пʼятниця, 1 вересня 2017 р.

Wayne Russell - Two poems

Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer that was born and raised in Florida, in March 2016 he founded the online underground lit zine called Degenerate Literature. DL can be found on Twitter, Facebook, and at their website at the following link.

A Kid Listening to Prince
(while the world continues insane on its axis)

I was parked outside the social security office,
my wife had gone inside the building to beg for
our pittance.

I would have gone in with her, but my fear of
society at large often keeps me isolated and alone,
besides the pain in my skull waged its own hungover
war; the pain was real.

My vans radio station stays parked on talk radio, the
D.J.’s play prerecorded interviews of people in far
flung corners of the globe.

Like the bloody carnage waged between the police and
the young thugs in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil & the population
explosion in Niger, Africa.

In Rio, the mother of a 14 year old gang member wails
profusely for her now deceased son, shot dead by police.

The mother sobs

But my son was unarmed, he was in a gang yes, but at the
time the Police shot him dead, he was unarmed!

While the guy in Niger, boast about his 15 children by
seven wives, the interviewer has a British accent and is
employed at the BBC; I can since the jealously in his voice.

But how do you go about sustaining such a large family?

The guy from Niger laughs and jovially replies

It’s not easy my friend!

I turn the radio off, half in awe and half jealous of the man
in Niger, I flick through my emails looking for something
that today, that obviously hasn’t come.

Any publishing love? Any rejections?

Damn! Damn! Damn!

I mutter

I need to feel loved and excepted like that man in Niger must feel!

Just then, a young man in a rusted out beat up old Toyoda speeds
out of the parking lot of the SSI, from his open windows blare an
old song by Prince

I wanna be your lover

Seems like love is still in the air, even though this old year is
slipping away, like that 14-year-old boy in Rio, shot dead by
the police.
The Dream of a Job
(for the old boy)

I had a dream that I worked in a factory,
it was a bakery, with many different recipes,
complete with many intricate designs,
swirling patterns and loop the loops!

As my first day soldiered on, I found that at
my age, I could no longer keep the pace up,
so ever so slowly I fell by the way side.

I saw myself slipping through the crevasses
of the factory hard woodened, back out into
the gutters of this youth based civilization,
that I have long ago faded from.

Good thing I tucked a few cupcakes underneath
my jersey, it’s cold out here, and the alleys sure
aren’t feeding; at least not tonight. 

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