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Amanda Jean Oct 2016
Long winding
Lost roads
Dead dog
Or maybe mountain lion
(**** roadkill)
Car stopped in the middle of the road
Woman drove off the side of the road
(with the ******* pigs)
Gas station stops
No service area
Keeping me on long winding lost roads!

Now there
Misty fog
Hot steam
As I baptize with bubbles
In this hot tub at Grand Haven
A locked cabin
Enjoyed for a time by myself
Lucas Apr 1
Roadkill brightens my eyes
the impermanence of hibernation
waking restless creatures from the deep recesses of nature
still warming to sunlight and remnants of dripping icicles
weeping for winter's end
–– rain on cloudless days

Sleepy, furry faces spring up from the ground
as dormant undergrowth does the same
peering out into worlds rebirthed

and as they scurry
foraging for the first formations of food
rumbling predatory beasts roll their way down winding interstates
callously crushing any critter crawling across

and I smile
because, no matter the season, death plays its roll rotating life
but now life fights its way back into prominence
greening the trees, painting the buds, reddening the roads
Ken Pepiton Mar 14
Chaucer. Cantebury Tales Thunk Another Time

might be
unimaginable to most

Urbanites of several recent generations
These untie-ted states

city folk have never told stories
by the mile,

with piles of rocks marking trail tailin's

so old
that trail, marked by that pile o'rocks been
so long since foot trod that path

only scratches on the rocks say which way we
here. Today, as we call it.

Hueta, esta dia, right now

here. Walk a while, we're off to find reason
to believe.
Someone I heard thinks we all do.

I believe we do.
---Wha'bou' un believe? D'jewthank we'all'kin?
kin we all un be lieve,
leaven well left alone, hill folk, some say...

...hidden things thought thank worth,
beauty, as an idea,

for instance.

... ...Yes, and the early morning does
have gold
In'er mouth,
privilege all ovahdat.
Got the rot
all dug

dig it, all dug out cavity, crowned in gold

turn that empty cavity inside out, the wise hermit's cave is paved.
Plenty room for all his eukaryotic friends

then flouride, po-luted our ****** fluids.

Play that song on that ***'ar wit thraystrangs, po'man lute
Jew or juice harp
poing poing poing y'ken?

and keep time wit' the walkin' drum. Do that
dentist drill dance, then sing us a
song o'six penitents
patient sufferers o'the way thangsbe,

left well enough alone.

Strange love was to my tale as, that Bannon guy
might be today. Trump's last quarter email player?
Y'know the guy. He's Youtube famous. Bannon,

or Bruce? )
No, Bruce Banner, was the hulk of burning credulity, the pile
driver. Digging down to bedrock
.... That's how the Macedonian kid did, at Tyrus. ( ify'wishy'knew)

Pier pressing past the farthest reach of tide.

Past where pearls take graunular expansion to

knackerin' gnosymagi  levels of possible hidden glory believeable by few.

Teller, the infamous Mr. Teller, he taught me duality.
Im balance, make fission, break, slam fuseconfuse, blow

don't burn the whole higgsian bubble to expel the very idea of anti matter, it may be useful,
rightusable or ible

Moby grandular totally tubular, what a clam can do.
According to that story, why not feed swine pearls? I'll tell you.

we may come back to right here, this here here,
if 'n' only

if we do not forget where we saw that

landmark a cient elder mustaset

Straggler mumbler, you okeh? Y'got a story.

I'll listen. It's yetawhile
t' can't we bury it.

is the granularity of perception adjustable or ible?

We are li'ble to learn, 'fwee

live so long. Said the old caned creature, in the way back.

At the edge of credulity, eh

how far is how ever, far or ever, time space

same same, but

right. Re
al ity ness realreal reason able ibility

we, you and I, this state of least sharable ible ness
we, at this point,

dancing hermetical waxen winged shoes into flames. Teller level flames.

what lies did I un believe? All of'em.

You seem real. (dear reader)

A pier past the last tugged tide, into the deep


peace, in fly-over country on a sunny day.

