Five poems by Wayne Russell

the loner

the eccentric loner stalks these streets
back at what he knows best
scrubbing the butthole of society
in old folks homes and madhouses
in supermarkets
and war machine
makers of death
planes hovering
cloaked in the plague of observing humanity
basking in these isles run by
the vagrant dogs of greed and pestilence
the nights
where we roam and we wish that we were no more
and we just wish that he could push this broom aside
and elope with them
the free
the dead of reckoning
calculating our next

a matter of life death

magic time
the lights ascend
heart facing mysterious season
winter slaying flesh
deep freeze
seeping into bone
eyes of blue
surrender into the throes
of grey relics
two cold tombstones
in accent grassy knoll
sleep catapulting
sweet nectar
birds and squirrels retreat
capturing stone memory
we chase the forest
stolen from nurturing forest
that used to be
i am stoned on beer
people in my life
fade from view
some bale before their time
estranged from everything
life the rose
angels call them home
in rancid union
the children
left behind
ask why?
they are told fabrications
starting back at broken cosmos
they grow like weeds
and come back to me
for the truth
my truth
Gods truth
any truth
anything but another lie

down by the sea

down by the sea
we toppled
entranced with intellect
and loins that confused
the stars
galloping in their
complacent gaze
Charleston beach dreams
unfolding and submissive
jasmine hair
and death coal black eyes
upturned nose
and we kissed and held hands
two skeletons stuck in between
mirrors of early 90’s sway
in the moment
oblivious to life
far removed from shadow claws
of raven infinite slumber
i hold onto our moment
a relic now lost
in the ambiance
of time


when sweet dreams faze into nightmares
when happiness metamorphizes into melancholic
symphonies of the damned

when the innocence of childhood is replaced by
the status quo of a bloodletting that plunges rusted
daggers into stone hearts

when the agape love that we thought that was here
to cradle us into the grave yet abandon us
into marching relics of the sweet nectar jaded vine

golden circles of infinite promise wedding vows cast
aside into the abyss of an evil world transfixed into
the choking cosmos regurgitating the loss now so

abundantly clear leave us then like this onslaught of
reds oranges yellows and browns a kaleidoscope of death
and of dying

innocent tears of wretched globes tribal hemispheres
have ceased to be love a noose around the inhabited
neck of avalanche frozen in the sick moment of black
plague death

narcissist ego left on the epoch of Bedlam

adopted into this
daddy disintegrated
with beer and whiskey
gambling left us broke
brother left me 19 years ago
at the ripe ol age of 26
never perfect
via a 22
mother drank herself to death
9 years after her
sons death
wish i could go too
my body fails
as i live to suffer
and under her thumb
mad children run
cilcles around
i drown my sorrow
and tighten the noose
brain cells shatters
all that we have accomplished
topples to clay
fades to sand
upon the beaches
so angelic
til we

Wayne RussellWayne Russell is a creative writer born and raised in Florida, he has traveled to most of the four corners of the earth and has been fortunate enough to live in both Scotland, New Zealand, and various states in the US. In 2007 and Wayne discovered the many possibility’s that social media format held as both a vehicle for his writing and a great way to forge friendships of the creative mind. Even back then, the seeds were being sewn for a online magazine for the creative arts. The idea of an online magazine excited Wayne, he could finely utilize his training as a graphic designer for something that he had a passion for, the written arts. Fast forward to March 2016, Wayne started to piece together what would become the first issue of DL, it was a simple issue, in that it had the blogging style format yet it featured powerful gritty and raw work from great poets and story tellers! Wayne he had enough of the same old same old from what he viewed as the status quo of a waste land of poetic snobbery and highbrow ego, so he lowered the bar into the gutter where everyday misfits and vagabonds dwell.

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