The Growing Crisis Under the Billboards

I do this thing I call Bleak Verse. Don’t know what if anyone else is using that term, so I am claiming it until otherwise notified. I am not a natural poet, but sometimes I give it a shot. I won’t describe what I am trying to do, that’s always pretentious and a bit annoying.

A treacherous web of veins straining under
sloughing skin as wet drops glisten
cool damp earth dig in as
a question develops out of frantic need
a causal nod and wink
a gesture a thought or two
give cause for
these clammy hands to
cramp with excitement
doubt could be their name

IMG_3384b by kittivanilli

and the cracking of tired knuckles
awaken an old world recycled
from a quilted skin and weathered bones
a concern of identity and
a loose snug fit
give birth to confusion
distracted eyes blink in unison clearing a
speck of irritation as glorious
condemnations reach out a neck
a neck a yoke a broken wish
is under this rubble and damnation
run, run forward as the ground
dissolves to reveal an ever growing
blackness and stunted wonderment

a sense of loss
a survival instinct
primal urge
stop, drop, and roll


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