Best Famous Blood Money Poems
Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Blood Money poems. This is a select list of the best famous Blood Money poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Blood Money poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of blood money poems.
Search and read the best famous Blood Money poems, articles about Blood Money poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Blood Money poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
Syl Cheney-Coker |
Along the route of this river,
with a little luck, we shall chance upon
our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile
reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra
growing fiery mornings from our discontent
Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,
not honor pristine and profound.
In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips
those cups filled with ethnic offerings
that saps the blood of all human good.
Having no other country to call my own
except for this one full of pine needles
on which we nail our children's lives,
I have put off examining this skull,
savage harvest, the swollen earth,
until that day when, all God's children,
we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.
And remorse not being theirs to feel,
I offer an inventory of abuse by these men,
with this wretched earth on my palms,
so as to remind them of our stilted growth
the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer
the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.
Charles Bukowski |
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since beome tired
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were