The Sun
Throws up
On my face
I feel her
Next to me
Her head on
The floor
The blankets
Suck
The blood
Dry
Category: Writing
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Todd Moore: Outlaw Poet Godfather Explaining what your work is about up front is bullshit. The work stands by itself and if people wanna know more than maybe you tell them – or maybe you tell them to make up their own damn mind.
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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
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she wears
a onesie
burns like
a roman
candle
you pay
top $
allusion, suggestion, implication are the bullets in the poetry gun👉
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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
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outlaw poems
read fast
like angels
slinging fire,
hardcore &
heavyweight
yeah, the FEEL of being a word slinger and owning it and just smashing the words and getting all the words right in a burst of fever writing blowing the page up
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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.
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Red shit box van parked aside
Rusted panels well worn
Thrust sticker stuck on the back
Who knows how stories are born?
Inside this blackened truck from Hell
The cargo who can not tell
Of the nights inside born of fear
Teenage hitchhikers all lost
Disappeared at night, so they say
Bodies sold for quite a cost
Inside this blackened truck from Hell
The cargo who can not tell
The cops found it burnt to a husk
Only the handcuffs truly show
Of the sex trade that is no more
And the fates that all know
The cargo who can not tell
Inside this blackened truck from Hell
I wanted to try my hand at a murder ballad. Something that speaks to those shit box trucks throughout Indiana and where I live. So many missing kids and rape vans everywhere.
ABCB Rhyme Meter. 8/6 Syllables alternating.
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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.
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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.
Outlaw Poetry 