grey rain
falls
as grease
puddling
thick on
the road
skin melts
in the wet
This is one of a number of ‘blood letters’ i have written as part of my continuing process. 17 syllables outlaw poet Todd Moore styled haiku stories. I’ve a number to come.
Category: poem
-
red smear
by the road
an empty
boot
stands alone
the woods
bear
new fruit
So outlaw poetry owes a huge debt to Bukowski and Todd Moore. The guys that made every word count, spitting bullets. I’ve always loved Buk and when I found out about Moore, I was like WTF. This is it. In 2004, Moore and poet/musician Tony Moffeit dubbed it Outlaw – a way of life, revolutionary, innovative, dangerous poetry. A follow your own path BURNING independent self discovery trip all about endless creativity and ‘living inside the poem’. Both Buk and TM taught me that poetry is dangerous.
What I’m found here is using the Haiku 17 syllable structure to frame these ‘blood letters’ – inspired by the seminal true crime series from 1975. I found a new old copy online for research and ‘riting.
-
A tin of baby teeth
Found under the sink at home
Aren’t my own kids teeth
-
bob’s got no legs now
after getting one after another
cut off
when his boyfriend married
another man
ritchie took bob for
a new corvette
an escalade
a fancy refrigerator
an old house
a trailer
a flea market business
lotsa money
all for love
bob wanted ritchie
and ended getting
his legs cut off
when he married another man
love is fucking cruel
-
corona nineteen blues
states killing themselves now
how many will die free?
every day in every way there will be consequences
-
you want to
punch outside your wait
slamming similes
mashing metaphors
on your way to being a
punch-drunk poet
read, write, fuck
find new meaning
in the every day
push harder
write faster
feel longer
put words down
cut ‘em up
bunch ‘em
sharpen your teeth
and share your shit
just doing the work means showing up and getting it done not everything is gonna be perfect but every once in a while u find a perfect moment that does something u never expected and that is magic and will last forever – if u let it
-
drenched and spattered in open hard edged light
dining beetles
scuttle for food
rich tender wet love fills
as flies hatch
maggots teem in the full sun
putrid gracious and final
this banquet is the end of john alone in the woods
-
you lie there, not asleep
as i wash the blood from hands
worn rough from work and hate
that you ‘live’ in foreign lands
i might never see or visit
you have escaped my wrath
falling snow upon the roof
blanketing the well worn path
so i measure out the paraffin
striking flint to match
smiling as the flames grow
as i race to catch
up
with work like this, i am building up a morbid tableau – a snapshot of one determined to follow their lover into the beyond – looking at the body, still angered by the desertion of death by their hand as they set themselves aflame
-
writing is too important to have critics sd ben smith so don’t waste words or gush and don’t be sloppy and don’t waste words and speak street and chew asphalt and don’t pull any punches and don’t waste words
-
J swings from the hip
hands high punching through the fear looping hard biting down on cracked blood spattering chin and lip.
The Typer punches back
word for word fighting him on every line giving it all in attack.
J hammering solo so words fall one by one easy
stubbed teeth on sawdust bloody raw all broken for everyone to see
Outlaw Poetry 