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.

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Poems are below...



Written by Syl Cheney-Coker | Create an image from this poem

Blood Money

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.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

The Poetry Reading

 at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
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
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines I read it out- desperate trembling lousy they can't hear my voice and I say, I quit, that's it, I'm finished.
and later in my room there's scotch and beer: the blood of a coward.
this then will be my destiny: scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls reading poems I have long since beome tired of.
and I used to think that men who drove buses or cleaned out latrines or murdered men in alleys were fools.