lone shoe
in drive
way
screaming boy
dragged to
car should
i have
called
cops
Tag: bloodletters
-
gun brass
rains
on street
tinging
echoing
in a
blood
timpani
of violence
Working in the Haiku format is such a precise art. 17 syllables. No more. No less.
-
Reading “The Poisoner’s Handbook” by Deborah Blum. Remarkable tales of true-crime and the tools of the trade in the 1920’s. I loved the tales of criminals, coroners, cops and kooks who made poison such a prevalent pastime.
Speaks became real Jan. 20
Where hootch of all kind sold aplenty
As Prohibition ground hard
The local boneyard
Was stuffed with the rich cognoscenti
Down in the Bowery, the Smoke
Is a drink that will soon make you choke
It’s pure alcohol
Charcoal filtered through coal
This poison is really no joke
-
The Sun
Throws up
On my face
I feel her
Next to me
Her head on
The floor
The blankets
Suck
The blood
Dry
-
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.
-
she wears
a onesie
burns like
a roman
candle
you pay
top $
allusion, suggestion, implication are the bullets in the poetry gun👉
-
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.
-
put the
camera
high make
sure they
can’t see
it there
bathrooms
can be
tricky
-
the wolf
waits for
her
riding hood
is aware
of him
her knife
needs
to bleed
-
stick your
fingers
deep his
eyes are
the weak
est spot
he won’t
feel you
cum
‘blood letters’ are the Haiku’s I write set in dark and disturbing outlaw lands. I’m working to distill the poetic form to a shot of Malort (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeppson%27s_Malört) that punches hard.
Outlaw Poetry 