got another one
last night.
a splendid little
evening-
jim whiskey sample shooters,
classic jack and
cola,
her brand new christmas
outfit,
fancy black laced panties,
manicured nails painted
lovely blood red.
i like em young.
disoriented.
it's never wrong.
but it never feels right.
and they... well...
they never see it
coming.
and as i set up a mattress
in the upstairs barn loft,
and later
as the police pull me over,
i think to myself
watching that fat man in my rear-view
step out of his nice heated car,
full tank of gas paid for
with my hard earned
money.
my heart clenched
in the vice of
guilt
i say it
under my breath
'the things
you do
for a little piece
of ass...'
I warned ya, son. Stay outta dat barn. Nice poem. I sense a background of sadness, though. I recommend hydroponic (sic?) , and Bass beer..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dark and somewhat disturbing, but oh so good. I'm liking your work a lot.