rain pours from gutters
as we huddle together
the dog wets my lap
Category: Writing
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Shit Stained liars speak
Offering words of wisdom
The polls are open
Specificity is the soul of narrative – John Hodgman
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Signs clog the corner
Candidates on active show
The toilets are full
My block is full of signs for local political candidates. All vying for space admist the weeds, trash and flotsam. My dog pisses on them every time we go by. #goodboy
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Billiard Ball wouldn’t dare talk
To the cops about ‘Beansie’ Rosenthal
Eventually offering him a chance to walk
If he threw Gyp the Blood and Vallon to the wall
They all worked for top cop Becker
Rat King of Graft in Manhattan
Known to make ‘problems’ disappear
In his control of the crime-ridden metropolitan
They shot ‘Beansie‘ twice in the head
“He’s a goddamn coward and talks too much”
Convicted Lt. Becker for being the lead
Of the late-night killers held in the clutch
By DA Whitman who prosecuted them all
Becker and company electrocuted in Sing Sing
For their murderous conspiracy did fall
As the Underworld of NYC rejoiced reveling
True crime poetry sample. Mining the criminal cases of yesteryear.
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Hail hornbeak
Mud dweller
Wrapped in brambled kingdom
King of brackish dishwater
Iron backed elephant
Lord of the swamp
What honor and glory you bestow upon me with resolute parade
How you follow me, across pitted
Tarmac, ponderous steps in
Unison with my own
Exiled by choice on fealty quest
Gallant and proud, you rise up to meet the car that bares down upon you
Dashing Royal Colors against the common stone
Kingdom abandoned, smashed asunder
I salute
Your broken Grail
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In tangled, well-worn threadbare mess
Heaters piled alongside harpied phone
Tumbled record players fumble to caress
Rusted acetylene tanks, open lying prone
My host a filthy leather recliner
Lying coated on the dusty slip wood floor
Packed next to mismatched broken china
Testament to my own vigor
I am not a flea market pawn
Nor white trash savior immune to scorn
My $3 sandals, books reshorn, worn
Waiting patiently to be borne
Home
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feast that is poetry, feed me in mouthfuls of truth, bleed into my very self
this whirling feast sustains me like no other
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the lion’s den beckons
i pull my hair in great fear
i will eat them all
faith in myself, my abilities and my past successes sustains me – i am #unstoppable
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Fingers slip on ceramic keys
Typing yr confession note
So the Press can easily quote
In dedicated ghoulish ease
‘I have stolen a pistol to kill my beloved
And then turn it upon myself’
You may place me on the shelf
Of known killers, cursed & kindred
Whispering that you loved her
Shooting first the love and then yrself
Murderous, hateful longspur
Blinding last yrself
You will spend a wasted life in stir
Monster, madman, damn thyself
a little archaic and old-fashioned but a new way into writing a true- crime sonnet. ABBA X 2, CD X 3.
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insufferable
you bog blast
me with yr
lies
i burn yr house
down
i despise liars and lazy people who do nothing but blame
Outlaw Poetry 