Sobbing: my paycheck is now gone!
grabbed by disposal, (see Page One)
Instructions neglected by fools
supersede most survival tools
Proper Proposal of Disposal
What always had been greatest goal,
Will be proper disposal of a proposal;
While we wait,
Rejuvenate;
Thank God for saving our each soul.
Jim Horn
I acquire grievous compost in my mind’s glass eye,
piles and piles of waste debris lingers-
my subconscious feeds my intellect
and I am left breathing pure black ash
sinister by true nature yet pure as the whitest gold,
I seek the landfill only the poor seek;
for the needy realize the worth of
nourishment, not material wealth
my mind cracks open ineffably with vivid memories,
and this junkyard dwells where things
do not inhabit the universe - well needed
healthy thoughts ascend when the pure
crystalline hourglass stands perfectly still-
(as still as an imperial monumental column)
fear of the acumen residue in my dark mind procures,
feet planted firmly, standing upright-
ephemeral thoughts in my mind’s glass
eye flow through my bone marrow-
I embrace the remnants of solitude that
restlessly reside in my favorite junkyard;
(where I shall salvage what joy I have
left, and yearn to dispose of pain's refuse)
22 lines (sorry I just could not delete anymore lines)
October 31, 2019
Craig Cornish
My Favorite Junkyard Poetry Contest
Proposal At Your Disposal
When we are planning a proposal;
Definitely should be at your disposal;
About to think;
Not off slink;
If local about it you must become vocal.
Jim Horn
So tired of the family disposal running
Churning up all the past garbage
Everything that this one did
Twenty years ago not forgotten
Never draining just splitting
Chewing all the hate
All the hurts never get resolved
When your family doesn't know
Never tries to relate to another
So the garbage continues to grind
Over and over into a paste
A slime of stench
It prevents itself from draining
Because it has become too thick
And such a huge mass
That no one wants to get
Their hands dirty
What a terrible shame
What could be a family cannot
Because no one seems to
Know how to
Turn the disposal off.
He likes an egg
without a shell, cracked
by the careless act
of a grocery store clerk.
There's always some jerk
who could make you sick
then read your obit
with a pained expression
as if that session
and consequence grim
had nothing to do
with him.
The Og. loves
spaghetti
is always ready
when you've got
a question
of indigestion.
He loves a meal
of apple peel
(forgive me Giuseppi
of the Pinnochio
story). I do not care
for apple peel,
and though the Og.
is small, he
gobbles it all.
The words at my disposal
May be simple, even trite;
Yet they suffice to satiate
My rhyming appetite.
I spice them up as best I can
And simmer them with care,
At times attempting recipes
Exotic, if I dare.
Though usually my degustations
Match my aptitude;
I’ve sampled other sustenance,
But rhyme’s my comfort food.
And when I dish it out, I hope
That someone takes a bite.
It may not be gourmet, but hey,
I think it tastes all right.
For the home refuse we dug a pit
We bury the dead to forget
We bury the dead not of respect
My waste frame needs no burial
My waste frame needs disposal
Jungle wild beasts bury not their dead
Yet the remnants live well-fed.
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