dillinger stepped
back
did the curly
bill spin
w/a 38
special
grinned &
sd sure
charlie
robbing a
bank is
almost
like coming
except you
do it w/all
yr clothes
on the
thompson
will always
be the best
hardon
you have
& you
can bet
yr sweet
ass that all
the lady
cashiers
will be
wearing
very wet
panties but
you know
what i like
best it’s
that sudden
death taste
of blood
& come &
the sexual
feel of
money
Category Archives: poems by todd moore
dillinger stepped…
Filed under poems by todd moore
shotgun blues…
shotgun blues
a pick pocket book
poems by Todd Moore
cover by G. Tod Slone
front page artwork by Ang Kiukok
Copyright 1999, 2000 Todd Moore, G. Tod Slone and Ang Kiukok. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without permission of the publisher. Direct all inquiries to:
Phony Lid Publications
PoBox 2153
Rosemead, Ca 91770
as fas as I know…OUT OF PRINT
Filed under poems by todd moore
weapon of choice…
Weapon of Choice
by Todd Moore
Drive – By Book # 2 / # 3 – March 23, 1995
Weapon of Choice is Drive-By Book # 2.
Robert W. Howington, 4405 Bellaire Drive South #220 Fort Worth, Texas 76109
It’s nine poems from Todd “Dillinger” Moore and a review by me of one of his recent chapbooks. A chapbook you motherfuckers should buy a.s.a.p. Todd he’s a retired English teacher who lives in the badlands of New Mexico in Albuquerque. He writes graphic and disturbing poetry about horrifying violence and base sex. A lot of people are offended by his words. But lots of pussies out there in the poetry community, both the academics and the Do-It-Yourselfers, have been complaining about contemporary poetry that mirrors our apocalyptic society. Fuck them. Those motherfuckers should listen to what Moore has to say about the subject:
“my gut reaction is this: most poetry magazine editors try to pretend we are not living thru one of the worst massacres of the 20th century. that’s why so much poetry gets passed off as safe & meditative & literary & scholarly. it’s like a waltz w/yr sister at the junior prom. while we all know these foxtrots around uzi ricochets ain’t the steps that arthur murry taught, it’s really a wardance around nuke heads, it’s a spazzed out tangle of legs in a drive-by, it’s a adolf hitler on a pogo stick w/a schmeiser in one hand & his dick in the other, it’s the fbi writing love you notes to david koresh in kerosene & blood. & why shdn’t poetry in the 90s reflect the body count? when death knocks on yr bones, you know he’ll come in.”
Filed under poems by todd moore
geeshie wiley…
geeshie wiley
is singing
last kind
word blues
on the radio
while long
sam trager
is stabbing
kid rooster
near the stove
loves the
sloppy sound
of the knife
going in
wants to
stab the
kid 13 times
but loses
count at
the lines
just leave
me out let
the buzzards
eat me whole
& has to
start all
over again
Filed under poems by todd moore
hemingway…
hemingway
left a
piece
of his
jaw
on the
shotgun
barrel
Todd Moore | october 28, 2008
Filed under poems by todd moore
coming out of…
Illustration by Jean-Claude Claeys
coming out of
chinatown
thinking of
the knife
going into
jack nich
olson’s
nose i
look over
& jerry is
ripping the
buttons
off his
shirt he’s
going
straight
down &
there is
a gray
automatic
next to
his skin
i don’t
understand
anything
he sez
he cd be
speaking
in tongues
a red sun
burns
a black
hole in
the sky
Filed under poems by todd moore
bone…
Filed under poems by todd moore
jerry’s old…

jerry’s old
man sd i
got a
trick i
wanna
show you
he took
the 38
special
off the
table in
serted a
cartridge
in the
chamber
gave it
a spin
cocked
the ham
mer stuck
the barrel
to jerry’s
head &
pulled the
trigger
right after
the click
jerry
smiled &
sd that
was fun
but the
barrel
felt cold
Filed under poems by todd moore
tyler’s…
Illustration: Jean-Claude Claeys
tyler’s
blackjack
looked like
a piece
of the
night he
was
squeezing
out of
his hand
Filed under poems by todd moore
burning…

burning the
wolf
one bone
at a
time
blood
canker
tumor of
fire i
write
in the
sinews
of the
murder
ous
scorched
songs
skulls of
war
Filed under poems by todd moore















