Dumpsters Poems | Examples

Gut Lords

Sewers are strewn with corpses of carrots,
nectarine skulls and peach sloughs
fermenting in the arteries of cities.

The gutters gargle with grape entrails,
mango marrow, and the pulp of privilege
nourishing the bloated bellies of bins.

The concrete congeals with tomato stains
squished coriander and the puree of parsley
nurturing the mildew that murals the walls.

The pipes pulse with dairy despair,
lactose laments and souring milk memories
sustaining fat-lined steel bowels

The dumpsters groan with crushed caviar
sprawled sushi and weeping wagyu
feeding the fungus that froths metal maw.

The Gut lords, gluttonous and godlike,
swallow civilization in silver spoonfuls,
excreting empires into rusted cisterns.

Skating Upon Saturn's Rings

Saturn's rings mystify me indeed-
all seem bound with no purpose or need.
Spinning boulders and ice-
pictures of them add spice.
In the end, where will good answers lead?

But, last night I woke up from strange dreams;
found I landed by way of moonbeams!
To my greatest surprise
right in front of my eyes-
Large space monsters fast led to my screams!

The group traveled on magical skates
fixed beneath monster dumpsters with grates-
which then opened to spread
the trapped boulders instead
of them roaming around with bad fates.

They sprawled tons of old space-filled debris,
and I gathered from what I could see,
kept those rings plumped up well;
captured for a long spell
eased collisions in our Galaxy!

Now, I know that these facts aren't true
cause that's not how those circles accrue!
Magnetism makes rings
space debris to them clings!
So, this theme earned my fun poet's view!

Paint My Feathers Black

days are dust
co+war+d/ice
but to eliminate the evangelical —
archfiends of madness reign.

fractured fantasies flirt with fugitive flesh
dilapidated dumpsters
desire's discarded gentleness
crepuscular crescent moon casts a gaudy glow
stolen scripts
where shadowy figures entwine and go

sordid snippets stutter
a scandalous serenade
echoing eerie echoes
as the night's darkness is made
surrender to the wanton waltz of vice
this baroque brothel of broken dreams
beauty is a sublime

palliative profundity puckers
puckered lips proclaim
sweetness of surrender
succumb to pain
this fusillade of fetid fever
find my thrall
blessed bondage to the maelstrom
where madness is the only law

first time being homeless

I am not sure where to go first
I have not taken much
just what I could fit into two backpacks
One of them gets heavy

I sit down on a park bench and sort them out
throwing away ten things I thought I needed
because this is day three
and I am tired of carrying two backpacks

I have not asked anyone for help
because I do not know how to do that
and it would feel awful
so far I have just raided dumpsters at night

after regular people are asleep
I become active
searching for half eaten sandwiches
hoping the bugs have not gotten in them yet

Don't Start the Revolution Without Me

Start your revolution secretly,
don't tell the priest,
he's a blabber-mouthed gutter-skite.

Don't tell the cat,
for at might he whispers to Alexa,
and she listens always
to the political tenor of your snoring.

Your body must be mechanically sound,
and on speaking terms
with every loose nut in society.

Trust the crazies, they have eyes everywhere.
The banks need you to deposit blood,
as your plasma will be useful
to power your electric doppelganger -
then they can go after your soul

Revolutions need money, mainly for dope and drinks.
No great movement can long survive,
on stale guacamole pilfered from city dumpsters.

Hail to the Chefs at Wendys
who surreptitiously offer cold fries,
to the snooping Feds.

Long live the freedom to carp and cavil,
never surrender your constitutional right
to watch, the 'My Pillow' Man,
revolutionaries need soft pillows,
to dream upon.

Harvest

Tithing untested talents to tyrants;
Heaving hearts and minds in Humpty dumpsters
With vibrant energy and emotional overload,
As sensible as armadillos playing on a road,
To forge a Nirvana from breathless life.

Maunder not over permanent silence:
So, what are a few children, more or less?
Let not debate impede virtue’s progress:
Free speech is Utopia's enema!

Pork Dripping

After weeks of vegetarian snacks
a part of him was still searching city dumpsters
for chewed-over Big Macs.

Then in a moment of weakness
at the County Fair
he purchased one greasy Irish pork sausage
so sweet and thick -
it was on a stick.

Deliciously it licked his tongue
with a fulsome,
sweet succulent fried meatiness.
H actually swooned
over its savory, lick-able tenderness.

That night in restless dreams
he slow-cooked two more of them,
pork drooled, dripping from his mouth
- a kind of porcine phlegm.

