yes, believe
in love
even if
YOU
have none
of this
it will
come to
YOU
believe, believe, believe, believe, believe, believe, believe, believe, believe, believe
Category: free verse
-
at the local bar
mrs. rick james slides on by fast
her jheri curl wet
my town has so many types so many different styles and people still living in the past
-
the spot behind his
ear rolls him on his back and
to his special joy
-
How proud your colors once – now tied in baling wire, bleached grey weathered tatters dangling.
Captain, my captain, your hull is torn, black bottomed asphalt weighed down as the Forest calls you to water.
Anchored on cinder blocks, your sails hang in rags. With Mushroom sprouted barnacles, you await the dusky leaf sea.
You are beached, broken, sinking slowly in suburbia.
Shipwrecked.
Finding an old sailboat parked by the side of the road, her best years behind her. I see abandoned and broken cars all the time – never boats.
-
we honeymooned
in new jersey just
across the river
from the
big town
some guys
above
us wd piss out
the windows at
night and drop
used condoms
on the
fire escape
hanging out
side our own
window swollen
with their seed
it was the best
time of our lives
and we didn’t
need condoms
we had
each other
I remember this time so well as we had found this place online and it was a shithole with puke in the common bathroom that my wife would clean because no one else would have and we had to use it for the three days we were there
-
The Sun
Throws up
On my face
I feel her
Next to me
Her head on
The floor
The blankets
Suck
The blood
Dry
-
Rhonda stands
Outside her crib
Her drug dealer
Pulls up
Fast
She still gets in
Slow
Rhonda lives next door to me. She’s always wandering the streets high on something. Bothering my other neighbor for a drive to make her connection. She doesn’t bother me anymore
-
she wears
a onesie
burns like
a roman
candle
you pay
top $
allusion, suggestion, implication are the bullets in the poetry gun👉
-
step hard
on the
balls
he paid
extra 4
that touch
remember
no kiss
I like the idea of adding numbers and abbreviations to this format. 17 syllables can pack a punch done right.
-
stick your
fingers
deep his
eyes are
the weak
est spot
he won’t
feel you
cum
‘blood letters’ are the Haiku’s I write set in dark and disturbing outlaw lands. I’m working to distill the poetic form to a shot of Malort (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeppson%27s_Malört) that punches hard.
Outlaw Poetry 