Forgotten In Poverty
the smell of rotten tuna cans
and the wailings of children returned like empty soda bottles.
towards the passed-out father of apathy
sleeping off his inner scandals,
underneath the cars of faltering capitalist dreams
with their intoxicating fumes of human road kill.
i wish they would not look at me
with their hollow baby-doll eyes;
they sting like vinegar injections.
the smell of burnt plastic
and the stock sounds of body fluids burping to themselves.
someone's older brother had his fingers mutilated,
tortured by the ripe age of thirteen;
he drowned in his blood as he saw
the faceless men who would not wait on hold,
(any longer to however much he knew)
no one's younger brother pleas for some kind of patriarchal discipline.
i wish they could just tell me
what grills their love-hungry tongues;
they sound like screeching nails at the bottom of wells.
the smell of popped tires
and the hymns of diseased dogs in labor.
towards the tweaked-out mother of whoredom
screaming at her broken portable radios
with their centuries-old announcers
yapping about the pointy-nosed white man laying on his gold.
i wish they were born
somewhere far away from their coffin homes,
they will never know better;
their only blessing within this curse.
poem by Chris Jelens
Added by Poetry Lover
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