The money of dogs

Kick’d in wire mesh on a barn red 
alley screen door,
hang’n there like some kind’a 
vegetable can lid
dogs, they go in and out carry’n 
chalk-white powder fall’n off 
somewhere on a 
kids play’n five square with it
’till dusk.
Dark street winds bend’n the 
twist’n its arm into 
asphalt and
curbed tire marks
pedestrians walk with a walk 
in music,
railway cross’n arm on a street 
a ‘metronome.’
Razor sharp suit under a dimly 
lit city,
kiss’n the tip of 
her tongue,
blood boil’n underneath, she
his bottom lip with hers, fresh 
coat of lust
their emotions moving in
silent count,
long legs in black nylon wrap 
his waist,
‘grope des sex.’
A full moon veils itself like an
unwanted stranger,
except for a 
glimmer of light, the
night grows cold
a piano converted store front on
the corner of 
nobody, save one, now travels 
the length
of  ivories, doesn’t want to
‘get the air back’
much as railroad ties look for
a train,
he looks for the music.
Dull, dirty windows framed into
the listless
a moonbeam rubs out circles in
glass and 
forgotten whispers
he with hat and a tired suit, twirl’n
his walk’n stick, 
wealthy dogs come run’n on
deserted noise,
com’in to see him
coins are dropped into 1895 and
ragged rhythm
a vagrant crowd stops to listen, 
stares inside,
applaud. applaud.
Copyright © 04/09/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

City cigarette

On her third margarita, with ashes from 
a half lit cigarette falling like
factory soot,
words fell out of her drunken mouth and
crashed to the floor
He, barely sober, tossed his Marlboro,
ground it out along with 
her unformed thoughts,
no apology came as he spent his cab
fare on her fourth tequila and juice.

An umbrella went up with broken rods
and torn fabric, offered little
protection from the 
sudden downpour, in his other hand,
her uneasy fingers
Back to his loft and dirty sex 
A cobbled lane
much like a creek, the banks lined
with galvanized cans
Raindrops played on the lids
as the two strolled.

Automobiles with dirty faces and 
honking horns drowned
out much of their conversation,
little of what could be
“Here, slip this robe on, i’ll
hang up your clothes
to dry,”
“Thanks,” she muttered while 
striking a match, the 
cigarette steadied her nerves.

Looked at her with breasts half exposed,
threw her on the unmade bed,
the cigarette flew out a 
cracked open window,
a passerby ground it into 
wet chalk and numbered squares
he half disrobed her.

She ran her hand through his 
wet hair, he pushed into
hers, pressed hard on an
anticipating body, dug long nails
into his
Panes in a close window 
steamed up slowly,
outside lights became obscure.

Next morning, he reached over,
she was already up
fixing coffee and breakfast,
“How’d you like your eggs?
A smile covered his face like
shaving cream
waiting for a razor
“Sunny side up, thanks…”

A cobbled walk, greedily holding
onto remnants of rain,
slowly drinking as if it were
a last wish
Back to her place, a phone
number scribbled on the 
back of his hand
A kiss goodbye, he 
lit another city cigarette.

Copyright © 02/07/2014 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


she melted in darkness (*Contains Adult Content)

sharp edge of night rolled out like dice

in a dirty alley

where garbage played with green balloons
taken from picked

wallets and stolen snaps of kids playing
on rusted seesaws,

sounds of their laughter echoed into dead
end walls filled

with cracked mortar and bullet holes, a
siren with red

lights screams at the top of its lungs
for justice; she, standing in a négligé,

pushes her apartment window down,
draws hand sewn

curtains, thunder applauds, lightning
candles the room,

he in silk pajama bottoms, bulging,
she strokes him

once, wrapping her painted nails
around his cock,

he puts his hand on her vagina,
finger fucks her,

pushes her body tight, nipples dance
on his chest,

she is wet like the smell of sweet
summer downpour,

he dips his hand in to taste, touches
her lips with it,

kisses the inside of her mouth with
his tongue,

on a bed as she grips brass bars, he
licks her pussy

like honey on a porcelain jar, she cums,
puts his penis

in deep, sucks on her breasts, legs
wrapped, embraced

on his ass, fucking her up and down,
hands draw blood

on his back, deeper and deeper,
banging the fuck

out of her, arches silken back as
he explodes,

stays in, rubbing her sides with the
head of his cock,

pulls his hair hard, bites his lip
hard, “keep

fucking me… ”

Copyright © 08/28/2013 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®


she sings the blues

she sang a hard song across his face,
he sat in a room where

outside light had to open up blinds
covered with cobwebs

and one inch dust,

he listened while he squeezed the 
last drop out of 

irish whiskey,

looked around the room for an
outlet to plug his 

life into;

she hugged the microphone with red
fingernails and 

impudent guilt,

unconscious eyes were fixed into
a moment like

a drunk driver’s headlights on a wet

they had met in a bar, a place that
served watered down

drinks and by ‘B’ girls wearing
fishnet stockings,

a cheap song was making noise
on a bad needle,

they danced with her body in
a 45 degree dress,

arms wrapped around his neck
like loose morals;

they took a ride back to her place
in a checkered cab,

threw their clothes into a heap
and had sex

with his five o’clock shadow
and her insecurity,

he left the next morning on a
crowded mid-town

bus with a lot of maybes,

fumbled in his pockets for
spare change to 

buy postage to mail her his

she, sings the blues to wallow in

and broken promises,

he, nails boards over windows
to keep out

false hopes that knock on windows
and post foreclosure

signs typed out with faded black
ribbons and

missing letters,

she, misses notes now, her mind
keeps slipping

into unanswered questions,

he, ends it with silence…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®