Ah, where I live, there in
my peace valley overwitch the marines fly every day

and I talk, in my revery, basking in the sun with my lizard brain in heaven
I talk to the cadre controling machines named for
subjected peoples, Apaches of all sorts.

I knew Johnny. And I knew his brother, Jonah.

Johnny Appleseed and Jonah Whalepuke.

They could been twins, save
the smell and wind's role in the story, when it all

stirs. SSTop and ask, dear reader, is this safe, this place?

Adlebraned idyl word forms framing un imaginable worlds.

Goodness gracious sakes alive gnostic means

you know. Here's one we agree on:

Heretic tic, there a tic tic time you re

call the warning bout finding one's ownself in the book of life?

This is that. You can't get past it on your knees,

this is the bar, you don't pass it, you cross it.

Who inherits the wind if the meek inherit the earth?

inspire expire it is breathing, all the way down.

bubbles. ity bubbles ify bubbles some time bubbles

awefilled imagined bubbles in bubble forever,

mazed bubble pops

those aren't real. Gnostic heretic is one who thinks
he thinks and has all the knowledge

in the real world,

in his hand, and
it ain't even five gee. We can go faster or deeper. You choose.
We gotta understand what standing and under mean as a thing

we can miss. aitia indicates wisdom is not pre packed with

She says, you should know by now.

Nothing missing, nothing broken, though ye walk

through the valley of
your own shadow death as I drip drip drip

hear me, gotcha once, gotcha twice

ripples in time can you hear me now?


Seed. Time. Harvest. Information re
garding the entire process

was intentional. You reap what you sow. That is kharma.

Life ain't fair eventually. The good guys always win. It's in the hermit's will.

You can read. It's said, the man
wombed or un, who can and don't's no better armed then than
the critter that can't

read the sign that said stop.
Funeral musings
Khoi-San Aug 2018
Unrecognised obliterated
Left behind unmemorable
Traceable across
A million miles of soulless
Please be vigilant
Andrew Jun 2017
Some people just can't handle driving
Everybody goes mad on this road at one point or another
The consideration is to keep the hatred within your own car
There are tools to be utilized
The escapism of music for one's health
The catharsis of muttering to oneself
Nobody should hold it against you
If you scream inside your car
They should understand
If you wanted to express yourself outwardly
You'd just flip them off
The abbreviated visual version
Of attempting to insert negativity into someone's life
It's healthy to be hurt
Your heart telling your mind that their hatred isn't normal
It is now on you to let sleeping dogs lie
And forgive those that trespass against us
Humor is my exit off the frigid freeway
Children in grown bodies
Their clothes are too big on them
Clearly confused about how to act
Taking every side road that catches their attention
That's funny enough for me

I've never flipped anybody off on the road
I learned from my father's story
She gave him every excuse to be angry
And he expressed that to her
The intended effect was reached
Her susceptible emotions were breached
Leaving a wise man to question his own actions
What was the point of that again?

That's why I try to keep an even keel
While sailing down the highway
There will always be people
Who honk at you for driving down the middle of the road
Remember to let those sleeping dogs lie
Or they'll be roadkill
And it's not nice to laugh at little people
But no one will know if it's from inside your car
And you can cozy up to the comfort created
By the signs on the road
Warning those people
They're driving in the wrong direction
Poetress2 Mar 28
I stopped at a run down Diner one day,
on the menu were dishes I couldn't even say;
I asked the Waitress, "What do you suggest,"
"Poodles and Noodles, it one of our best."
"I need a minute, could you give me a few,
I can't decide on what I will choose;"
"That's fine sir, but the soup of the day,
is pickled Grasshoppers, on a bed of hay."
My stomach did flip-flops, as she walked away,
but I decided I'd try something new, anyway;
She returned shortly after, with a large Menu,
"I'll try number 4, the Baked Possum Stew.
How fresh is this dish, did you catch it today,"
"This morning our cooks scraped it off the Highway;"
I waited patiently for my meal to arrive,
hoping that after this, I would survive.
It wasn't half bad, if I say so myself,
     so I paid the bill, left the tip on the shelf;
I decided that if I ate there again,
I'd bring one of my very best friends.
Andrew Nov 2017
I take flight
With all my might
To be your kite
Following you wherever you go
To be part of your ebb and flow
People think I ingested the wrong pill
Because up here I can't see the roadkill
And float over the pitch black oil spills
From the end of your string
I become king

