Jane smashes the bar
Drunks wallowing in her rage
‘Who wants to fight?!’
No one raised a hand now
But they would once she slept
Writing in Tanka form – 5/7/5/7/7 syllables.
Category: Haiku
-
-
black water
fills the
tub
she pushes
my head
deep under
guess the
honeymoon’s
over
as much as i hate cliches, sometimes they just fit i tried a number of different endings but i liked this one best
-
eat a bowl
of fuck she
screamed
at me
that day
i took
her sister
Todd Moore came from the school of short and savage poetry. 2 or 3 words per line. Driving the narrative forward. Like Buk, his characters, his observations, his art spoke to the ‘working class’ trials and observations of mankind. No flowery language. No obvious rhyming patterns. It’s this kind of work that is like an ice pick to the eye. Sharp, fast and lethal – the way good poetry should be.
-
lungs gasp
as fish do
when ripped
from the
dark lake
respirators
are still
These blood letters, these horror haiku’s come from many places. True life, imagination, a chance encounter, a nightmare. They are legion. Everywhere you look these poems are red.
-
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.
-
put the
camera
high make
sure they
can’t see
it there
bathrooms
can be
tricky
-
cut the
gums slow
ly pull out
the tongue
with due care
spoiled fruit
is avoidable
-
the wolf
waits for
her
riding hood
is aware
of him
her knife
needs
to bleed
-
pull yr eyes
out slowly
dangle them
on yr wet
face
watch gen
itals burn
A throat punch. Poetry as a shocking and vicious sucker punch. Poetry is dangerous.
-
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 