Monday, April 25, 2011

Russell Streur- A Poem

DEVIL’S BOTTOM ROAD

Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you quick
Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you slow
Trick to take you six feet under cold
Any card you show
Devil's Bottom Road
No place a girl like you should go

Your hair’s a mess your dress not buttoned right
Your hair’s a mess your dress not buttoned right
You been down I know
To Devil's Bottom Road again

Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Trick you taste champagne drinking five cent wine

Odds are crooked on the cape
Dice won’t pay what’s due
Moon comes rising up through black tupelo
Devil’s Bottom Road going to spell the death of you

You don’t come home last night till morning breaking down the door
You don’t come home last night till morning breaking down the door
I know you’ve been
Down to Devil’s Bottom Road again

Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Trick you taste champagne drinking five cent wine

Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you quick
Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you slow
Trick to take you six feet under cold
Any card you show
Devil's Bottom Road
No place a girl like you should go.


Russell Streur is a born again dissident residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His poetry has been published in the United States and Europe. He currently pours drinks at The Camel Saloon, an online poetry bar for dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world. Which one are you? http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

John Tustin- A Poem

BLIZZARD OF ICE

A blizzard of ice
swirls around my heart,
encircling, penetrating.
I shiver and shake,
its conspiracy,
frostbitten, blue,
numb, naked, fetal,
unprotected.
Ungloved.
Unloved.

The words unprepared.
Hang limply like frosty breath
in the blizzard air,
branches heavy with snow,
the scorched earth
a barren wasteland
of white and blinding nothing.
Walking, staggering,
frostbitten, barefoot,
cradling my love unreturned
with one crooked arm.
Ragged.
Deaf and sightless.
My tongue paralyzed,
dying for a drink.

The sun can’t crack the clouds,
the ice,
blizzard of ice and hollow noise,
blank air.
Howling and sirens.
Abandoned on the tundra
by my mother,
by my God,
by myself.


John Tustin writes when sober and submits it when drunk. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is his link.