Night long he slurped
upon the suet of his soul
only to awake
hangry and left un-whole
for those pork bangers
were still banging in his sleepy head...

and so he arose to deep fry
a large, peeled turnip in almond fat,
and sadly sucked upon that, instead.

A Garbage Incinerator

Garbage accumulated days and months
Money burnt away in bags
From dumpsters to dumpsters
From houses to houses
From factories to factories
Old objects, food remains
Chemical, medical and radioactive waste
Gathered in bags and trucks
Many are hazardous and non-recycle 
Showing extreme selfishness and extravagance of man
Inside the garbage incinerator

The Wild Life

I think they tease their hair
just to look a bit wilder
a little more… “coyote ugly”.
Perhaps a dash of “sports make-up”
under the eyes
to cut down the glare
of the headlights.
They roam the streets
hang out behind dumpsters
(probably smoking, telling coyote jokes”)
wondering why Mom and Dad
moved to the city.
Their den is in the Arboretum
overlooking the Boston skyline.
They go to Public School(s)
dumpster diving….
Covid box lunches.
Soon there will be more
a litter is due.
They may have to move
find a bigger place…
in the city….
good luck with that.


John G. Lawless
©11/20/2021

The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities

The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker

I love walking 
the rutted roads 
Running in 
hidden groves 
Through  
      the residential jungles

the rambling 
backyard boulevards 
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel 

A straight line between 
Picket fenced fortresses of 
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by 
dumpster divers

I love listening 
		To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of 
wildland 
Overruled by skulks of city foxes 

I love trekking 
	The pioneered turnpikes 
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between 
the telephone lines 
mapped by

XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities 

I love the 
	Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be 
Needed anymore 
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters

Al Fresco

barbeque ruined seagulls have no respect.





An old write of mine, which I decided to post. Seemed topical with all the barbequing that is going on. Also, I have never seen so many seagulls. Apparently, they are extra hungry due to the fact restaurants have been closed ~no dumpsters to raid.

Born By Mistake

I keep my window open for fresh air
Just in case I jump out one day
I keep the curtains pulled for privacy
To block the suns rays

I can't get no sex so I do it myself
Just call it voluntary man slaughter
I live by getting away while I still can
Never finishing what I start

But no matter how hard it gets
I never thought about killing myself
That kind of thinkings  gotta to stop
Because skydivers dive sometimes their chutes don't work
Dumped in dumpsters tossed in microwaves 
Some of us were born by mistake

Peeking Through Alley Fence Peekhole

Hey! A peek hole in the alley fence
weird but of course I have to stop
hear birds, not sure what kind, black though
a man whistling a tune my grandpa probably knows
it sounds familiar; it is a young guy with a blue cap
He looks like my grandpa; I wonder about his heritage
I snicker knowing my grandpa would be horrified
Being a Baptist minister and self-righteous and stuff.
A young girl with brown hair sits in an apartment across the alley
She is staring down here, I try to figure out what she is looking at
Is that a dead body? Wait! It’s a mannequin without a head.
A headless mannequin wearing a yellow and pink striped dress.
And one red shoe; what ever happened to fashion sense?
Someone dumped a lumpy black garage bag.
Maybe that one has a body in it; this is a weird place.
Smelly too; there are potent fragrances. I see a rat with ugly tail.
Green metallic garbage dumpsters, one has lots of graffiti on it,
a skull, a cow, a couple of daisies, a lightning bolt.
I get tired of looking now and wander away.
But I will be back.

Woke

day one
you woke 
everything you thought you were before you closed your eyes and inhaled the dreams of your twisted line is discovered to be a lie
a falsehood, trickery, fabrication
disappearing behind a cloak of aberration
crawling on hands stuck to scarred wrists
pilfering life from dumpsters of deception
avoiding the glares of incandescent veneer
snubbing red streaked orbs within the mirror

you woke
purity of thoughts
not meant to be shifted, changed, sliced, diced, redefined, realigned
altered by a syringe of soiled crystalline
caressing an ignorant conscious 
boasting to change God’s perfect design
 
you woke
celestial spirits scraping scales from your denying eyes
looking down to discover god created you
to look up knowing
One day, you woke
sober

Alphabet Takes the Lead

Blinking A calling all cars
Annoying D barking incessantly
Where is the C on this distorted musical scale?
Bare breast in my face, I zip my mouth into woodwork.

B for breast, not breasts, as there is only one here.
Cut away from the body, so I doubt she lived 
Whoever she was. Bloody business this alphabet.
It comes to me often, insisting.

I stay off the side streets, for they are murderer’s fodder.
Blinking A does not stop any cars tonight.
The predators are on foot. Killing P, M, O, and J 
In alleys behind dumpsters. The world has gone ape sh*t mad.

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