Point of Eden

Enter the cold no ones land of alone
A void stamped out with the aftertaste
of a funeral
Where a pulse rising from the grip of a knife
utters a name
Where the waking from a six o’clock
alarm clock is
rubbished into a draggled alley.

Of broken lives and sweaty faces contorting
like fingers on
a twisted sheet in a bad dream
Where a landlord dwindles back rent into a dirty
laundry bag
Trailing his four letter words through dim light
and sickly coughs-
Upraises a finger like a joint between two worlds.

A ghetto by the tracks where death, on pin-legs,
sentries, his utterances
Ungodly like a wakened head; chattering train
with white noses exhaling
Down into the gizzard of the city’s guts-
point of Eden
Render no share to those thick in poverty, to
those who lose by merely waking up.

Copyright © 03/22/17 lance sheridan®

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11 comments on “Point of Eden

  1. Wow very very poignant. It actually brings slavery to the mind. I love how easily you you convey such depth with your words.

  2. Barbara says:

    This is powerful Lance, a voice speaks painting a canvas of lives existing through the poverty that surrounds them; they barely exist from lack of interest; their lives have been lived without and among the rough areas of a poor area, they’ve lost interest in everything…they only exist as the rooster crows.

  3. Polly says:

    Reblogged this on rocksandbones and commented:
    A visceral look at modern urban poverty – with more than an echo of Dickens’ London.

  4. Polly says:

    This is great! The hopelessness and injustice of Dickens’ London ring through this picture of a corner of an unnamed city. Reblogged at http://www.rocksandbones.wordpress.com

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