This is a township/
where kids await the raindrops
for shower/
their bodies paintings, of
sorrows
Teenage girls are mothers/
drug abuse and gangsterism are
street languages/
surrounding scattered like an
abandoned dumpsite
This is my home/
where violence is no
stranger/
waking up to the sound of palava
like drum beats
Teenage boys are fathers/
where parents and children reunite
at nightclubs/
This is my home/
where the streets sleep naked/
rape is a celebrity
Water floods our homes/
corruption is a beautiful first
class citizen/
Dreams are aborted babies
The air isn't safe/
we're afraid of inhaling &
exhaling/
maybe we lost our love to
our descendants
Categories:
dumpsite, 12th grade, corruption, culture,
Form: Free verse
In a bare field
hidden behind dense brush
There's a spot where people
cunningly come, dumping
their oversized trash.
Somehow word got out
years ago:
mattresses, appliances,
box springs; just about
anything one could perceive.
I often find myself there
in awe of this surreal collage.
A community collaboration;
sensational work of artistry.
Each tossed trash
enriching another, fitting
together like a
carefully planned sculpture-
creating a grand design.
Each trash dumper
contributing another
piece to the craft:
beer cans beside worn
baby strollers; bald tires
fitting nicely near
shopping carts.
They come one by
one, each in their
own special time
as if lovingly tossing
flowers into an open grave
has carefully as
Alexander Calder-
a masterpiece concealed-
very few will ever see.
Categories:
dumpsite, art, environment,
Form: Free verse
Maybe he ate his vitamins and their minerals and oranges and apples all at once again and again
Or ran laughing down the rugged rocks of a ruthless reality
Maybe he flew singing up to the cold concrete ceiling on a chair
Or drank dated dark liquid from a damp factory dumpsite
People think his lungs liked lighting the lily-white smoke they lived on
And I’ve even heard he sullenly slit several sections of his wrists so he could sign a letter
Maybe he jumped joyfully in front of a jeep window that had Jesus joining hands with Judas for prayer
Or pressed the pallets out of the pistol till the pieces pierced his parched throat
Maybe he took tablets off the table till they took their toll
Or cut carelessly into his chest’s cave and coincidentally revealed his heart
People say he bashed his brains out with a baseball bat
And some are sure he sucked in air and sat still till his stomach swelled
I say he lived life and loved and loathed
Living always kills you too quickly.
Categories:
dumpsite, society, suicide,
Form: Dramatic Monologue
He believes that his life is a big joke;
a play that was written for him before
he was born. Sometimes he prays,
asking God to change his character;
a young man who loses bets of any kind,
often wakes up in a dumpsite smelling liquor,
hears a suicide incident and wishes he was the one....
Freewill doesn't exist in his school of thought. He believes
the Cosmic Playwright sometimes sleeps,
as His plays keep running....
Categories:
dumpsite, confusion, god, imagery, life,
Form: Narrative
Human Dumpsite.
Dumping ground the Tummy has become!
Mouth, the guard on duty, has dozed off
Junk-invasion loathsome and unwelcome
Is our palatable and choice treat to scoff!
Unpaid, unappreciated and unprized:
Food so hot, fast into the belly, we ingest
The rapid reflex is not quite analysed
How searing stuff the belly will digest!
To the party for a beer, we enjoy to go
To roast, drink and drown in the spree
Who pays the porter that holds in store
The load that Reveller eats with glee?
Indefatigable Slave happily called Belly
Deserves naught but just a small favour:
To sift what we eat, not to be smelly
Fine Diet to lead not the tasty flavour!
Excessive treat, large the Belly will swell
Then, cessation of flexibility or zest lost
(Sucked thin for saluting gruel’s smell)
Is a bother or a needless fitness cost!!
JM
29th Oct’ 2013
Categories:
dumpsite,
Form: Quatrain
I am running fast
Yet my feet move not!
I am sweating
My clothes are crisp dry!
I am weeping
But laughter rings in my ears!
The pain is sweet
The rough road
Makes an interesting ride...
When will a beautiful dumpsite
House a ragged king?
When will the dirty pearl
Mock the red hot iron?
When...
When...
When...
Will silent noise greet me?
When...
Will peaceful rift run near us?
Where...
Shall the good harlot
Put the spirit filled foetus?
How...
Are we paying for our
Holy crimes?
Why...
Do the bestial beauties
Not acknowledge
The sad happiness on the faces
Of the peaceful uglies?
Answerable questions
Questionable answers...
All rolling
To nowhere
In my heavily light head...
But then
I woke up...
It was just a dream....
Categories:
dumpsite, dream
Form: Free verse