greed is the new black; wraps of corner, of snug bar seclusion stitched into bent backs and the odd hunch, smacking of derision to the folks on the hill who take all, grope at the edges of coat pulls and yank in vain to plaster material over a thirty year paunch, hunger with an attitude of rustique patches.
dirt is the new black; soiled undergarments soggy with October dew as the scruff of your groin is plonked on the stone steps now used as an entrance to McDonalds, warmth is an enemy here with no understanding of the rumbling chords of penny snatched hunger and death defying leaps from the arms of Old Bill and his sniffer dogs.
Beneath My Blue Crippled Eye
I have a gun under my flesh, a tear in the suit beneath my blue crippled eye, crooked as a cherry branch. See my face? I was raised in a cradle of stone masks to be a lion in a crowd of cold oat daylight, mad as a hat stand with gnarled arms of knotty oak, but I'm as silent as a smile that breeds grins in daft faces. I have a gun ‘neath my gouged flesh, stuffed with hazel twigs. That gun is you, dear girl, a ballista who kills dead my lewd quarrel, who kisses my antiquity of ink chutzpah. You are Hyde, leaving your muddy footprints on my plum salivary glands.
Compressed Feline Blues
Just drive and they'll be nothing underneath us, a collage of lather,
until the wallop. Death was standing by the road hazard lights blaring,
all sounds were echoes. Silent, the owls swooped in and demolished the ghost,
pecking of the beaks all along his flattened face, compressed feline blues
Cartoon Corporate Greed copy write Art Young 1924-20016
Bio: Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His collection As I Was Pulled Under the Earth, published by Lapwing Publications, is available now.