This Is The Bad Part This is the bad part Bad part Of the neighborhood’s reach Empty building Hidden within many empty buildings A forgotten horror zone of passing through homeless And those of us too young to leave An economic battlefield of now and years ago Yesterday’s continuing fall of a country’s greed Trash on the floor Plugs of hair Dried blood Cigarette butts Crap in the corner Curl of turds petrified Beneath a dirty window for staring out Eyes half opened and closing Newspapers and torn magazines smeared Shit and snot and ecstasy Images branded in the brain This is the bad part Bad part Of where they took me That back room In the darkness near evening A used pizza box They knelt me on Hole in the ceiling Where everyone watched Flashlights shining down through the quiet dust My long neck exposed Sweating Shivering Waiting for the explosion or the guillotine This is the bad part Bad part I enjoyed it. Barefoot We played games Little gangs of us not yet men In the deserted warehouse by the tracks A skull painted over the front door Shoes and socks lined against the back wall Placing bets and pointing fingers Across a sea of broken glass Every window smashed out Laid out like a carpet puzzle of razor veins First one to the other side Was the bloody winner…. After Everyone Went Home I stayed Climbing the stairs of suicide tower Stories told that someone had jumped The whole abandoned block fenced off We played and partied in the adjacent buildings No one went up the tower stairs Cement steps crumbling Railings loose and dangling At the top a platform and circular roof Dead birds and bones on the floor The wind whistling The whole city lit at night Getting back down in the darkness would be very hard Or very easy…. I dream Of Her Often She moved away last summer Her father taking her out of this slum We were a secret even to our friends I was the poet of doom She was the churchgoer We were experts of sneakiness Meeting at night in the church basement Where we loved pure and lustfully beautiful. Bio: Not so long ago, Stephen Jarrell Williams was called by some, the Great Poet of Doom… Now, he writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn. He is the founder and editor of Dead Snakes atdeadsnakes.blogspot.com
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