Pennsylvania
white slatted tobacco barn,
a clapboard farmhouse,
swaying rows of tall corn,
the wind stirs,
a sound,
like paper.
black dirt,
and rotten walnuts
mark where Granddad
hanged himself.
Pennsylvania
Tag Archives: suicide
Pennsylvania
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry
Pennsylvania
Pennsylvania
white slatted tobacco barn,
a clapboard farmhouse,
swaying rows of tall corn,
the wind stirs,
a sound,
like paper.
black dirt,
and rotten walnuts
mark where Granddad
hanged himself.
Pennsylvania
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry
Pennsylvania
Pennsylvania
white slatted tobacco barn,
a clapboard farmhouse,
swaying rows of tall corn,
the wind stirs,
a sound,
like paper.
black dirt,
and rotten walnuts
mark where Granddad
hanged himself.
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry
The Death of Billy Wallace
In the stall,
photo by hungrybison
of a public toilet,
in my home town
is where Billy Wallace
wound up with the back of his skull splattered against a tiled wall.
My old man told me the story
of how Billy Wallace,
just 3 days before my birth,
shot himself in the head after finding out his long time girlfriend had been sucking someone else’s cock for several years.
In rage he shot her twice, blowing away the violating orifice from her face.
Fifteen minutes later he too would be dead.
Some unfortunate kid found Billy, when he entered the toilet
to take a shit.
Billy’s brains where all over the stall,
and by the time of his discovery,
they had become a feast for swarming flies.
After the cops packed him up in a bag,
and took Billy away ,
Some fucking low ranking city worker had to clean up the mess.
Fourty six years after the event,
I make a point of visiting where Billy Wallace drew his last breath,
and put the barrel of a gun into his mouth.
I go into the stall, sit on the toilet
and feel both his presence,
and the strange sensation,
of being in a place
of pure violence.
Filed under creative writing, micro stories, original writing, poem, Short stories and essays
Forsaken Love
Drinking a shot of the bar’s best whiskey,
photo by hungrybison
sitting next to a good looking woman.
I reach into my pocket,
I feel her,
a Bowie knife,
8 inches of mayhem,
disaster forged in steel.
I have no doubt in my mind the knife will be brandished.
To either carve up some beautiful face,
or carve my suicide note into the tabletop
which sits unused in the darkened corner of the room.
The forsaken love,
I hide the wounds.
The killing fields of time,
have not lessened the pain.
A suicide note,
A beautiful face.
Filed under creative writing, original writing, poem, poems, Short stories and essays, writing
