POEM: Anonymous Concrete

More Info
By Thursday, Feb 2 Arts & Entertainment

Touch I say

Touch and go listen to the empty tin can rattle.


Smudge the wedding confetti washed against the curb

Smudge the ruffled coats pinned to the ground


Laced in booze

Talking to themselves with bitch ass sharpies.


Hear the wind whip yester-daze news

Mingled and mangled in alternative facts all the way to fake.


Hear the streets choke with beginners luck.

Here the fear printed in papers believing


Passengers move with hidden cargos

Strapped on a sleeve or photo shopped to believe


What is built to survive requires religion and fences

Before another bombed out child dies before ever being conceived.


Hear the click clicking heels of the bankers play thing

Watch a gold chain grip on his limp wet wrist


Wind up wind down

pull away the chords and let the blinds go


As fake austerity sets in with frozen eyes

Blinking in reptilian greed


Hear the deaf groan for sound

Dangling on a buckle in remote control


Dangling in a world on digitalized pendulum clocks

tick tock tock tick


Half past ready to drop

With ever approaching speed.


Hear the rush of the honored grown man vomit

sick from lack of welfare and unpayable insurance fees


There seems to be oh so much and yet oh so little

time to send us all back to who knows where?




Touch I say

Touch and go listen as young girls leave their chalk rooms


Dressed up skirts about to be stained on the grass

In the locker or behind the proverbial bike shed


Again the question of importance before mother arrives

Tightly dressed in heels an older version yet far less tamed


Mimicking mindless adverts

and the bankers play thing.




Fashion changes

Fashion beats


the chance to enslave foreign rag dolls

to bend and stretch around tattooed cocks


ringed in vice

with a royal flush


a slave trade without borders

oh yes fashion changes fashion beats





Touch and go


Listen to the flag rope hitting the flag pole

no flag is in sight and yet we all wave


hear the flag rope hit the flagpole

perhaps it has been stolen or missing in action


Here the shop windows are no longer dressed

To rumors of a bargain and much needed goods


Offering false promises to the promised child

whose broken lips press against shattered glass


here again on a bench in the park

derelict men pipe over old print


reminiscing oh to be youthful they wheeze

unable to acknowledge germ warfare starts with a sneeze


here a hotel room is no safer than my pockets

here I can taste the salt on pickled fish eyes


here I have no time to notice is it rain is it snow

as I tighten the collar around my sore throat


here again no time to question what is really important

as a manicured fist punches out a mechanized time clock


for the very last time

before anonymous concrete


spews onto the cracked pavement

buckled and used up with a question mark grinning


and the anchor lets go

and I stand here naked with my poems


breathing bring it on mother fuckers

this is our America.

Return Home

What's your opinion?

We welcome your comments and appreciate your respect for others. We kindly ask you to keep your comments as civil and focused as possible. If this is your first time leaving a comment on our website we will send you an email confirmation to validate your identity.

A NOVEL: ‘Over the Edge,’ Chapter 8

Sunday, Mar 18 - "Because it’s America, Tommy. Land of the fries, home of the craven. You’ll get to be you for the first time in your life and you’ll have mucho dinero in your pockets."

A NOVEL: ‘Over the Edge,’ Chapter 7

Sunday, Mar 11 - The little bike wound up, down, between trees. This certainly was unusual, but she wasn’t complaining despite the bouncing up and down over the now-nonexistent road.