There is an approaching storm
As you deviate from the norm
And discontinue acting warm
Your lightning strikes
My metal pike
Electricity tears through my thin fabric
As I dream of a tranquil casket
And you want to grant me my death wish
I guess that's why they call me Icarish
For flying to close to the rain
Only to constantly feel pain
To distract me from the shame
From those with unknown names
But familiar bigoted flames
To me you both are the same
Once I go against the grain
You tell me to stay in my lane
High above the gravelly ground
Where you can't hear my sounds
Of impaling wailing
Because you're bailing
Letting go of the string
You become king

I am a kite floating
Spending night noting
All my many mistakes
That caused these breaks
But despite trying my very best
The wind provides a difficult test
After I am battered into tatters
My hopes couldn't be flatter
So I start to feel it doesn't matter
When my dreams came true then shattered
The wind solemnly sings
Of distant powerful kings
But I cannot fly anymore
In my broken kite form
Jonathan Witte Sep 2018
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

I derailed in a dive bar.

I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

I coveted the house keys of strangers.

I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the stoic mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Anxiety sips from me
as though I’m it’s only bird feeder in the area
Depression eats away at me
as though I can only suffice for half of it's needs
And tonight? It’s hungry as it’s ever been.
Trauma kills me
As if it was an eagle looking for roadkill
Me being the roadkill
Drug abuse nailed me in the head waiting to **** me.
Waiting to **** me due to the fact I've been defeated.
So there they sit, all trying to defeat, the defeated me.

Bite me.
JB Claywell Nov 2018
The car and I,
we made our way
into the downtown
portion of this Midwest

The sun was out,
snow melting,
and it sounded a lot
like rain as everything,
dripped and plopped
creating a slurry of
grey road juice
that hissed under
the tires as we
passed by.

At the intersection
nearest to my friend’s
there was a refrigerator
box that had been
tossed in the street.

like most things,
was on its way
to disintegration.

The red letters
that were inked to
the sides of the box
had started to run,
making the box look
to be some kind
of suburban roadkill.

I wondered briefly,
as the next holiday
rounded the corner
if the contents of the box
might be a gift.


Maybe a:
“*******! The fridge is shot!”
kind of unexpected

Either way,
the car and I
had other destinations
to reach.

So, I let my thoughts
wander still
as the tires turned

“What would it be like to climb the steel stairs
on the sides of those buildings nearest
the scrapyard?”

I’ll find out.

Surrounded by the steam
that comes from those buildings
doing whatever it is that they
might do,

I’ll smoke a cigarette,
count the pigeons that land nearby,
and think of the best way
to tell you all
about it.

© P&Z Publications 2018
In an internally persuasive discourse daze
of 'Derevaun Serauan, Derevaun Seraun',
down Dereham Road. Dereham Road. Howl Zion days,
when I was porngaunt, scoreborn.

When I was scoreborn to sweet cur boons,
wild enough to grow psychoplasmic clothes
'low Eurolupine, lyricicatriced moon
(sphere rose over spherical rose).

Poignantly porngaunt, less Ly-tran-der
than deadnamed Dirk Diggler w/ pork Trigger's broom.
Phalloplasty patched fiddler's frankenfurter,
'Wayne Karoshi' my clinical nom-de-plume.

Turn on, tune in & grow up a picayun-
icorn, inconsequential & unique. I coulda been
a downtown tribune, downtown tribune,
but the scoreborn pourscorn like a teen.

Down Dereham Road, Dereham Road of dented
leopard, dented leopard roadkill went doom-
dated whelps. They never repented
the nepenthe, coz scoreborn follows scar boom.

