Category Archives: poems by todd moore

coleman is…

coleman is

using his
right thumb
to pick a
scab on his
left arm
down near
the wrist
he is
working
his thumb
nail to cut
the dried
part away
from the
rest of
the skin
& when
the only
thing left
holding it
is the
blood he
peels the
scab off
the wound
whole &
pops it
into his
mouth sez
can i have
the scab
on yr
little finger
if yr not
going to
eat it

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the bottle…

the bottle

was stashed
in the dirty
clothes or
behind the
toilet stool
for my old
man’s quick
grab & chug
in the mor
ning to flash
start his
hands or
at night to
blind the
demons so
they cdn’t
get his eyes
he made a
face while

the bourbon
scorched the
phlegm sd
they fuck
you in the
eyes kid
yr dead

Wordle: the bottle

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they’re coming…

they’re coming

to get me today
sonny sd laying
a clean shirt &
pair of slacks
out on the bed
he’d buffed his
black shoes
& put them
under the rick
ety chair next
to the door
look outside
it’s raining
guys like that
don’t like
to get wet
wrong sonny
sd guys like
that work best
in the rain
they’re coming
i can feel it
you got the
38 i sd
yeah the 38
but the thing
is sonny
paused tapped
a cigaret out
of a pack
the thing is
i gotta look
good when

i’m dead

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the house…

the house

was burning
w/such
bright orange
intensity i
didn’t know
if i’d be
able to
walk in
side but i
didn’t feel
the heat
only
the velocity
of heat
even
when i
was stan
ding in the
crackling
heart of
the living
room
where
fire was
also
the furniture
i looked
around &
recognized
dillinger
waiting
on
the other
side of
the flames
he was
all
dressed up
like
he was
going
to a bank
robbery
or
a big
night
on the
town
the second
he saw me
he walked
thru a
chair of
fire
w/something
that
resembled
a piece
of the
night
spilling
from his
hand
he smiled
sd
some words
that the
sparks
ate up
&
gave me
a machine
gun

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I don’t…

i don’t

give a
shit abt
aesthetics
but i
love the
look of
a 45 auto
all words
are rotting
from the
inside
out so
breaking
a line
is like
snapping
a bone
& death
is betting
on the
end of
the poem
& i
wanna
give him
a thru
& thru

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reading…

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this…

this

is what
it comes
down to
dillinger
& gun
slinger
always
shooting
it out
w/the
bankers
of poetry
in some
remote
plaza
some
deserted
o k corral
& even
tho they
blow the
kneecaps
& balls
off the
bad guys
no one
is watch
ing ex
cept for
a scorpion
& a dog

 

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red…

red

is the
color
of meat
in the
howl

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death rides the blood…

Death Rides The Blood

poems by

Todd Moore

Copyright 1996 Shockbox Press. All Rights Revert back to Artist.

the 3rd shot

stopped the twitch

in julene’s left

cheek but she wanted

to be sure it had

gone away so she

borrowed lefty’s

red man packed a

big one next

to her teeth &

held it there

for as long as she

cd but when the

tobacco juice

leaked down

her throat

she let go

brown gobs

of it all over

the bottle but

that was ok the

whiskey inside

still tasted good

as far as I know…OUT OF PRINT

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billie licked…

licked

billie licked

blood off
a thompson
barrel
while a
dog ate
a turd
in the yard

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