"scrapyard" poems
this place is a scrapyard for humans
broken, beaten, barren souls
a dull pale loneliness is looming
in the hearts of burnt out coals
logging in to the hopes and desires
a jaded and solitary heart
rubbing two sticks to start fires
hoping for the flames to start
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
Today, I want to sink my chest into yours.
Your heart pumping blood through my veins for a bit, mine doesn't want to anymore.
Let's trade.
I'll put my brain on ice.
Wash this skull cavity with some minty fresh chemical while my wrinkled pink mother board discovers cryogenics.
When I place it back Into my tingly, almost numb now, chemical washed head
I will still feel heavy.
I want to turn to a whisp.
Like the Night Elves in World of Warcraft.
A floating blue orb of energy
Just a spirit, weightless.
Let me live as electricity, like that spark you felt .
Like that spark they all felt.
Place me in the power lines so I can power houselights and televisions.
Let me be usefull for something again.
Don't convert my head though.
Keep that on Ice.
Better still, creamate
everything but my heart.
Let the ashes get caught
in carpets and drain pipes
Kept in little ziplock baggies,
Tucked in a wooden box,
Kept back seat of my mothers car,
So she can hold it once in awhile.
Until she parks her car in a bad part of town
And a homeless man breaks in
Doesn't steal the gps, or her wallet on the front seat,
But snorts me three hours later
Thinking he just hit the jack ***
That's where I want to be.
In the lungs of some car burglar
Where his addiction should have been,
coughing on my ashes.
He won't get my heart though.
Keep that frozen in a white room.
Smelling of copper, by a tray of tools,
Latex gloves and paper masks.
One day, thaw it out
bring life to someone.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
I was brought up in Western Leeds,
Almost two miles from the nearest cow or sheep.
In sprawling suburbs:
Row after row of smoke stained redbrick slums.
We had our fields:
Jungles of Rose Bay Willow Herb
(Fireweed to the Americans)
On former demolition sites.
Our childhood spears were honed
From fireweed spears.
Our house was in a terrace
On “School Street”,
Where we took baths in the sink
And crept to outside toilets
In the dark of the “back yard”.
Those days were punctuated
By the “Yie Yie” blare
From the local factory siren.
A deafening sound.
And by endless hammering
From the scrapyard nearby.
But we loved our dripping and bread,
And our walks to the sweet shop.
Playing hopscotch on those stone “flags”
Along the sides of the cobbled street
Under old Victorian gas lamps
Straight from Narnia.
I recall crying on our return from the coast
At a dismal scene
Of soot shrouded trains
On tortured railway lines.
But I also feel nostalgia
For those heady days
Of childhood innocence.
Wearing a cardboard box as a space suit,
And running around
During a “New Year’s Revolution”.
Happy Days.
Paul Butters
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
You fall out of love like a habit.
Nobody told you that even when they say
'there are no wrong answers',
there's always one that rings all the wrong bells.
You say, 'Maybe strawberry ice cream is my favourite',
and suddenly alarms go off in his head
*'How? What? Nobody likes strawberry icecream!
This one is defective! Return to Sender!'*
This one is defective.
You were mass produced
on a supply line for antsy, lonely nineteen-year olds.
This was their best year yet; the whole world is aching
but we're sorry to inform you but
Models made after 1995 are no longer supported.
To the scrapyard, then.
You fall and tumble and crawl out of love
like it's out to get you.
Like it's got its teeth in you,
nails tearing into flesh,
holding your ankles and begging you
to stay.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
The car and I,
we made our way
into the downtown
portion of this Midwest
mini-metropolis.
The sun was out,
snow melting,
and it sounded a lot
like rain as everything,
everywhere
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
shop,
there was a refrigerator
box that had been
tossed in the street.
It,
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.
Or…
Maybe a:
********* The fridge is shot!”
kind of unexpected
expense.
Either way,
the car and I
had other destinations
to reach.
