Cynical Kisses

Sometime the cynical kiss,

Is all I get

It’s also often,

All I can muster to give

Some days I hit a hot streak,

Many more, I can’t find my way,

Out of a paper bag

And that rests just fine with me

“Why can’t you say nice things?”,

She wants to know

Well, I’d like to know, too

But that’s all I’ve got

The tank nears empty,

The streets are being washed,

In bile

Can I say something nice?

Sure, when the moment hits me

But that moment is pretty far off,

The sun of that day,

Has gone down

I’m onto sulking, now

I’m out of luck,


And beer

These days,

These days

This is al I have to give ya

Cynical or not,

It’s the best I got for today

So there you go, love,

A kiss for you

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Watch For This (We Are All Well)

The Firestarter yelled,

And he kicked,

And he screamed,

“We are all well!”

And his words traveled off,

Off to distant thoughts, as I walked

And I thought about how nice it must be,

To be so fucking crazy,

And not have to deal with the real world

But then it occurred to me,

As I heard his voice shout in the distance,

“We are all well!”,

That my life would have been better,

Had somebody shot this fool,

Ten minutes before I arrived

And I walked past,

With no time to care,

As the building behind me,

Burned to the ground

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

I Can Read Her Mind

I see right through it

I can read it,

With both eyes closed

You don’t need to speak,

I don’t need or want your reasons

This shit happens

I get it

It just can’t be

I’m sorry I wasted your time

I meant you no harm

But let’s take one final walk

Go with me to the bluff

I have something I want you to hear

It’ll be the same line we all use, sometime

The infamous “It’s not you…”

And I’ll do my best to break it softly,

The same as you would do for me

The only difference, that I can see,

Is how I beat you to the punch,

And got the words out first

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


There are tiny grains of sand

Around your lips

You wear tear-stained cheeks

And have learned through the years

To wear them well

You view The world through squinted eyes

Because you stare at the sun

And watch for the burning

The light too bright

With hopes and false dreams

That in time it will fade

But memories like this don’t fade

They burn for longer than you’ll be around

And in the end

You’re left holding nothing

Except a heavy head

And an empty heart

The hair curls around your neck

And thoughts come to mind

About the pressures of all that strangles you

All that has let you down

All that has left you here

And although I can’t feel your pain

I can see it

For it’s painted all across your skies

With wild carelessness

Like a true life Jackson Pollock

A painting without an ending

Without bright colors

But plenty of cold

And dirt

And emptiness

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

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


How Would You Do It?

Often, while bored

I think of all the people

In this world,

Who truly despise me

The people who

Would love to hear that

I have died,

Passed on,

Kicked the proverbial bucket

I drift back and think of all the ways

I have bothered these people

These same people

Who, countless times

Have bothered me, too

I often think it would be fun

To sit these people down

And ask each one

The same question

“If you could get away with killing me, how would you do it?”

I know this isn’t ‘normal’ thought pattern,

But what the hell?

It brings me to a full smile

Especially when I think

Of all their creative ways

I imagine some people

Would want to kill me

Some more than once, I bet

I mean, with all the options

Only having one shot at it,

Kind of seems

Like a ripoff

But that’s when the smile leaves

because there is always a follow-up thought

And this one, I don’t much care for

It’s the thought

Of those few people

Who wouldn’t want to tell me

Their ideal way of

polishing me off

When I think of these few people,

I’m no longer smiling

And the reason is simple

These are the few people,

I believe,

Who have a real desire

To get rid of me

And that scares me

More than the dying part

Because one of those faces

Of the people who truly hate me

Might be the last face I see

And that alone

Is a reason to mix a drink

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


The news paper article,

Say the body was found,

On a particularly hot,

Monday morning

An unsuspecting jogger who was

A sophomore at the university,

Was the first to see him

Bloated, rotting

And taking on a good suntan

The paper said he was a


From the Boston area

The local authorities didn’t

Have a clue as to why

He was here

Apparently his wallet,

His cash and ID

Were missing

He had nothing

Of major value to

Anyone else

Except for a map

With the small town,

Of Asheville, N.C.,

Circled in red

Of course, this had police baffled

Not because of the robbery,

Not because of the killing,

Only because he was so far off

And there wasn’t anyone

In Asheville

Who was looking for him

Or, at least

Wanted to claim him

© Dicky J Loweman 2015