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.
Tag: Noir
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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
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My city burns
Some asshole steals a cop’s horse
Galloping through the fires
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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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16 millimeter chatter
magic shadows paint the screen
lost in the celluloid
old movies have always been my first 🖤
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watching serials
real men could fight and fly then
two tone cliff-hangers
watching old republic serials on vhs on the back porch
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rescuing sewing
machines so convicts can make
face masks for everyone
traveling to Michigan penitentiary to donate time and equipment for those in need
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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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her nose
falls downwards
into piles
of snowy white
cocaine is
deadly endless
waste for
the idle rich
slavery for the
common man
Outlaw Poetry 