So, I let my thoughts
wander still
as the tires turned
underneath.
“What would it be like to climb the steel stairs
on the sides of those buildings nearest
the scrapyard?”
Someday,
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.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.
It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,
all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
The scrapyard shouts a sneering hiss, as the metal meets its maker and get put to the ground
in a murky sight, the seer digress, noting the constant vacuum of light, setting the scene as the dead turns to the stage in the theater of life
A staggering cold got him clacking his teeth, the mood of the weather reflected the street, as the rain dropped, people disappeared gradually, not unlike a serenade by those weakened, sitting isolated in a room blinded by a thought as it left a raindrop on his heart
By the curb, you leave it all behind, and by that same curb, you choose a new wine
There is no constant in time, but time itself, a figment of a man's vivid and mad imagination
Set to alarm, to dictate and date, small and big events, it pinpoints effects on the interior and exterior
the changes fade to disappear and all that is left is the shadow of the heart, we carved in the tree behind the yard, bright skies flew by the moonlight, as you gave me your heart, on that dimly lit October night.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Look through the fence, you see that beast there?
That tense lump of muscle and mange-ridden hair?
That's old Scrapyard Spike, and this is his lair;
Don't tread in his yard on adventure nor dare.
Old Scrapyard Spike, he's been a-weathered for years;
In his chain-link domain, rain-soaked despair.
Unfed in the morning, watered only with tears;
Unsheltered from squalls, corroded by glare.
Now poor Scrapyard Spike wasn't always so old,
When he was a puppy, they told him they loved him;
But when he grew up, he had to make friends with the cold,
For with the clink of a fence, he was thrown out on a whim
So Spike spent his days alone with his chain;
He sweltered at noon and slept wet with the rain;
And all those who passed him discounted his pain:
"He's just an old cur" was the daily refrain
And then one cold day, a girl found her way in;
Her flesh on her bones, blood coursing unspilled.
Old Spike smelled her first, his chain went a-slitherin'
And the lost child stood rooted, her every nerve chilled.
The silence of metal, broken plastic and glass,
The beast came a-running, his chain length a ploy;
And jaws opened wide as he lunged for the lass;
But when his head pressed her thigh, he whimpered with joy.
Old Spike raised the call with a manticore's thunder;
A summoning cast with his lungs' every strain.
She petted him gently, whose care she was under,
Though his poor heart convulsed as he looked back at his chain.
The clangor succeeded, a blue-clad protector
Saw the beast at her heel, and he drew as he lept;
An ounce of hot metal found Scrapyard Spike's skull,
And the last thing he heard was his friend as she wept.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
You've made your suffer very clear
In anguish's cutting headlights
You are a fragile deer
Glass organs pop under foot
Your psyche crumbles into dirt
Glass murks reading worse
Than it ever has
It ever has
In this one bedroom den, I'm the wolf
Once I was a scrapyard mongrel
Once you were my wide world
Presently avatar of indifference
You've become a cyclone fence
Every dawn sweet music cedes
Every dusk, must evade sleep
Evade sleep
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
hes in good with the junkyard owner
and he likes that
they are both old men
trying to patch up their fractures
beer bellies coming along nicely
hands lacquered with paint
and modest discretion
and cigarette
blazing yellow
ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING IN THE SCRAPYARD!
but he does.
killing time.
he does, fat eyes laughing
at blood on dashboards
metallic toe jam
and irony only he
finds
evident
he knows he can
stroke his vices
wherever
he so chooses
around here
the owner,
Dave
says so
and he makes sure he tells me
as he lights up
halfway out the door
Dave staring me down
with grease in his eyes
that 'not just ANYBODY
gets these
kind of privileges'
i know dad
i know
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Reasons to live?
give me one.
Go on,
tell me how good this life can be
tell me some lies and please set me free
from these feelings I get
and let me believe
breathe into me hope
show me then how to cope with the stress.
I'm a mess
that's not new
I don't know what to do or
how to do if I did and tell me your secret
I will do as you bid.
