I’ve been writing long form mostly the last year. Not giving this space it’s due – and it’s a shame. Poetry, especially bare knuckled words, hard-hiring prose and taut, terse stanzas always make me swoon. It’s time to come back.
Tag: bloodletters
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I’m looking forward to punching outside my weight again with some more outlaw poetry soon. I’ve been busy on three different novels over the last number of months – and it’s time to get back to my roots.
I picked up this bad boy to remind me to write more brass knuckle poetry and get hardcore again. Looking forward to it.
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It started with
Phone Boxes
Robbing coins
Building skills
Graduating to safe
Cracking
He wanted more
To rob banks
To kidnap swells
He became the
“Shooting Fool”
Enforcer of Chicago
Bullets snapped
Danced
At his feet
Capone’s men tried
To tame him
Drucci paid Capone
With more than
A thousand bullets
The Hawthorn Hotel
Had never seen
Such blazing heat
“You SOB, I’ll get you,
I’ll wait on
Your doorstep
For You”
The cops put
4 shots
Into Drucci
At point blank
Range
That saved Capone
From “The Shooting
Fool”
Placed in a
$10,000 coffin with
$30,000 worth of
Flowers
A policeman
Murdered him but
We sure gave him
A grand funeral
More #true-crime poetry
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Executed on the gallows, Sept 6, 1833
A roguishly handsome fellow was he
Arriving from France for the family Sayre
He worked for them as a common laborer
Antoine resented his work, his bed in the shed
It would not soon be long before all were struck dead
Beating both Mr. and Mrs. Sayre with a shovel
He buried them both in the manure by his hovel
12 thousand people were present at his death
The majority were women who saw him draw his last breath
True crime poetry based upon the real exploits of the bad men/ women found in history
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wind down your own clock
take all the pills at once please
learn to lose it well
keep leash tight as time passes
stick your fingers down his throat
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five vans parked at house
garbage bags on the windows
looks like meth is back
wherever i go someone is cooking or running a grow op.
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the smell of fresh bread
outside the biker’s clubhouse
warns me to beware
true story – a club with anti-tank stantions camouflaged with flowers used to take advantage of the bakery they were next to when cooking crank i remember fondly
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Shovels fall
Silent in the night
The grave yawns
Tongue spilt dirt
As a mouth hungers
For meat
Outlaw Poetry 