Blood stained snow,
resembling cruel bedsheets,
bitter,
in the winter wind.
A hand written sign,
in a window.
Beer and liquor,
cash only,
no cards,
no names.
I need the warmth,
of knowing death
is not as cold as life.
Tag Archives: death
Bitter
Filed under History, outlaw poetry, poetry
The Presence of God (ἐπιτάφιον)
The presence of God
can not be denied.
I see God’s presence,
or more so his epitaph,
chiseled on the faces
of the poor sons of bitches
who eat their dinner
from saucepans
over dirty kitchen sinks.
Lonely, cold bastards
who have ex-wives
and estranged children.
They,
“the tombs of God”,
shuffle around in darkened apartments,
in grey tones,
while color fills
a different world
outside.
Their prisons,
physical
and psychological.
The presence of God
can not be denied.
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry, religion
No Moonbeam
Lying in bed,
some faint stirring of a dream
nudges me to wake.
No moonbeam through the window,
enveloped
in perfect darkness.
Perfect.
My eyes,
sealed shut.
Only on paper
will I survive past
living memory.
To my legacy
I leave only
recognizable
“commonplace thoughts”
and “dead” metaphors.
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry, Spirituality
Pink Mist
To write,
is to live in brutality.
Everyday,
a pink mist,
on paper,
on the computer,
brutality.
Filed under original writing, outlaw poetry, poetry
Roughshod
Roughshod,
close to the bone,
Raoul Duke,
you son of a bitch,
I miss you.
Rum on ice, the dark kind
that melts into your brain like browned butter straight from a cast iron frypan.
This is what I’ve got.
There were plans for this place.
You can see it in steps that lead nowhere,
busted up skeletons that were once schools,
rusted swing sets,
empty spray paint cans.
Someone lynched a bird in a tree,
a fucking noose and all.
They hanged a fucking bird in a tree.
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry
Badlands
Star spangled cowboy boots
I slipped into the badlands.
Prairie dust covered,
Dakota colored denim
I want to record my confession
then disappear into the landscape
to lay amongst the willows
and wait for the Devil to come
to find my back broken
my skull crushed.
Filed under History, outlaw poetry, poetry
Crowded with Ghosts
He retreated to the basement of that big ol’ house,
after his mother died in an upstairs bedroom back in ’68.
Left everything in the place as it was the day she died.
Dirty dishes in the sink,
towels ready by the shower,
he left it all.
He’s been livin’ down in that basement for nearly 45 years.
I see him every once in a while,
pickin’ tomatoes from amongst the weeds,
roastin’ a rabbit over some branches he gathered from the woods behind the house.
He seems to prefer to be left to himself.
I spoke to him once, about 20 years ago.
He said he had to move into the basement,
the rest of the house was “too crowded with ghosts”.
Filed under Outlaw poetry, poetry
To Kill a Man
I could kill a man,
I could bring myself to do it,
but I’m confident I could not.
I could not bring myself to do it,
I could not kill a man.
Filed under creative writing, poem
South Carolina
Rain on chilled breezes,
Memories of winter mornings on the South Carolina coast,
the “low country”.
I want to shuck an oyster,
suck her down!
Take a Tabasco sauce shooter,
from Mother Nature’s cleavage!
Watch the pelicans soar above the grey tide,
get drunk on seawater,
and drive blindly into a the stagnant swamp.
Filed under Outlaw poetry, poetry