Let me stand on the verge
purged of despair
surging with get up and go.
On the verges where go only sad men,I know quite a few
when the life that they knew came a falling apart and the plans that they had became dreams that went bad
ending up on the heap in the scrapyard they keep one foot on the edge of insanity because that's one of the ways they can jump in and out of the haze that fills their hearts with such longing for what was once long ago
On the verges, I know quite a few.
So breathe into me something more than I've got
just give me one more little shot
at the bullseye
I
want to go on with a heart filled with something so strong they'll hear it beat in the Islands which are my lands where my ancestors live
give me one breath.
One lesson to learn
don't burn all your bridges unless you can swim
don't jump off tall buildings you know you can't win and it's one down and all down or we all drown in apathy.
I don't want your sympathy
don't want your largesse
I have no need to impress you or dress you in compliments embellished non sentiments
just give me a lead
give the poor boy a hand at the trough let me feed
give me breath
let me breathe
It's fresh air and a vision I need
and the ability
to swim.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
Malik Maxwell: The leader of the Black Crime Syndicate. Malik owns a scrapyard. He is the love interest for Kenya.
The Black Crime Syndicate: A black criminal organization led by Malik. They are allies with the Jade Dragons.
Kenya Ayanna Night: An employee at the BNB Bank. Kenya is best friends with Jewel.
Jade: The leader of the Jade Dragons.
The Jade Dragons: A criminal organization. The Jade Dragons are allies with the Black Crime Syndicate.
Jewel Stonewall: She is best friends with Kenya. Jewel is the owner of The Golden Scissors hair salon.
The Golden Scissors: A hair salon owned by Jewel Stonewall.
BNB Bank: The bank where Kenya is employed at.
Edward: The owner of Club Envy.
Club Envy: A strip club owned by Edward.
Amber: The second in command of the Black Crime Syndicate.
Mecca: A high ranking member of the Black Crime Syndicate.
Phil: A high ranking member of the Black Crime Syndicate. Phil is a dog *******
Cherish City: The name of the city where the story takes place.
written by Keith Edward Baucum
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
aside from my asides and internal divides
I stand in my prime, converging with the divine
plucking daisies in my backyard
doing backflips in my backyard
tired of trying to find gold in a scrapyard
denied due to pride and internal divides
he stands in his shame, colliding with the divine
doing abstract art and failing to put a finger on
the very thing converging all along
the growth not seen, he daydreams
but can never put it into action
stagnant dissatisfaction
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 9:22 AM UTC
Your love was the foggy, soot-filled landscape. The dawn overlooking the scene. The light piercing through the smog. The hot, smothering air with a dry powder texture that cakes my lungs. Infects me.
Your love was desolate; with only the sound of your voice tethering it to the rest of the world. The sound of the fastidious, yet somewhat, saturnine emotion was enough to keep me interested. You are the background noise that emanates from a television in an empty room that keeps me company. Your love is the remains of a scrapyard, landfill, or the outskirts of a factory. It is busy yet barren. Occupied but lonely. Near but never there.
Your love was a pile of dirt, trash, and soot. Your love did nothing but overlook the melancholy of me. As if it was the eyes of god, they judged the corruption and pollution of my greed and desire with not anger or hate, but instead, with regret and sadness. It was always watching; always judging. And I was cursed. Never able to look away.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
I yawn and raise my arms up high
awaken from my rest.
I think about a dream I had
a-bout a little test.
A test in life, a guage of how
asleep I was and for how long
an hour, a day, some months or years?
Someone must have banged a gong
I did not search for time clues
but I found then anyway
scrapyard reciepts, swarthy rhyming tweets
no hint that I would hit the hay
A plan to set a few things right
clean up my crowded cluttered life
I must have made too much progress
or
maybe I just flunked the test
Round 73
I yanw and raise my arms.....
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
We found a cosy enough scene amongst the chaos,
Two strangers connecting among a crowd
like anxious magnets in a scrapyard
And it felt
A first encounter with a lifetime lover from some other dimension;
my self in a sense, caught to the reflection of an opposite ***
We were the 'quiet ones' in our own regard
Prone to panic attacks and sudden unruly suggestion of madness and lengthy times of introvert
And although there was a lifesworth we never knew
There was enough of an understanding to
Make conversation. I mostly listened,
Lost in your voice. I don't think I'd ever gotten on with
Someone so quick
but
There are some beautiful people in the world that do that:
By the end of a conversation you're ready to hold them
A million years
Or more.
The second conversation came later in the night,
Listening to the flowery clock locked to her chest
her mouth stirring cockerel shells and laughing honey teeth
liltly blind; oceanblue irises circumference marble black
pupils, puffy cheeks and half moon lips
curled and split in a caring smirk;
it seems impossible
to imagine being you and not thinking myself beautiful
Yet you say that's the case,
And like my expression was open to telepathy
She said the very same thing back to me and we both thought
I love you
but neither could say it.
There probably wasnt enough similarities to make up
For the differences.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 10:46 PM UTC
There's a snowflake drifting down the alley
And it lands In a puddle of rain
The puddle freezes over, the snowflakes growing it will, never fly again
Well, way above the alley there's a flat with a bedroom light on
In the corner of the room was a baby's crib surrounded by a newborn, dad and mom
I lay in the next room, listening to all of your cries,
my daddy scooped me up in his big strong arms and rested me right by your side
From that moment, we were bonded by more than just blood,
there's some magic tonight in this endless night, you know it's my job to teach you good
I watched you growing faster than that snowflake ever did
We would mess around in the scrapyard ground and you would mimic all i did
I was the biggest giant you were David, you cut me down
Then you'd pull me up with your tiny palms from that ***** little scrapyard town
Out in the street, sometimes I'd catch you looking at me,
I was the hero of a.child who looked up to his brother, that brother was me
It wasn't all easy, you my brother were never all good
But whenever we'd fall out I'd lift the hair from your ear and whisper softly were more than just blood
Do you remember those dark nights when the world was asleep
Pull out a picnic blanket in the middle of our room and make this night, our own to keep
Talking, for hours you asked me how do I make my way in this world
I said I don't know yet but when I figure it out I promise I'll tell you
On your first day of school I sat and watched in the window on the alley top
I watch you walk on by with pride in your step you looked back to me but you never stopped
In my mind you were always one of a kind smiling each and every step of the way
I always hoped that those lessons I thought you, you could teach your own one day
There's a snowflake drifting down the street and it lands on the tip of my tongue
There's some radio playing from the alley flats and it's playing our fun song
There's two boys running down the street chasing around rolling in the mud
One of those boys pulls the other one down and I hear him whisper ... it's more than just blood
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
The solder was pointed the wrong way
falling scrap metal through the Scrapyard's chute
"Please, be loved," it said,
"this automaton has nothing left for itself,"
resonating equally 'warm'.
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 7:11 AM UTC
It's copper pipe or copper plate, eight quid a crate down the scrapyard.
pinching lead off the church roof was the nearest I got to a God,
the lightning rod was made of iron, no one in their right mind would buy one, but it looked good on my bedroom wall.
These days you need documentation
handshakes won't do,
everything's totted up and written down,
even to the last half-crown,
how's a spiv supposed to live?
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 12:57 AM UTC
if my car breaks down, i go out and look for some parts to fix it
if my relationship breaks down, i look for another person to replace it
i was the headlights you had been chasing for a few yearz
but within a month you had me replaced
the transmission was broke
and you blamed me
after the g6 was totaled,
you sold me out to the scrapyard
crying for a minute,
then throwing me away
you blocked all contact
refusing to hear the answer
to the questions you asked
back in december
-
so here we are
that month later
you did what i knew you would do
and i didnt act to stop it
because you never stopped to see
my oncoming traffic.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC