Say Whaaaa Wednesday... 15 Minute Free write

Always fun to take 15 minutes and just write whatever pops into your head! You'd be surprised with what comes outta the mindless chattering that goes on up in that noggin of yours!

6 Feet Underground Scene

He’s got himself a homemade cigarette /
a nighthawk sitting slumped waiting /
for a dog day tomorrow /
he’s tried it all but it ain’t no use /
he thinks to himself /
“this town only dwells buzzards / whose feathers are a concerning green” /
a nicotine cloud hanging in his memory / offers no direction out /
he’s gonna be burning 6 feet to the underground scene /
where they dress in calico / with crimson blood shot eyes /
time to kill and places not to be /
no one goes there without baggage / wanting a soul to spew their lies /
knowing he’s burned out all his one night stands /
he sighs /
women strangled his heart and scratched out his prays /
keeping his dreams from sneaking up behind him /
pouring out their perfume / with a barrette in their hair /
they slips out as fast as he drinks his bourbon /
tearing the teeth out of the night /
with no thank you card /
the waitress interrupts his reverie / with a sideways glance /
her graveyard eyes punch through his mellow dramatic trench /
with grey strips tearing onto the caffeine soaked floor /
she knows he’s poisoned all his waters / put them in a suite case /
next to his switch blades / the man is no more than a boy /
with a toy pistol shooting nightmares /
he’s been 6 feet underground all along /

$11.82

A murder of cigarettes.
His insides on the outside
beneath an abstruse silhouette of a power line.
Pillowed rain pools in ruts; riddled woman’s sickened strut.
Trash burrowed beneath flooded posts
coasting the frame of a frozen pond
spelling out the name of mythical orphans.
But a blackened eye is perched so sweetly; a loaded view.
Its head tilt with an assuming stare
flaunting a flamboyant fickle thought.
Cocking its neck; slanted wings,
a figure eluding God.
Silkened feathers oiled in disease and stalking virus
it waltzes back and forth an infected trapeze
slowly observing the scene with ease.
A vigilant vision it sees
but an unusual absent of judgment it lacks.
Talons gripped this weakened twine; a softened bow
sinking with the weight of such a swagger.
Peering into a knighted sky
its wings broadened into a cloak reeking of death.
An embodied gargoyle, deserter of St Peters perhaps,
clutches its sides and glares into the breath of soul.
Humane eyes are not the only ones to agonize over.