next to his arm.
A bottle of ***** on the sink, empty bottles of xanax
and a blade in his right palm.
Trapping herself in a room with no door.
Suffering from a kind of depression with no cure.
She gave up on everything.
Had nothing left, but emptiness within.
She got on a ledge and tried to return home; to the sky.
She ruffled her arms once more, as if she could fly.
She fell.
Tear drops bounced off the skies and washed her blood away.
I didn't weep for the moments we never had. I shed a tear
for each word I never got a chance to say.
Three tear drops ran down my cheek, lubricating my lips.
- "I love you".
After midnight; under the cloak of darkness, watching the stars dance.
I solemnly whispered to the heavens seeking guidance.
I say a quick prayer begging God for repentance.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly.
Waiting for a miracle, a sign, an epiphany.
Just anything to stop me.
I found Dad's old revolver under his bed.
Please forgive me as I place it against my head.
I hope in this life you will someday understand,
The reason I'm pulling this trigger is to hold my angel's hand.
Yours Forever,
Elijah
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
i have held with
fascination, when i was young,
all of my toys.
a parallel universe of
marvels. imperial is the mood
of these ecstasies!
i remember my cheap svelte revolver
back in 1998 bought from
the festive bazaar in the marketplace at the dreary heart of Bocaue when i was
consumed by the thought of brutal force and how swiftly, in the hands of men meant for twisting open
the doors, welcome death
or the metallurgy of it.
i used to run off into the sunset
toting my gun high with pride
shunning the Sun, and the
reprise of my carousals is my mother
soldering in her white hands
a "walis tambo" and summoning me
homeward with a churlish grin
on my face, triumphantly ecstatic
over my rendezvous.
now my gun has withstood the
tatterdemalion of dog days
and in one corner i felt its
brokenness as it yearns to
be retired early in the peak
of my youth. happiness wears down like a chip on the old linoleumed floor and i tinker with
it to unsheathe the grime
of the unspoken stucco concrete.
i placed it in a box, my black revolver, together with the toys
that i once laughed with
when only bliss is as simple as a juvenile love, or the easy picking
of a santan over the fields
where i ran off into
the viridian laughing with the verdure of the world that i once knew as something so beautiful
and intricate.
i heard my black revolver went
somewhere behind the macadamized wall where i dreamt of having a basketball ring nailed to.
only i knew how to play
my revolver, and now that i am
caught within the heaviness
of all things that mean greater
than all other joys,
no other days could ever
surpass how
i made
a hero in myself
mighty with the tales
that i keep.
good ole black revolver, 1998.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
His shadowy brim tipped down and in
No face to place, no trace of chin
Revolver cradled loose and low
Cylinder whirs, chambers roll
Trench coat long, dark, and lean
Black boots gleam with choicest sheen
Right hand rested 'round bony grips
Left hand fans and never slips
Who are you?
What do you want from me?
Why are you here?
Your purpose is hidden
Your message unclear
Never a word muttered
Not even a sound
It's always the same
When you come around
Got to find my keys
Get out of this place
I'm weak in the knees
My heart's losing pace
Jump in the car
Pedal meets metal
Check my rear-view
For signs of that devil
At the stoplight
A peripheral glance
A sideways glint
A figure askance
Shotgun rider
A figment with a plan
The devil may care
But my mind made the man
©Jason Cole
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Every day I got a new set of problems
Can't figure out just how to solve em
Each day I find new ways to dodge em
But they keep coming back
Full circle revolver
What's a dollar to a billionaire
Spend all there money on diamonds without a care
Yet none of them seem to be happy
Rolling in cash yet smiling so sadly
Here I am waiting from cent to cent
Trying to afford food gas and rent
But at the end of the day
I can rest easy
Satisfied
Indefinitely ok
Is it the same for you mr. Billionaire?
With your fancy car ladies parties
In the designer clothes you wear
But what I see
All around me
Is beauty in simplicity
Beauty in the struggle
The empty pocket pit
Living off that next pack of Ramon noodles
Pressing on
Never settling
Knowing that your day will come
Because happiness isn't about the things you acquire
It's about the love you spread
The good you transpire
the universe returns to you
Threefold to fulfill selfless desires
Sometimes in wealth
Sometimes in power
You lose yourself
Forget To stop and smell the flowers
But I'll hold my head high
Through the hard times
Wait for the good
Gaze at the stars
And feed my head
With all that's left
The beauty in everything
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to **** anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.
2.3k
So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lightened up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping *******
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foilage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver.
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brillance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat
the tings she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The sowrds of the liles
battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she as a maiden
when I took her to the river.
2.2k
Laughter
Laughter explosions
Diabolic cruelty
That crude red carving
The grinning maw
Of the purity devouring beast
Know best for his face
His maliciously insane
Irrational thought patterns
He laughs at a two word phrase
As he caves in a woman's face
Sprays bleach and mace
from a fake flower on his chest
Lobs hand grenades recklessly
Muttering jokes that only he fully understands
Minions bent to his twisted humor
Severed limbs and organs sent
With personally crafted limericks
Fourteen inch barrel
.44 Magnum revolver
Crash a clown car into rush hour traffic
Feed the mayors poodle
To a pack of hyenas
Grease paint white face
Toxic green locks, slicked back
Red Cheshire cat grin
Ear to ear
Like the mouth of a demon of madness
Do not ponder why he laughs
He laughs because he must.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed
Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats
Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.
The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.
The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong
He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"
"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees
"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"
The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place
"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout
The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke
Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle
A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ****** you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.
Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy
An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair
The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
If he dies, he dies
With trouble on his mind
Future looking hazy
This is the end of the line
With a cigarette in hand, walking to the water
He hit the bottle hard, longing for the other
One, in his life that could make all this right
But this is the real world, not a dream
And after that fight
She isn't coming back, he knows this in his heart
As he looks up to the sky
Praying for this life to stop
Not thinking of the good things
Trapped in a world full of pain
Blinders on, paranoia rules here
No love left, just hate
Chemical dependencies couldn't take him away
The six shot revolver, couldn't decide his fate
So he turned his hood up and walked into the distance
Praying for an act of God to please
Simply just end this
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC