My city burns
Some asshole steals a cop’s horse
Galloping through the fires
Tag: bloodletters
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I run laughing, bills trailing behind me pennies from my pockets bounce
Blood streaming from holes I won’t let slow me down
Bright red footsteps leading them to me in a dance pattern maze
1 foot 2 foot step-step-step breath hitching in bike spoke chatter
I collapse in Arthur Murray massacre formation the procession now over
Robbing the last dance
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Over the bar at Mott street
A bank robber you’d be likely to meet.
Michael Kerrigan was an expert at cracking a safe
The authorities in NY he continued to chafe.
‘The nearer the Church, the closer to God,’
Quipped Kerrigan – his crimes near the local police squad.
He died in the alcoholic ward of Bellevue Hospital
His mistress selling an expensive broach to pay for his funeral.
Another #truecrime poem based on an outlaw from yesteryear. Researching and finding out more about these criminals continues to be an absorbing passion.
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Dog shits on grass
I don’t pick it up always
Children have to eat
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Barking dogs
Closed
Curtains
Neighbors R
2 Quiet
Now the
Real feeding
Starts
Every year, people are eaten by their pets once they pass away. 🙀
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John Jay fumbled for the gun
Blood wet on his hands
His heart hammers
BANG! BANG!
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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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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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‘headless body
found in topless
bar’ howled the
new york post
42nd st
yawned
the old nyc Grindhouse circuit was my all time favorite back in the day. Now it’s all gone. Corporate and commercial.
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my neighbor
has a
GUN
built a
8 ft high
fence
we like
her even
LESS
life in Gary, IN is always interesting
Outlaw Poetry 