Pawn Shop Towns

Pawn Shop Towns

Children are overdosing
on heroin and they’re
not much older than 14
The parents hit the street
panhandling for money
to bury their deceased

And after one look at them,
you realize that poor child
never even had a chance, and
you start to wonder if it’s
all just a big hoax

You never saw a pawn shop
town with so many tattoo parlors,
liquor stores, churches, bars,
and police stations—on the
same damn street

But there’s a million of these
towns that are like factories,
breeding hate and fear that only
the fortunate will never meet

And these zoomed up
kids die like saints, for
someone else’s
dollar

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil  White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

Advertisements

Baby, We Tried

Baby, We Tried

Against better ideas and the empirical odds,
we were scathed and drifted the naked halls
Destined for something, to find an answer,
a soft cry, a reason why, for something to try
We found each other—you and I

As quiet as the soot black gorgeous midnight skies,
and hidden deep behind the safety of the palisades
that were lined with decorative crystal vines—
Like a bloodhound, you sniffed on by,
and lit up a trail of smoke, like an S.O.S. cry

Denying the diva of a new way,
I cut across the darkened freeway
I lit flares to defy the empty skies,
deep into late hours of hazy red eyes

This cowboy went to the saloon,
singing and marching to his own tune,
already drunk and not even noon
Make way for me, make some room

A mind’s infected screams and cries—
Bone rot, organs of blight; I continued,
and drank me and my wallet dry
You continued to reach for the stars,
and you continued your carpet ride
Stole parts of me; lost you in those nights

Our ignorance was never considered
a given, nor a try for admittance,
and we didn’t, we didn’t, we didn’t
Instead, it was through our reluctance
that we discovered our bleeding wounds

We couldn’t be found in consonants,
because we were laying in vowels,
but mostly just ‘u’ and ‘i’
and we both know, love,
we know the reasons ‘y’
But at least we can reflect
on what was, and say we tried

 

heart

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, Jet Lag

The Drug of You

The Drug of You

If poetry had a taste,
it’d taste like you;
sweet and sour,
but still sticky like glue
And if you were a pill for popping,
you’d be blue;
because you bring me up,
and let me down used, not abused
I’d get a prescription for
60 MG of I don’t hate you,
and stay limp,
staring like a statue
But you can’t be any of those;
yours is from a needle not meant for tattoos,
and mine is sold in bars
from 11 am ‘til 2
And on street corners,
bought with I.O.U.’s;
writing poems;
being dealt a deuce;
you, me, and drug abuse

 

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

Burnt Spoons

Burnt Spoons

She left a burnt spoon
with a milk stain stink,
on the kitchen’s counter
next to the sink

My face fell and hit
the poorly tiled floor,
when she locked herself
behind a brown bedroom door

Now, getting dolled up to
go looking for a score,
but hits me up for cash
because she said she’s poor

When did loving her
become a chore?
When did my love,
become a revolving door?

 

© Volatalistic Phil 2012, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story