The Ones She Didn’t Take

He let a shiver run through him

Staring down at his shoes

This world is what you make of it

And like an unmolded clump of clay

He hadn’t made anything of it, yet

A jittering reminder of all the times

Good and bad

Razor sharp and kitten fur soft

So swollen are the memories

The ones she didn’t take

So, hiding away seemed so much easier

Than walking the streets alone

Alone, and unarmed

The very streets she roamed

So, instead he chose to hide behind the mask

A planted seed which grew only when he wanted

She wouldn’t know

She would have no cares, no control

He buried all the dead memories

In the basement, next to the boxes of her old clothes

And at night, he cringed at the thought of them all

Lying down below, festering, waiting, growing

Time is of the essence

Time was a live wire

And the dogs of hell

Were looking for him

Knocking, going door to door

Searching the homes

Room by room

But in all good time, the memories fade

Drinks of whiskey from the bottle

Tastes the same in a glass

So he no longer has the need for a glass

Now he reads the obituary pages for fun

Seeking out the names of the past

The names of the memories

Those buried deep in the basement

Which hide behind the mask

That he once wore

But the curtain is still drawn over the window

And there is no desire to see the outside

Because the obituaries don’t speak of the moving

Only of those who lie still

In perfect harmony

With all the dust

And the cobwebs, which entombed them

They can’t speak of what’s still out there

What scours the sidewalks at midnight

And peers through moonlight, down through basement windows

In search of boxes

And the fattened memories they hide away

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Good For Us

There is still a void

Still obstacles to jump over

But once the barriers are broken

And the ensuing battle ends

We will be left with something

Two deflated armies, both worn thin

Good for us

Now have at it, then

Go and try to piece this shattered mess

Back together,

Just like the last time

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Death To Traffic Lights

I sit

And wait

And then I wait some more

For this light, to finally change

Time seems

To slow

To creep


I’m impatient

Need movement

And thoughts of illegal moves slither

Into this stilled brain, while waiting

Time laughs,

Gives me

The finger


Patients is

A vertue

Or so I have been told

But I wish death, to all

Traffic lights

As I

Wait alone

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


And there was nothing left to do

But burn the whole place down

We ate all the food

Drank all the drinks

And stole everything worth taking

We left a few things, too

Like stains on the carpet

Holes in most of the walls

Kicked in the doors

And broke any remaining windows

Like a chinook from the mountain

Blowing through at 80 mph

Causing temperatures to rise

Swearing and laughing

Screaming and banging

And just like that

It was over

Over, in a heartbeat

We left it for dead

After the great rape

Pillaged and plundered

And ass-kicked

In every conceivable way

Except, in all of the excitement

We forgot to burn it down

Lazy bastards, we were

We had forgotten

The reason we came there

In the first place

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


All Sundays can eat a box of dicks

I fucking hate Sundays

Sunday – the day of the Lord

Sunday – The day of rest

Not for this old bag of shit

Everything needs to be done on Sundays

No football, no drinks

Just work, work, work

Got to pick such-and-such up from the store

Got to drop that thing off over at where ever

I fucking hate Sundays

And it seems quite apparent

Sundays hate this old fucker, too

© Dicky J Loweman 2014