Whether '88, '99, zerozero, borngaunt jeune
squelettes, diaspora of scorers crunch
urban recurrences. Pusherman in the moon,
still ivory dealer of youth's lush putsch.

We skinned up on CD cases, the record sleeves,
& upon the vinyl & CDs. Smaze mauve room,
where mauvais foi of paranoia, twigs & leaves
blessed us blandiose blasphemers maroon.

Tales so slight, vignette vinegaroon
- 'least I chased my own, tho' Hounds of Ultrabox
tore out my tindervox at the gag of moon-
set. Most porcelain storm?  Mornshocked.

Urb cubs slowcooked less porngaunt.
Afa, gluggy, June gloom? Rejoice, it's June!
Youth is wasted, but monsters I'd haunt,
acolytes I'd slough? Gone the same/ remain too soon.
They are stacks of mud--
Splattered filth on the curb
slowly rotting away
like debris of our own path.
Trampled upon leaves
and roadkill rabbits
that pass by our eyes
like the birds of the sky;
Forgotten people of time
and tragedy's aftermath.

Yet these wise wise fools
are happier than I,
the higher and mightier
Begotteb of a son.
Whom dwells in depression
Chained to a society
that feeds off of misery
and regretful deceit;
The comfort and contentment
perceived as luxury and success

For I see them smile
almost a daily occurrence,
as though a new sunshine
is enough of a reason to live zealously.
For I have not unwithholdingly
smiled in countless years,
yet these pitiful souls
have the ability to surpass my own
and thrive in the freedom of their hearts
whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.
Willow Jul 2018
always biting off more than you
can chew
knowing well each time
that you would

like roadkill
you scavenge from me

tearing at my insides
ripping me apart
bit by bit
piece by piece

until all that is left
is a barren carcass
that used to be

you mutilate me
time and time again

but no more.

you’ve stolen far too much of me to feed yourself,

why did you do this to me
J Jul 4
as i scream, you don’t hear me.

as i cry, you don’t see me.

all i see in you is pure rage, such a rage that only an evil empty individual could possess.

endless years of agonizing soul crushing pain.

but you couldn’t care to notice, as you are left without a scratch.

you were once the shell of a person whom i’d call my father.

now i look at you and see your eyes oozing with deadness, as if they were roadkill.

and i feel emotionless towards you, as if i was now embodying an orphan; forced to grow up without ever knowing what the nurturing love of a parent felt like.

the reality is, i am not an orphan.

i am a broken shell of what is called a daughter, while we sit at the empty dinner table; feeling like i am living with a complete stranger.

daddy, do you hear my cries now?
The moon was almost a quarter til
when the cow didn't quite jump the moon
The little boy turned blue
when the cow became roadkill

Jack called Jill
Have you heard the news
Yes she said
It's all over Pox on chanel two

Little Bo go peek who loved to fleece his sheep
Was distraught about
the loss of Bovine

From the earliest dates
they were constant mates
Even gave him
the nickname of Quackers

But now he was gone
Left without a moo of a word
And his nicker was left
without a stacker

But Ole McDonald's was elelated
for it was beef patties on two sesame seed buns
Just as it had been designated

How sick and disgusting !
Said the little girl
with the red riding hood
For she was a vegetarian
Joey fonseca Apr 3
I wish I had
The armor you keep
around your heart
I would not have to worry
About Cupid’s shots
Like shooting stars
That I wish I could wish upon
But no
Arrow after heart shattering arrow
Leaving my heart
Tender and full of holes
And those holes
If they were to heal
I wish created thicker skin
To not let the same voids
Be made again
But in stead I find
The feather ends sticking out
Making my love hideous
Like a roadkill porcupine
Dare not look
Dare not touch
Dare not acknowledge
For I wish your feelings sparred
The only one that can revive
This mangled animal
Is the one I wish never
Let the arrows be shot to begin with
Love ya, miss ya

— The End —